Review of “Final Solution: The Fate of the Jews, 1933–49” — Part One of Five

“There is a yawning gulf between popular understanding of this history and current scholarship on the subject. …
This divergence has become acute since the 1990s.”
Final Solution: The Fate of the Jews, 1933–49
David Cesarani
London: Macmillan
A Portrait of the Author
In October 2015 Jewish historiography lost one of its more enigmatic practitioners when David Cesarani died of spinal cancer, aged 58, just a few months after initial diagnosis. I met Cesarani a handful of times at academic and social gatherings on both sides of the Atlantic during the 2009–2013 period, and I don’t think I’ve met a Hebrew before or since who embodied the physical and behavioral attributes of Jewishness quite as well as the late professor. Ignoring his caricature-like appearance, which once led a scorned David Irving to label him “Ratface,” Cesarani was every inch the diminutive chatterbox; a veritable bundle of verbal and intellectual intensity. He was possessed of a certain low charm, and was a perfect specimen of the shtetl comedian. When making wise-cracks he would stoop his head forward, rolling his shoulders like so many members of his race. Whether the traits were affected, or part of some bizarre genetic make-up, I could never quite decide. He was evidently persuasive, however, and strangely impressive to others. On several occasions I observed at close hand how collectives of enamoured students and faculty would warmly refer to him as “Caesar,” in a perfect example of the “Jewish guru” phenomenon.
Yet for all his bravado and undeniable gift for showmanship, he lectured in a slow, plodding and measured manner. He was more interesting in lectures than conversations, and I found him more comfortable speaking to groups rather than individuals. In the few brief private conversations I had with him on Jewish history and the “Holocaust” he appeared ill at ease; his sharp wit and excellent memory apparently deserting him. Perhaps it was something to do with the coldness with which I greeted his glib responses to my more searching questions. More likely, the slow and almost menacing grin that spread across his face at some of my enquiries was a sign of his awareness that he was in the presence of a “knowing” non-Jew; or in their vernacular, an “anti-Semite.” I would smile back, of course, and we would continue the conversation, verbally circling each other, saying a great deal and yet speaking very little at all. He was a capable, and oddly entertaining, verbal opponent. Read more



The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise:


