Esau’s Tears
2794 Words
Many of the great works of counter-Semitism from the past fifty years are splendid attacking books. They lay out their cases against Jewish power and subversion and let the reader decide how to respond. Some of the most famous of these, of course, are Kevin MacDonald’s The Culture of Critique, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s 200 Years Together, Israel Shahak’s Jewish History, Jewish Religion, and Igor Shafarevich’s Russophobia. Less common are defensive works of counter-Semitism, ones that exonerate White gentiles from the demonization often found in Jewish historiography. Albert Lindemann’s 1997 book Esau’s Tears is once such work since it shields European peoples from the collective guilt with which leftist historians—many of whom are Jews—continually smear them. Lindemann also humanizes many notable anti-Semites from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, thus clearing their names and the names of the people who followed them.
This is not to say that Lindemann champions anti-Semitism or makes apologies for it; rather, he strives to make two major points. One, that many ideas and episodes from history which today would be labeled anti-Semitic were in fact perfectly reasonable, based in truth, and the result of demonstrably bad Jewish behavior. Lindemann never fails to present Jews of the past feeling this way as well, thereby qualifying them as anti-Semites by today’s utopian standards. And two, that such pushback against the Jews did not and does not inexorably lead to mass murder. This is the thesis which many leftist historians wish us to swallow, and Lindemann strikes out against it:
How we interpret history is always powerfully influenced by the concerns and values of our own age, but it is finally misleading and unjust to single out and indignantly describe, for example, the racism of nineteenth-century Germans (“proto-Nazis”) without recognizing how much beliefs in ethnic or racial determinism were the norm in most countries and were to be found among oppressed minorities, Jews included, as much as oppressive majorities – how they were, in short, part of a shared intellectual world, a zeitgeist – but did not lead to mass murder in every country.
Jewish historian Salo Baron coined the term “lachrymose theory” to describe “the eternal self-pity characteristic of Jewish historiography.” In German, this is known as Leidensgeschichte (“suffering history”), and is often employed not to present a balanced, disinterested narrative of past events but to prevent future suffering by ignoring Jewish culpability and vilifying gentiles. This “denunciatory theory” of Jewish historiography could easily walk hand-in-hand with Baron’s “lachrymose theory,” since it brands gentiles with the stigma of eternal guilt (the absolution of which can only be achieved of course through philo-Semitism). Resisting both theories is the hill upon which Lindemann makes his stand. In his sights are three popular volumes of Jewish history from three Jewish polemicists—The War Against the Jews by Lucy Dawidowcz (1975), Antisemitism: The Longest Hatred (1991) by Robert Wistrich, and Hitler’s Willing Executioners (1996) by Daniel Goldhagen. These works, as Lindemann rather politely puts it, have “a tendency to a colorful and indignant narrative, accompanied by weak, sometimes tendentious analysis.” In dispelling the blatant anti-gentilism of these authors, however, Lindemann never wishes to exclude Jews from his readership. He never explicitly ceases to strive for rapprochement. A major theme in Esau’s Tears emerges which warns Jews that a hostile, polemical, and frankly dishonest approach to history will only give real anti-Semites more ammunition to hurl at Jews.
Lindemann’s central conceit springs from the Book of Genesis. Twin brothers Esau and Jacob vie for their father Isaac’s affections, which Jacob—the younger of the pair—deceitfully swindles from Esau. Enraged and heartbroken, Esau forces Jacob to flee into Mesopotamia, where he gives rise to the Jewish people. Esau, on the other hand, gives rise to gentiles. It is said that anti-Semitism will cease only when Esau’s tears stop flowing. I don’t think Lindemann—who himself is not Jewish—could have selected a better title for a work which counteracts the “lachrymose theory” of Jewish historiography. Gentiles have tears too, and as with their innocent Old Testament forebear, they often spring not from fantasies or psychoses, but from the palpable misdeeds of Jews. An eye for an eye, a tear for a tear.
Lindemann proceeds by disclosing one inconvenient fact after another to underscore his point. Jews in history were not relegated to ghettos; they lived there on their own accord to keep apart from gentiles. Jews in history were not forced into usury, liquor trades, and criminal activity because no other vocations were open to them; they did such things because they wanted to and didn’t care so much about the harm they caused peasant gentiles. And yes, even in Russia, they were able to own land, they just chose not to work the soil themselves. Often, Jews in history were poor because the overwhelming majority of gentiles around them were also poor. And the ancient and medieval ones were not so innocent. Lindemann gives us examples of ancient Jewish oppression of Christians and pagans, as well as some frankly hateful language from the Talmud (for example, “The best among the gentiles should be slain”). The Book of Deuteronomy, Lindemann points out, can reasonably be seen as sanctioning genocide, and many Jewish thinkers throughout history expressed views which today would seem racist, supremacist, or chauvinistic. In comparison, Jews were treated better in official Church doctrine than were Muslims or heretics. Lindemann never lets gentiles off the hook for their bad behavior, but simultaneously never ceases to remind the reader of the many long periods during which Jews and gentiles got along reasonably well.
Esau’s Tears offers a brief history of the Enlightenment, which, due to the premium it placed on egalitarianism and fraternity, got the ball rolling for Jewish emancipation in Europe. Not surprisingly, many Enlightenment thinkers, most famously Voltaire, were irked by Jewish intolerance and separatism. That the Ashkenazi Jews in France were rude and lacked manners didn’t help (the Sephardim, on the other hand, were much better behaved and so faced fewer obstacles to citizenship). Also not surprisingly, those Frenchmen who had the most experience with Jews—such as the National Assembly delegates from Alsace—were the ones most bitterly opposed to granting them equal rights. In an ironic twist, Lindemann reports that after the Jews won their equality . . .
[m]any Alsatians insisted that Jewish vices, far from disappearing under the new laws, had actually gotten worse in their province. Jews had not taken the opportunity to assume honest physical labor but had pursued with even greater success their old ways of usury and exploitation.
In another ironic twist, Sephardic leaders in France often staunchly resisted equal rights for the Ashkenazim “due to their low moral character.” This is one of many instances in Esau’s Tears of Jews behaving anti-Semitically and having good reason to do so. Most commonly, it sprang from the embarrassment and discomfiture many assimilated Jews in Western Europe felt when confronted with their Eastern European brethren whose morality, hygiene, and manners left much to be desired.
In eastern Europe things were much worse due to the millions of Jews that had recently become subjects of the Tsar by the mid-nineteenth century. These teeming Ostjuden (eastern Jews) comprised by far the largest concentration of Jews in the world and put Russia in a state of crisis almost right away with their exploitive relationships with the peasants. Lindemann pre-dates John Klier in exonerating the Tsarist government regarding the pogroms of the early 1880s. And when discussing the more violent pogroms which occurred in places like Kishinev in the early twentieth century, Lindemann mordantly recalls that Jewish revolutionaries had been disproportionately responsible for the assassination of leading Russian officials and police officers leading up to those events, including that of Vyacheslav von Plehve, the Russian Minister of the Interior. Lindemann touches on the Jewish tendency to exaggerate atrocity, such as when Ukrainian insurrectionist Bogdan Chmielnicki rose up against the Poles in 1648, and targeted not only Jews, but Polish nobility and the Catholic Church. Jewish Leidensgeschichte has it that at least 100,000 Jews were massacred, but modern historians, including Paul Johnson in The History of the Jews (1987), seriously doubt this. Lindemann also points out that while this was going on, Europe was embroiled in equally brutal wars, and it “is open to serious question if Jews suffered in substantially larger numbers than others caught up in the raging battles.” And in a drily humorous moment, for those who complain about Jews being cooped up in the Russian Pale of Settlement during this time, Lindemann reminds us that the Pale was forty times larger than the modern state of Israel.
No review of Esau’s Tears would be complete without addressing the mileage Lindemann gets out of Benjamin Disraeli, the Jewish novelist and British Prime Minister from the late nineteenth century. The zeitgeist of the age was, in effect, race- or ethnic-realism. Very few people—least of all Jews—denied that different peoples had differing ingrained capabilities and temperaments, both negative and positive. (Linemann thankfully does not deny it either.) Anyone who offers nineteenth-century racial determinism as exhibit A in favor of the inevitability of Nazism will have to come to grips with Disraeli, whom Lindemann describes as “the most influential propagator of the concept of race in the nineteenth century”:
In his novel Coningsby, Disraeli depicted a vast and secret power of Jews, bent on dominating the world. His noble Jewish character, Sidonia (whom Disraeli let it be known was based on Lionel Rothschild), describes race as a supremely important determinant (“all is race; there is no other truth”). Race, he argued, had always been a central factor in the rise of civilization, and western civilization could not have flourished without the Jewish race.
Lindemann even quotes a Rothschild who in private correspondence flatly blamed anti-Semitism on Jewish “arrogance, vanity, and unspeakable insolence.” A paragon of such insolence is nineteenth-century Jewish historian Heinrich Graetz who despised Germany despite living there. He once claimed that Jews who convert to Christianity are “like combatants who, putting on the uniform of the enemy, can all the more easily strike and annihilate him.” Lindemann makes it plain that such destructive attitudes were not terribly unusual among prominent Jews and that the oft-exaggerated notion of Jews as culture destroyers “reflected an undeniable reality.” Lindemann reports how Jews often weaponized the press against Christians or goyim in general while taking great umbrage at even the slightest criticism of Jews. And then there’s all the scams and boondoggles Jews have been involved in, epitomized by the Panama Canal scandal which occupied French headlines in the 1880s and early 1890s.
Investigation into the activities of the Panama Company revealed widespread bribery of parliamentary officials to assure support of loans to continue work on the Panama Canal—work that had been slowed by endless technical and administrative difficulties. Here was a modern project that involved large sums of French capital and threatened national prestige. The intermediaries between the Panama Company and parliament were almost exclusively Jews, with German names and backgrounds, some of whom tried to blackmail one another.
The fiasco caused thousands of small investors to lose their fortunes, to say nothing of the 5,000 Frenchmen and 20,000 Afro-Caribbean laborers who lost their lives in the tropical heat for nothing.
So, the anti-Semites were often correct, or at least were not thrashing about in fantasies, when they accused Jews of clandestine misdeeds or bad behavior. And the more Ostjuden there were in a particular region, the more misdeeds and bad behavior there were to complain about—usually. The bulk of Esau’s Tears covers these as well as the anti-Semites who used their powers of analysis and pattern recognition to call attention to them. Most importantly, Lindemann humanizes these individuals, warts and all, and in almost all cases exonerates them from the blood guilt with which the denunciatory school of Jewish history wishes to stamp them. For a history of anti-Semitism from 1870 to 1939, one can do no better than Esau’s Tears.
Lindemann goes high and low, and far and wide, in his assessment of anti-Semitism. In the 18th century, Johann Gottfried von Herder established the idea of volkgeist, or, spirit of the people, which famed composer Richard Wagner made use of in the next century when discussing Jews in music. French researcher, Paul Broca was a man of the Left whose data forced him to conclude that racial differences exist, quite against his intentions. Where zealots such as Wilhelm Marr—the man who coined the term anti-Semitism—and Georg Ritter von Schönerer saw Jews through a racial lens, religious men such as Adolf Stoekel and Baron Karl von Vogelsang saw the behavior of Jews as a threat to Christianity. Otto Böckel, a popular demagogue known as “the peasant king,” tirelessly spoke out on behalf of the German lower classes, who often suffered as a result of Jewish predations. Meanwhile, anti-capitalist theoretician Eugen Dühring wrote about the “cosmic evil” in Jews. Above them all were top-flight intellects such as Heinrich von Treitschke and Houston Stewart Chamberlain who lent great credibility to anti-Semitism and were respected by Jews and non-Jews alike.
Then of course there was Karl Lueger, the immensely popular anti-Semitic mayor of Vienna prior to the First World War. Lindemann refuses to defend Lueger on all accounts, but points out that his anti-Semitism was often little more than red meat for his base and may not have been entirely genuine. Vienna’s Jews were not materially harmed during his tenure and in fact thrived when this supposed enemy of the Jews ruled the roost—as did many others. The only notable anti-Semite that Lindemann discredits is Edouard Drumont whose popular writings he dismisses as “inconsistent scribblings.” Still, Lindemann credits Drumont as the muck raking journalist who exposed the Jewish role in the Panama Canal scandal.
Lindemann concedes that the historical record is filled with vulgar no-accounts and charlatans who climbed aboard the anti-Semitism bandwagon after failing in other endeavors. But for over a century, the anti-Semites with talent, energy, convictions, and discipline had reacted rationally to real problems and were by no means drawing a straight line to the Nazis. Indeed, Lindemann points out how the diversity of nineteenth-century anti-Semitism makes drawing such a line very difficult. After all, there were plenty of racists who were not anti-Semitic, and quite a few anti-racists who were. And what to make of anti-Semites who assailed Jews from the standpoint of religion or socialism or conservatism? Furthermore, Lindemann demonstrates that despite the breathtaking variety anti-Semitic thought and policy prior to the Nazi era, there were two aspects in which there was almost no diversity at all. One, from the leadership of all anti-Semitic movements outside of Russia or Romania, there were no calls to violence against Jews. And two, all of them, with the possible exception of Lueger, rarely succeeded in making anti-Semitism stick with the people. Before the First World War, anti-Semitism never gained much of a foothold in Western or Southern Europe, or in Hungary. Yes, its presence was stronger in Germany and Austria due to their larger Jewish populations. But even in these places it never enjoyed prolonged mainstream popularity. It was only in Romania and Russia where it was so common that it did not need demagogues or ideologues to prop it up. According to my reading of Lindemann, the tepid success of anti-Semitism resulted not only from European forbearance, but also because assimilated Jews and the Sephardim were in general better behaved and more respectful of their gentile hosts than were the pushy, ill-mannered Ashkenazic Ostjuden who often ruthlessly pursued money or revolution.
In his first chapter, Lindemann suggests that “the notion of the anti-Semite as underdog is one that needs to be given serious analysis.” This is because the highly influential historians of the Jewish denunciatory school continually dehumanize and demonize the anti-Semites of history as if framing a case of first-degree murder in a court of law, with the victim, of course, being the martyred six million. Exculpatory evidence is downplayed or ignored, and goals other than the impartial search for the truth are pursued. In the latter chapters of Esau’s Tears Lindemann condemns Adolf Hitler’s Final Solution, of course, but still humanizes the man. He points out what so many of us know today—that Hitler and the Nazis were in large part a reaction to the widespread atrocities of the Soviets, a people that the denunciatory school of Jewish history rarely smears with the same vigor it exerts when smearing the Nazis and their innocent anti-Semitic predecessors. Perhaps this is because a highly disproportionate number of these Soviet criminals were Jews themselves.
If Esau’s Tears tells us anything, it’s that nothing good can come out of this, except for perhaps more anti-Semitism.