Critical Comparative Approaches to Testimonial Literature

Emergent from the Holocaust and the Atomic Bombings

Gwyneth Dodger

This thesis is submitted in partial fulfilment for the requirements of a PhD

English Literature Department University of Sheffield 2007 Acknowleftements

Although only my nameappears on the title pageof this thesis,this projectwould not havebeen possible without the supportand encouragementof many otherpeople.

The provision of a grant from the AHRC allowed me to devote much-neededtime to my researchin the early stagesof my work, for which I am grateful.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my supervisors, Dr Sue Vice and Dr Alex Houen. Their guidance and academic rigour has informed my own approach to this sometimes difficult area of testimonial literature. Without their valuable advice and enthusiasm for the subject, it is likely that my own motivation would have flagged much earlier. A special thanks is due to Sue who in the final weeks before submission endured endlessstressed emails and requeststo "cast a quick eye" over final revisions!

My thanksare also due to Lucia Faltin and Dr Melanie Wright, as well the rest of my colleagues at the Centre for the Study of Jewish Christian Relations, Cambridge, for whosecontinuing support and friendshipI remaingrateful.

A special thanks is due to my wonderful friends who have kept me sanethroughout this period and have often retrieved me from under large piles of books to bring me outside, blinking in the light. Extra special love and thanks to Ruth Ireland, Ann Flenley, Kate Dorney and Helen Blakeman.

Finally, it remains only to thank my family - Matthew, my mother Avril, my father Lyndon, and my sister Caitlin. Without their constant love and support I could never have completed this thesis (although I could possibly have completed it a good deal earlier without their distractions - Miss Ireland please take note of this too). Critical Comparative Approaches tO Testimonial Literature Emergent from the Holocaust and the Atomic Bombinas

Gwyneth Bodger

Abstract

The thesis offers a critical comparative reading of testimonial literature emergent from the Holocaust and the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Through identifying aspectsof thematic and stylistic commonality between these literatures, this thesis aims towards establishing a series of narrative traits that characterisethe testimonial genre. This comparative stanceinforms the structure of the thesis, in that each chapter deals with examples of testimonies emergent from the Holocaust and the atomic bombings.

Chapter one engageswith the history of autobiography criticism and genre theory, and through close readings of both testimonial and autobiographical works by Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel, posits areasof potential difference between the two forms of life-writing. The traditional understanding of the autobiographical contract, as defined by Philippe Lejeune, is challenged through a comparative analysis of the way in which the self is constructed in Holocaust and A-bomb testimonies.

Chapter two focuses on the narrative challenges posed by the encounter with trauma. Informed by structuralist theories of language and critical readings of testimonial writing, this chapter examines the way in which the experience of trauma intensifies the arbitrary nature of the relationship between language and experience,to the extent that language appearsto fail. Drawing on Blanchot's theory of the communicative possibilities of silence, the thematic and stylistic representationof silence, in its many forms, is considered in the context of Holocaust and A-bomb testimonies.

Chapterthree explores the representationof the femaleexperience in testimonial texts. Beginningwith Cixous' and Irigaray's theoriesof dcriturefiminine and fimininitj as an interpretativelens with which to approachwomen's narratives, this chapterconsiders the way in which women'stestimonies are influenced by both a poeticsof genderand a poeticsof trauma. Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Autobiography, Testimony and the Construction of the Self 1.1 Introduction: Defining Autobiography, Defining Testimony 14 1.2 Fragmented Selves: A Comparison of the Testimonial and 22 Autobiographical Writings of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel 1.3 Anonymous Selves: Representingthe Hibakusha Experience 51

Chapter 2: Absence and Presence: The Role of Silence in Testimonial Writing 2.1 Introduction: Silence and the Limits of Representation 80 2.2 Absence as Presencein the Holocaust Narrative 84 2.3 Presenceas Absence: Writing the JapaneseExperience 114

Chapter 3: Women's Testimony 3.1 Introduction: "Masculine Genealogy" and Women's Life Writing 154 3.2 "Different Horrors, Same Hell: " Women's Experiences in History 162 3.3 Writing the Female Experience of the Holocaust 171 3.4 Writing the Female Experience of the A-bomb 202

Conclusion 221

Bibliography 229 Introduction

Thereare two eventsthat havemarked our centuryfor all times: the Shoahand the atomicbomb. Thesetwo momentsin humanhistory, embodiedby Auschwitz and Hiroshima,will be the iconsof our century. (Blumenthal)

Auschwitzand Hiroshimaare often presentedas twin nadirsin the history of humansuffering. They representunprecedented, if not actuallyunique, chapters in history andthus occupya privilegedposition in the revelationof man's inhumanityto man.Elie Wieselestablishes a causalrelationship between the two events,arguing that, "Hiroshima was a consequenceof Auschwitz.The world that allowedthe murder of the Jewishpeople would eventuallynot careabout the annihilationof a city far away" (Futureof Remembering3129). Wiesel, of course,is a well-known advocateof the view that the Holocaustis unique,and he is carefulto assertthat his link between Auschwitz and Hiroshimais not a comparisonmade on historical grounds,but rather an acknowledgementthat nuclearassault was the inevitableoutcome of the amorality that madethe Holocaustpossible. The relationshipbetween Auschwitz and Hiroshima as presentedby Wiesel and Blumenthalostensibly offers an initial justification for the comparativefocus adoptedin this thesis.

However, fashioning the relationship between Auschwitz and Hiroshima in such a way that presentsthem as linked icons of amorality is not unproblematic. John Whittier Treat, the first English language literary critic to offer a sustainedanalysis of atomic bomb literature, argues that too often the relationship between these two discrete events is invoked casually and without acknowledgement of the historical and cultural specificities that divide them. He argues:

It hasbeen common in writing on the Holocaustto add,perhaps for dramaticeffect, 'Hiroshima' to the litany of sitesillustrating modem man's savagetreatment of himself. the first atomicbombing, which like the deathcamps should be understoodas a modelfor contemporary knowledge,is insteadtreated as an optional exampleof someother idea typically more colloquial and thus lessunsettling (e. g. 'man's inhumanity to man'). (Writing GroundZero 9) Treat's concernhere is that Hiroshimacomes to occupya supportingrole in discussionsof the Holocaustand suffering;it ftmctionsonly to emphasiseissues made apparentby the Holocaust.Somewhat contradicting his assertionthat the Auschwitz and Hiroshimajointly sharea position as "icons of our century," Blumenthalargues that it is the Holocaustalone that representsa "paradigmof suffering." Otherevents may be discussedin the contextof the Holocaust - Blumenthalsuggests the Armenian genocide,slavery and the killing fields of Cambodiaamongst others as examples- but they aremost emphatically"not the Shoah"(Blumenthal). Mfflst not arguingfor the 'uniqueness'of Hiroshima,Treat objectsto the useof Hiroshimaas a comparative examplerather than it being acknowledgedas a paradigmaticevent in the sameway as the Holocaust.

A further objectionTreat has to Wiesel's and Blumenthal'sunderstanding of the relationshipbetween the Holocaustand the atomic bombingsis their useof the words 'Auschwitz' and 'Hiroshima.' He suggeststhat theseterms have transcended their historicalrealities as an exterminationcamp and a bombedcity, and areregarded as "no longermerely places but ideas,tropes of a new fact within the human condition: a conditioncompromised by our ability, in a matterof respectivehours and seconds,to eliminatewhole ghettosand cities of people"(Writing GroundZero 9). The connectionbetween the two eventsis thus establishedpurely on a philosophical, contemplativelevel, which potentiallyjeopardises our appreciationof the Holocaust and the atomicbombings as real eventsin history. Justas the term 'Auschwitz' masks the multitude of different experiencesof Holocaustvictims, so the term 'Hiroshima' tendsto obscurethe fact that two cities, Hiroshimaand Nagasaki, were targetedfor nuclearattack. Although the bombingof both cities markedthe entranceinto an age of nuclearwarfare, the attackson Hiroshimaand Nagasaki cannot be consideredto be the same.The uraniumbomb known as "Little Boy" was droppedon Hiroshimaat 8.15arnon August 6. Hiroshimawas completelydevastated, by both the initial impact of the bomb and also by the intensefire that subsequentlyraged through the city. Ironically, an all-clear siren had beensounded in the city fifteen minutesbefore the attack,and so the majority of peoplein Hiroshimawere occupiedwith their daily activities in the homeand at work when the bomb was dropped.Whilst casualty figureshave never been satisfactorily confirmed, it is estimatedthat 59% of the

2 population were killed in the attack. In Nagasaki, the situation was somewhat different. Nagasaki was, in fact, not the intended target for the second bomb, a plutonium bomb known as "Fat Man". The original target was Kokura, a city about 90 miles away from Nagasaki, but low visibility over Kokura on August 9 1945 led to the bombing-run pilot being given a command to fly on to Nagasaki. In contrast to the total annihilation of Hiroshima, Nagasaki was only partially destroyed, and a minority of the population lost their lives. Even so, estimated casualty figures place the loss of life between 21,762 (Nagasaki Prefecture Report, 1945) and 73,884 (A-bomb Records Preservation Committee, 1949).1 Precisely becausethe terms "Hiroshima" and "Auschwitz" function as synecdochesand so threaten to elide historical specificities, I have used the terms "Holocausf 'and "atomic bombings" throughout this thesis. If testimonial writing is to be recognised as the narrative representation of experience, then the precise historical provenance of a text assumessignificance. The use of synechdochic terminology, then, potentially threatensnot only historical understandingsof each event, but also the literary analysis of emergent eye-witness accounts.

Treat's identificationof both the Holocaustand the atomic bombingsas paradigmaticevents in the history of humankind inevitably invokesthe spectreof uniqueness,which hauntsdiscussions of the Holocaustin particular.The claim that the Holocaustis historically uniquehas formed a cornerstoneof Holocaust remembranceand scholarship.Whilst having alwaysbeen a fundamentalaspect of Holocaustawareness, the issueof uniquenesswas foregroundedin the 1986 Historikerstreit, or historians'debate, which regardedthe singularityor otherwiseof the Holocaustas centralto efforts to historicisethe Germanpast. Right-wing intentionalisthistorians disparaged the claim for uniqueness,by arguingthat although the eventwas certainlyunique in Germanhistory, it was not to be regardedas a peculiarly singularregime, for it had echoesand reflectionsin othertotalitarian states, particularly in StalinistRussia. Conversely, left-wing functionalistsfeared that to adoptthis historical perspective,and enterinto comparison,would result in

1Casualty statistics for both Hiroshimaand Nagasaki vary tremendously,depending on both the time at which the datawas collected, and the authoritywhich conductedthe surveys.A full comparative accountof the different suggesteddeath tolls canbe found in: Committeefor the Compilationof Materialson DamageCaused by the Atomic Bombsin Hiroshimaand Nagasaki. Hiroshima and Nagasaki:The Physical,Medical and SocialEffects of The Atomic Bombing(see bibliography for publicationdetails. )

3 diminishingthe true horrorsof the Nazi regime.Eberhard Jdckel's often-quoted responsestrongly asserts the justification of the claim for uniqueness.He wrote:

The Nazi exterminationof the Jewswas uniquebecause never before had a state,under the responsibleauthority of its leader;decided and announcedthat a specific group of humanbeings, including the old, the women,the children and the infants,would be killed to the very last one, and implementedthis decisionwith all the meansat its disposal.(76)

However,in retrospect,despite the heatednature of the debate,the value of the Historikerstreit doesnot lie in the unearthingof any new historical insightsor radical theory.The real significanceof the debatewas the attentionthat it broughtto the project of historicisingand rememberingthe past.The claim that the Holocaustis uniqueis problematic;indeed, it is a logically misleadingstatement. Every historical eventis uniquein its time andplace with its own specificfeatures, which excludesit from direct comparisonwith any other historical moment.In fact, asNorman Finkelsteinhas argued, it could be suggestedthat the uniquenessof the Holocaustis that it holds its historical singularityto be a distinguishingfeature. (Finkelstein)

Indeed,this claim for uniquenessis notably absentin the contextof atomic bombremembrance. Whilst thereare occasional testimonial voices which call for the recognitionof the atomicbombings as unique(most notably from Ota Y6ko), the comparisonwith the Holocaustin particularhas been embraced by the memorial discourseof the atomicbombings. Ian Burumasuggests that the comparisonbetween the Holocaustand the atomicbombings is "officially condoned"in Japan(108), pointing to the foundingof the Auschwitz-HiroshimaCommittee and the proposalto build a Holocaustmemorial near to the city of Hiroshimaas evidenceof this sanction (92). Thereis a HolocaustEducation Centre located in Tokyo, andthe Japanese HolocaustCentre in Fukuyama,forty-five minutesaway from Hiroshima. Yet this linking of the atomicbombings with the Holocausthas been challenged as a misrepresentationof Japan'shistory. The connectionbetween the atomicbombings andthe Nazi persecutionsin Europeboth contributesto and emphasisesa Japanese wartime discoursethat identifiesthe Japanesesolely as victims of atrocity. Lisa Yoneyamapoints out that Japanesememory of the war is dominatedby A-bomb remembrancewhich has led to "a nationalvictimology andphantasm of innocence

4 [developed] throughout most of the post war years" (13). By centralising the experience of the atomic bombings, Yoneyama argues that Japan recognises itself as a victimised nation, and so createsa wartime memorial discourse which excludes Japan's history as an imperial aggressor.Indeed, the notorious "textbook trial" which ran from 1965 until 1993 demonstratesthe extent to which atrocities committed by the Japanesein Asia were excised from the collective memory of the war. In 1952, Japanesehistorian Ienaga Saburo wrote a textbook for use in secondary schools which offered a detailed account of Japaneseatrocities, including the Unit 731 medical experiments on Chinese civilians carried out by JapaneseImperial Army medics between 1942 and 1945, and the so-called "comfort women" forced into military brothels. The Ministry of Education disapproved of Ienaga's representation of Japanesewartime history, and demandedthat he rewrite it, omitting any referencesto Japaneseatrocities. Ienaga initially complied and submitted a revised version of his book in 1962, but the Ministry of Education maintained that it still had a disagreeably anti-Japanesetone to it, and demandeda further revision. Frustrated by this decision, Ienaga decided to sue the government on the grounds of unconstitutional censorship. The case first came to court in 1970, and the judge found in favour of lenaga. However, following an appeal made by the Ministry of Education in 1974, this decision was reversed. Subsequentappeals throughout the 1970s and 1980sresulted in rulings which acceptedthat the Ministry of Education was over-zealous in its censorship of Japanesehistory, but that it had not acted unconstitutionally. Ienaga took his caseto court for a final time in 1992 - and lost once again. However, a year later, the Tokyo High Court reversed the 1992 decision and ruled that censorship of Japanesewartime atrocities was unconstitutional. Yet, writing in 1999, Yoneyama assertsthat despite an official recognition of Japaneseatrocities, A-bomb remembranceis still dominant in a Japanesewartime memory that identifies all Japaneseas victims. The link between the atomic bombings and the Holocaust serves to bolster this perception.

Problematically,then, the claims for both uniquenessand comparisonare revealedto be flawed. Yet discussionsin this areacentre primarily on the groundsof the historical (non)-relationbetween the Holocaustand the atomic bombings.As a critical comparisonof the testimonialliterature emergent from theseevents, this thesis representsa departurefrom this historical perspective.However, as Treat acknowledges,"the atomic bombings and the Nazi atrocities differ in significant historical ways that have determined that their literatures would be different as Well" (Writing Ground Zero 14). Therefore, prior to embarking upon a literary analysis of testimonial accounts of these atrocities, it is necessaryto explore in more detail these arguments for uniquenessand comparison.

Historical and Literary Contexts: Exploring Uniqueness and Comparison

The claim for historical uniquenessis troublesome from the perspective of the literary critic. Its ubiquity in Holocaust studies has arguably hindered the development of comparative literary studies in particular. There is a risk that the emphasison the historical uniquenessof the event will be translated into a false assumption that by virtue of the subject, any representation of the event must be considered as unique. This restrictive critical philosophy makes it taboo to compare Holocaust literature with any other form of literature, as it is tantamount to comparing, and thereby potentially trivialising, the historical event itself. Certainly, this taboo has problematised previous attempts at comparative literary studies, a key example being Sheng-Mei Ma's "Contrasting Two Survival Literatures: On the Jewish Holocaust and The Chinese Cultural Revolution. "

Written in 1987, Ma's paper representsone of the earlier attempts to compare Holocaust literature with that emergent from another atrocity. His selection of these two events for comparison is based on the understanding that they are both examples of mass murder in the twentieth century that gave rise to a large body of survivor narratives. However, Ma's comparative approach is hampered by his adherenceto the credo that the Holocaust is unique. "The Holocaust," he argues, "is understood as an incomparable event and the literature that describes it is unique" (82). In contrast, he suggeststhat the Chinese interpret the Cultural Revolution as "only one of many violent waves in the ceaselesstides of Chinese civilisation. It representsless of an independent and devastating watershed than an inevitable twist in the cycle of time, in which peace and chaos succeedand generateeach other" (82). Ma's insistence on the uniquenessof both Holocaust history and literature frustrates his attempt at comparison, and he concedesthat "little similarity can be found between them" (8 1). In contrast to the approach taken in this thesis, Ma focuses exclusively on the differencesbetween these literatures. My concernhere is to focusnot only on difference,but also on commonalitiesbetween the literary responsesto the atrocities of the Holocaustand the atomic bombings.Whilst maintainingan awarenessof the historical specificitiesof eachevent which inevitably conditionthe natureof testimonialresponses to a certainextent, I arguethat theseeye-witness narratives revealpoints of similarity in their responsesto atrocity.

As the assertionof historical uniquenesspotentially j eopardisesthe possibility of comparativeliterary study,it is appropriateto prefacethe forthcomingchapters with an interrogationof someof theseclaims for uniqueness,with a focuson historical coincidencebetween the Holocaustand the atomicbombings.

The historical uniquenessof the Holocaustin comparisonto other eventsin history is still frequentlydebated. Some of the more recentsignificant works in this field includea collection of essays,entitled Is the HolocaustUnique? Perspectives on ComparativeGenocide. Edited by Alan Rosenbaum,this book includesessays that considerthe uniquenessof the Holocaustin comparisonto African Americanslavery, the ArmenianGenocide, the StalinistTerror and wartime Japaneseatrocities. The Holocaust:The Unique and the Universalis a collection of essayswhich onceagain dealswith questionsof uniquenessand comparison,including considerationsof the theologicaluniqueness of the Holocaust.In Rethinkingthe HolocaustlYehuda Bauer devotesan entire chapterto "Comparisonswith other Genocides," beforereaching the conclusionthat the Holocaustis uniquely unprecedented(39-67). For Bauer,the centralaspect of this claim for uniquenessis the "Nazi racial antisemiticideology" (44). It this ideology which conditionsboth the motivation behind,and the implementationof, the genocidein Europe.In "Political Functionsof Genocide Comparisons," Helen Fein haseloquently discussed the ideologicalpolitics that lie behindcomparing the Holocaustto other atrocities,with particularreference to the Armeniangenocide, the Khmer Rouge,the Israeli-Palestinianconflict, and the StalinistGulags.

In the contextof the atomic bombings,there are significanthistorical parallels to be drawn in relation to the Holocaust.The most notable,of course,is their shared relianceon what Lifton hasreferred to as "technologiesof murder," for it was the technologicaladvances in the modemage that madethese atrocities possible in a way which would havebeen inconceivable even fifty yearsearlier (qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 9). However,whilst the manifestationof theseatrocities was grounded in technologicalprogress, care must be takennot to overstatethe significanceof technologicaladvances when consideringthe underlyingmotivational factors behind the Holocaustand the atomicbombings. As Berel Lang points out, the absenceof suchtechnology would not necessarilyhave averted the catastrophes.Yet at the same time, they could not havehappened as they did without suchtechnological developments."The argumentpresented, " Lang explains,"is not that genocideand omnicidehave followed necessarilyfrom the advancesof technology,only that there is a materialand conceptualconnection between the two lines" (Genocideand Omnicide 120).

A further point to consider is that neither the Holocaust nor the atomic bombings could have taken place without full governmental complicity, and without a strong bureaucratic framework to support their implementation. Certainly, the dropping of the atomic bombs would not have been possible without the mutual cooperation of scientists, military strategists and politicians. For Zygmunt Bauman, the Holocaust was "clearly unthinkable without such bureaucracy" (17). It is this feature that identifies the Holocaust, and equally the atomic bombings, as events concomitant with the modem world.

Both the Holocaust and the atomic bombings were made possible by depersonalisation;the development of the gas chambers enabled the SS and other Nazis to perform acts of mass murder without suffering the psychological damage incurred through individual shootings, and the killing of over half the population of a city by a pilot in an aircraft high above. Both also depersonaliseddeath, as any mourning for the loss of an individual became lost in a mass bereavementfor whole families, whole communities and a whole way of life.

Yet it would be inaccurate,and damagingto the memorialisationof each event,not to acknowledgethe factual specificitieswhich were exclusiveto both the Holocaustand the droppingof the A-bomb. Notwithstandingthe fact that the experienceof every survivor of eachevent was different in someway, therewere

8 major distinctionsbetween the two, most significantly the aim of the perpetrators. The aim of the Nazis in the Holocaustwas genocide,which led to a steppingup of the murders,even when Germanywas losing the war. Conversely,the droppingof the bomb on Hiroshimawas rationalisedas a way actually to savelives, as the casualties, both civilian and military, during the Pacific War were so immense.Indeed, in a newspaperinterview conductedto commemoratethe anniversaryof the droppingof the bomb,Paul Tibbets, pilot of the Enold Gay, said:

I knew we did the right thing becausewhen I knew we'd be doing that I thought,yes, we're going to kill a lot of people,but by God we're going to savea lot of lives. We won't haveto invade [Japan].(Tibbets 4)

Of civilians caughtin the crossfireof any war, he remarked,"That's their tough luck for being there" (4). Tibbets' commentsare informedby an extremely prejudicialperception of ethnicity. Official estimatesplace the numberof deadin Hiroshimabetween 32,000 and 133,000;it is difficult to reconcilethese figures with Tibbets' view that "by God we're going to savea lot of lives". Implicit in his statementis that the lives savedare thoseof Allied troops,rather than Japanese (civilian as well as military) lives. The view that the atomicbombing was necessary to bring an end to the war still holds currencyin somecircles today. Buruma,for example,asserts that whilst "there can be no justification for Auschwitz unlessone believesin Hitler's murderousideology, the casefor Hiroshimais at leastopen for debate"(105). Yet military analysisof the eventcontradicts this claim. The 1946US StrategicBombing Surveyconcluded:

Basedon a detailedinvestigation of all the facts and supportedby the testimonyof the surviving Japaneseleaders involved, it is the Survey's opinion that certainlyprior to 31 December1945, and in all probability prior to I November1945, Japan would havesurrendered even if the atomic bombshad not beendropped, even if Russiahad not enteredthe war, and evenif no invasionhad beenplanned or contemplated.(qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 7)

However,whilst acknowledgingthe role of perceptionsof ethnicity in the dropping of the bomb, it is importantto maintainthe distinction betweenthis andthe motivation behindthe Holocaust,to acknowledgethe differencebetween a

9 militaristic strategyinfluenced by ethnic discrimination,and a genocidalstrategy predicatedsolely on ethnicity.

Comparing Literatures

The focus of this thesis, however, is to examine the claim for uniquenessnot from a historical perspective, but from the point of view of the literary critic. The comparative approach to testimonial literature has few precedents; a specific comparison between Holocaust and A-bomb testimonies as considered in this thesis, even fewer. In addition to Ma's thwarted attempt at comparing Holocaust survival literatures with those from the Chinese Cultural Revolution as mentioned above, Kelly Oliver has posited a comparison between Holocaust testimony and African-American slavery narratives. However, her basis for comparison does not focus on the narrative strategiesemployed by testimonial authors, and explores instead aspectsof shared authorial motivation. She argues that:

Testimoniesfrom the Holocaustand slaverydo not merely articulatea demandto be recognisedor to be seen.Rather, they witnessto pathos beyondrecognition. The victims of oppression,slavery and torture are not merely seekingvisibility and recognition,but they are also seeking witnessesto horrorsbeyond recognition. (78)

For Oliver, it is the sharedneed to 'tell the tale' that allows for a comparativereading of thesetexts. Chaptertwo of this thesis,"Absence and Presence:The Role of Silence in TestimonialWriting, " identifiesthis narrativeimpulse as a site of commonality betweenHolocaust and A-bomb testimonies.However, for both hibakusha(A-bomb survivors)and Holocaustsurvivors, this urgeto "tell the tale" is compromisedby their sharedinability to expresstheir experiencesof atrocity in narrativeform. Chaptertwo focuseson interpretationsof the "unrepresentable"nature of the experienceof atrocity; of the way in which languageis perceivedto fail as a tool of communication in thesenarratives, and the subsequentutilisation of silence,in its many different forms, as a form of expression.

A-bomb literaturehas also beenthe subjectof previouscomparative readings. ErnestineSchlant and IT. Rimer co-authoredLegacies and AmbiRuities:Postwar Fiction and Culture in West Germanyand Japan,a book which dealt with A-bomb

10 literatureand post-war German literature. However, in contrastto this thesis,they focussedexclusively on works of fiction, and shiedaway from any direct comparative readingsof thesetwo literatures.Inspired by Schlantand Rimer's approach,Reiko Tachibana'sNarrative as Counter-Memory:A Half-Centuryof PostwarWriting i Germanyand Japanfocuses on the similarities and differencesbetween genbaku bungaku('atomic bomb literature') and the Trammerliteratur(Tterature of the rubble') of post-warGermany, exploring both testimonialand fictional works. Tachibana'scomparative approach to theseliteratures is rootedin the fact that they both representa responseto the nationaland individual traumaof defeatin WWII. Burumahas also commentedon this relationshipbetween A-bomb literatureand Thimmerliteratur,noting that thesetexts are commonlycharacterised by a tone of nihilistic despair(47-68).

However,little critical attentionhas been focussed on comparativeapproaches to testimonialliterature emergent from the Holocaustand the atomic bombings. RobertJay Lifton concludeshis book Deathin Life: The Survivorsof Hiroshimawith a discussionof creativeresponses to the A-bomb, in which he acknowledgesthat both A-bomb and Holocaustwriters confront sharedproblems when trying to narratetheir experiencesof atrocity, but as a psychologist/historianhis interestin literatureis restrictedto the way in which it revealsthe psychologyof survival. Writing exclusivelyon A-bomb testimoniesfrom a literary perspective,in Writing From GroundZero, Treat acknowledgeshis debt to critics of Holocausttestimonies, in particularLawrence Langer, who providedhim with a basicconceptual framework with which to approachtestimonial narratives. In commonwith Lifton, Treat commentsbriefly on the fact that A-bomb and Holocaustwriters sharethe problemof trying to representthe unrepresentablein their narratives.However, whilst both Lifton and Treat commentbriefly on a potentialrelationship between A-bomb and Holocaust testimonies,neither follows this throughwith a comparativeexploration of specific examples.

The specific scholasticcontribution made by this thesisis then, as the title suggests,to developa comparativeanalytical approach to eye-witnessnarratives emergentfrom the Holocaustand the atomicbombings of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki. By drawingon the work of Treat and Lifton who havemade gestures towards such a

11 comparison,this thesisoffers the first sustainedanalysis of thematicand stylistic commonalitiespresent in thesetestimonial narratives. This focus hasinfluenced the structuringof the materialherein, in that eachchapter addresses both Holocaustand A-bomb testimonies.Through exploring narratives from eachevent from a common perspective,(the representationof the self in chapterone, narrative strategies in chaptertwo, and an explorationof women's narrativesin chapterthree) points of convergenceand divergencebetween Holocaust and A-bomb testimoniescan be more clearly identified.

Recognising Testimony

The primary concernof this thesisis to identify points of commonality(and difference)between A-bomb and Holocausteye-witness accounts, and in so doing move towardsa clearerunderstanding of what constitutesa testimonialgenre. This focus on a comparisonof narrativesrepresents a significant departurefrom previous comparativeapproaches as outlined above,which considerthe relationshipbetween the Holocaustand atomicbombings from primarily historical andphilosophical perspectives.

The recognitionof testimonyas a distinct genrein its own right forms the basis of chapter one. The attempt to distinguish between autobiographical and testimonial modes of writing informs the choice of texts in the analysis of Holocaust testimonies. Both Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel have authored works which I argue can be compared in such a way as to reveal autobiographical and testimonial ways of emplotting the history of the self. The question as to what constitutes testimonial writing is also brought to the forefront by an exploration of the A-bomb eye-witness accounts collected in The Witness of Those Two Days. Each account is very brief and anonymously authored, and they arguably bear few of the stylistic hallmarks that have come to be identified as typical of testimonial writing through an analysis of Holocaust narratives. Their inclusion, therefore, potentially challenges the tentative assumptionsthat have been made about the testimonial genre. Such brief accounts are actually quite characteristic of A-bomb testimonies, as many were written primarily in order to support applications for medical or financial aid in the austerepost-war years. This motivation again adds another dimension to what it means to write testimoniallY.

12 There is a relative paucity of atomic bomb accounts compared to those dealing with the Holocaust, and even fewer that lend themselves to sustained literary criticism. This problem is intensified for non-Japanesespeaking scholars, as comparatively few accounts are available in translation. This could be one reason why atomic bomb literature is currently quite neglected outside of Japan. Certainly there are very few critical works that focus on A-bomb testimonies from a literary perspective, the notable exception, of course, being Treat's Writing Ground Zero. My aim with this thesis is to contribute towards rectifying this problem. In addition to a lack of literary criticism, my researchhas suggestedthat the history of the atomic bomb, particularly in terms of its aftermath, is largely unfamiliar in the West. Available historical accounts tend to focus primarily on the act of dropping the bomb; history is therefore written from the perspective of the perpetrator rather than the victim, a markedly different approach to that taken with Holocaust studies. For this reason, I have provided relevant historical contextualisation for many of the A-bomb narratives discussed.

Whenreferencing the texts by Japaneseauthors discussed in this thesis,I have adoptedthe Japaneseconvention, and placedsurname prior to first name.

Autobiography as a generic term is widely accepted to cover a wide variety of subsetsof life-writing. In the attempt to identify testimony as a genre it becomes apparent that there are distinctions between different forms of testimonial writing and it is this that informs the discussion in chapter three on women's narratives as potentially stylistically and thematically distinct from those authored by men.

Through a critical comparison of testimonial literatures emergent from the Holocaust and the atomic bombings, it is hoped that the understanding of testimony as a distinct genre will be furthered.

13 Chapter I

Autobiograph-v, Testimony and Constructions of the Self

The act of autobiographicalstorytelling constructsand in fact, constitutesthe self. (Lear and Sharradvii)

1.1 Introduction: Defining Autobiography, Defining Testimony

The latter decadesof the twentiethcentury have seena noticeableincrease in interestin life writing and texts that deal with self-representation,resulting in a literary phenomenonthat Leigh Gilmore hastermed as the "memoir boom" (1). In supportof this, Gilmore haspointed to the increasedpopular and scholarlyinterest in autobiographicalliterature of all kinds. Yet the very term "autobiographical literature",however broadly applied,is misleadingin its suggestionof a stylistic and/orthematic homogeneity inherent in all forms of narrativeself-representation; testimony,memoir, diary, autobiographyto namebut a few examples.Identifying eachof theseforms as eitherdistinct subsetsof autobiographicalliterature, or evenas separateliterary genresin their own right is, however,complicated by the fact that the term "autobiography"itself doesnot offer a fixed definition of genre.As James Olney astutelyobserves, "everyone knows what autobiographyis, but no two observers,however assured they may be, are in agreement"(7).

Etymologically,the term "autobiography"stems from the Greek autosIbiosIgraphe,meaning self/life/writing, and critical interpretationof what constitutesautobiography is dependentupon the relative significanceascribed to each of thesecomponents. Leigh Gilmore definesthe traditional interpretationof autobiographyas a "discourseof self representation",which "featuresa rational and representative'F at its center" (2). Indeed,Roy Pascal,writing in 1960,argues that it is the presenceof the "I", of a coherentsense of the self, that separatesautobiography from other forms of life writing: "in the autobiographyproper, attention is focussed on the self, in the memoir or reminiscenceon others" (5). Explicit in both Gilmore's and Pascal'sdefinitions is an assumptionof a pre-existingnarrating self which providesa solid (if not alwaysreliable) perspectivefrom which the story of the life, or bios can be narrated.This traditional focuson the bios aspectof autobiographyhas createda narrow definition of who may participatein autobiographicalpractice.

14 GeorgesGusdorf s now strongly criticised interpretation of autobiography presentsit as a product of Western Enlighterunent culture, and the preserve only of those who are sufficiently developed to arrive at a consciousnessof self and an awarenessof their place in history. In this context, the autobiographical subject should have a story worth telling, a bios that reflects and contributes to a senseof historical significance. In his defence of this restricted eligibility for autobiographical practice, Pascal explains that:

Autobiography [ ] discrimination in face means ... and selection of the life [ ] depends endlesscomplexity of ... everything on the standpoint chosen; and it is clear that the more arbitrary the standpoint, the greater is the likelihood that the autobiography will be one-sided, blinkered or downright false. This is the reason, I believe, why the best autobiographies are written by men and women of outstanding achievement in life. Their standpoint is not as it were chosen by them [ ]: it is there, the indubitable their life's ... result of work, often acknowledged publicly, but at any rate for them the concrete reality of the meaning of their life. (10)

In Pascal'sbios-centred perspective, the value of the autosappears to be dependent upon the actsand the achievementsof the individual. The way in which the autosis representedin the text is apparentlythe product of the "standpoint" or perspective from which the story of the bios is told: the self could be representedin a multitude of different ways dependingupon which aspectsof the bios are emphasisedor omitted. The bios also influencesthe quality of the narrativeand as suchlies at the heartof autobiographicalliterature. Whilst it would be overly simplistic to categoriseall early autobiographicalcriticism as bios-centric,and contemporarycriticism as autos- centric,there has been, as JamesOlney hasnoted, a significant "shift of attention from bios to autos- from the life to the self' (19) and it is no coincidencethat a scholarlyinterest in testimonyhas accompanied this. Addressingthe self, the "I", as the most significantelement within the autobiographicaltrinity allows for a wider qualification of what constitutesautobiographical literature and admitsdiscussion of traumanarratives. The majority of traumanarrative authors cannot be consideredto havereached "outstanding achievement" in Pascal'ssense, and thus the focus on bios excludesthem for considerationin the canonof autobiographicalwriting. Through shifting the critical emphasisfrom bios to autos,Pascal's autobiographical prerequisiteis removed,thereby broadening the autobiographicalcanon and

15 pennitting an explorationof texts by authorswho havebeen historically marginalised by their failure to satisfythe narrow requirementsof bios-centredautobiographical works.

A singular focus on autos, however, does not necessarily open pathways into the critical analysis of testimony. Indeed, Bella Brodzki argues that the defining feature of testimony is that it "tests the prescriptive and descriptive boundaries of the autobiographical genre by presenting extreme-limit casesof what could constitute self/life/writing" (870). When self-representation encounters the experience of trauma, singular approachesto a definition of autobiographical writing which focus on only one aspect of autoslbioslgraphe compromise a full analytical appreciation of the text. More helpful is Sidonie Smith's approach, which rejects placing a focus on simply one constituent part of autobiographical writing. This approach masks what is actually a symbiotic relationship between autos, bios, and graphe. It is this combined approach that is particularly appropriate for the critical study of testimony as a genre distinct from autobiography. Smith contests the view that there is an inherent autonomous self which can offer a narratorial account of the bios. In fact, Smith notes, "there is no essential, original, coherent autobiographical self before the moment of self-narration" (Performativity 1); the "I" comes into existence only through the narrative process of self representation. If the construction of the self is to be perceived as a narrative act, then the mode of narration is key to the way in which the self is portrayed.

When looking at personalaccounts of the Holocaustand the atomic bombings,however, the precisemode of this narrationis underquestion. Writing of Holocausttestimonies, Lawrence L. Langermakes the point that:

Tragedyas a literary form offered catharsisto men contemplatingwith pity and terror the imageof their own mortality; but we havenot yet discovereda form to fuse six million deathsinto a reflection of our destinyin the modemera. (Divided Voice 34)

Here,Langer is implicitly positing a distinction betweenliterary traditions of tragedy and trauma.Classical catharsis offers the prospectof an end to a tragedy;through the literary articulationof pain, grief andterror, recoveryis madepossible. The

16 experienceof trauma,on the other hand,is frequentlycharacterised by the fact that it is unending;the impossibility of bearingwitness to the reality of traumathrough literary expressionrecurs throughout trauma narratives. The experienceof trauma thus deniesthe possibility of catharsis.If the experienceof traumacannot be adequatelydealt wi th using classicalmodes of catharticwriting then, Langer concludes,the developmentof a new form of writing is necessitated.

The term most commonlyused to describethis new form is "testimony", and a primary concernof this chapterwill be to establishexactly what definesthis mode of narrationand distinguishesit from other forms of literature.The ambiguity surroundingthe definition of this genrelends credence to ShoshanaFelman's interpretationof the problemsassociated with regardingtestimony as a literary genre. Sheacknowledges that whilst "testimonyhas become a crucial modeof our relation .. look to the eventsof our times... the more closely we at texts, the more they showus that unwittingly, we do not evenknow what testimonyis and that, in any case,it is not simply what we thoughtit was" (Felmanand Laub 5,7). The OED offers the definition that a testimonyis " I. a statementunder oath or affirmation. 2. a declarationor statementof fact." Whilst this is undeniablya defining featureof testimonialwritings, especiallywhen individual testimonyis consideredin the contextof the valuablerole it playedin post-warprosecutions (most significantly in the 1961Eichman trial in Israel), the OED's definition is complicatedby contemporaryunderstandings of factuality, and the potentially compromising relationshipbetween factual authenticity and individual memoryand recollection.Yet the style of legal testimonyis often consideredto be the appropriatestylisic pattern for literary testimony.Indeed, in his forewordto Filip MUller's testimonyEyewitness Auschwitz: ThreeYears in the GasChambers, Yehuda Bauer commends the plain and factual style of the narrativeand in so doing distinguishesclearly between testimonyand art: "he tells his story in a simple, straightforwardlanguage. There is no embellishment,no deviation.This is not a work of art. It is a testimony" (MUller ix).

Attemptsto definethe characteristicsof testimonywhich distinguishit as a genreseparate from other forms of autobiographicalwriting haveusually centred aroundHolocaust narratives. Critics haverepeatedly made attempts to identify

17 features which distinguish personal accounts of the Holocaust from other forms of autobiography. Lawrence L. Langer suggeststhat the primary difference lies in the fact that "the content of a written survivor memoir may be more harrowing and gruesomethan most autobiographies," but that the narrative features, such as chronology, description and characterisation remain the same (Holocaust Testimonies 41). Mirna Cicioni concurs with Langer, noting that whilst Holocaust narratives may detail horrific events, they neverthelessconform to conventional linear chronology:

Most memoirs, however, have similar structures in that they describe the same sequenceof events (arrest, journey to the camp, arrival, initiation, conditions, liberation). (26)

Robert Eaglestone,however, contests this, arguing that:

whilst most testimony narratives follow an autobiographical chronology, several have moments where the flow of the narrative stops and the text, in its style and content becomes 'historical', offering descriptive history or reportage. (119)

This form of disruption in chronology, style and genre is frequent; Primo, Levi often interrupts his accounts of his Holocaust experiencesin If This is a Man with attempts to interpret his experiences,drawing on both philosophical and scientific theories. In Landscapesof Memory: A Holocaust Girlhood Remembered,Ruth KlOger blends the story of her wartime childhood with vignettes from her adult life and feminist ideology which she uses as a tool to understandher experiences.Charlotte Delbo, a French political prisoner in Auschwitz, deliberately abandons simple chronology in Auschwitz and After, creating a very self-consciously styled text, fragmented in structure and jumping in style from straightforward first-person prose chapters,to challenging poetic interludes, to seemingly detached (although not dispassionate) observations, to non-contextualised isolated passagesof dialogue. Lea Wemick Fridman suggeststhat Delbo makes a "technical and philosophical choice to scrap narrative or story" (112), but it is more complicated than this. Delbo is not eschewing narrative, but rather employing the literary device of fragmenting her narrative to mirror the chaos of her experience. This is a deviation from "normal"

18 autobiographicalpractice which seeksto imposeorder and coherencyon the uncertaintyand disorderof real life experience!

Although directly referringto accountsof the Holocaust,many of these features,which togetherbegin to form a style that can be definedas specifically commonto testimonialwriting, can alsobe identified in experientialaccounts of the 2 atomicbombing of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki. JohnWhittier Treat suggeststhat "testimonialliterature is the earliestand still most voluminousgenre of atomic bomb literature" (Writing GroundZero 49), and whilst it is importantto maintainan awarenessof the historical specificity of eachevent, it is possibleto identify likenessesin the structuresof testimonialaccounts emergent from the Holocaustand the atomicbombings. Whilst the contentof A-bomb accountsis evidentlyvery different to Holocaustaccounts, they alsoreveal a "more harrowingand gruesome" contentthan other forms of autobiographicalwriting. They also often sharecommon chronologicaloutlines, usually beginningwith a brief insight into an everyday morning,followed by an accountof their direct experienceof the bomb, followed by a seriesof episodicdescriptions of what they saw on that day. The narratorsoften concludetheir testimonieswith accountsof how the mentaland physicaleffects of the bombingstill affect their lives on a daily basis.Equally frequently,however, these fragile chronologiesare interrupted,as Eaglestoneargues to be the casewith Holocausttestimonies. The natureof theseinterruptions is quite different to that in Holocaustnarratives. Most commonly,interruptions in A-bomb narrativestake the form of repeatedintedections of scientific an!,,geographical information, demonstratinga dependenceupon objectivedata as descriptivelanguage fails the author.Authors frequentlyprovide precisedata regarding, for example,their exact distancefrom the epicentreand the heatof the bomb blast.

Also commonin testimonialaccounts of the atomic bombingsis a reaction againstthe order and coherenceprovided by straightforwardlinear narrative.In SummerFlowers, Hara Tamiki exemplifiesthis narrativeapproach by openingwith

1See Chapter Three for a moredetailed exploration of CharlotteDelbo's Holocaustnarratives. 2 The characteristicswhich can be consideredto identify testimonyas a distinct genrecan alsobe notedin the narrationof othertraumatic experiences, such as illness,sexual and physical abuse and otherhistorical events. For the purposeof this thesis,however, discussion will remaincentred on testimonialnarratives emergent from the Holocaustand the atomicbombings.

19 an accountof the bombingwhich leadsinto a descriptionof life in the following days.He then subvertsthe reader'snarratorial expectations by concludinghis narrativewith a sectionentitled "Preludeto Annihilatiow', the final words denying the prospectof completion:"There were still more than forty hoursto go beforethe atomicbomb paid its visit" (113). The endingbecomes irresolute as linear progressionis rejectedin favour of a returning,or cyclical, structurewhich deniesan exit from the text, and so the event.

Identifying points of stylistic commonalitybetween Holocaust and A-bomb testimoniesmust not only be temperedby an awarenessof the historical specificity of eachevent, but alsoby an understandingof the different literary contextsfrom which the authorsemerge. Whilst thosewho try to recordtheir experiencesof the Holocaust andthe atomicbombings are equally facedwith the challengesof trying to represent eventsthat defy representation,the differing literary traditions of Europeand Japan result in authorsfacing challengesthat are uniqueto eachevent. Kurihara Sadako,an eminentpoet and critic of post-HiroshimaJapanese culture, takes account of these differences,commenting:

Europeanpost-war literature could confront the fact of Auschwitz becausethroughout the SecondWorld War therehad existed, especiallyin the cultural tradition of France,a resistancemovement born of humanite.Japanese culture, however, with its dilettantish concernfor elegantpursuits and the beautiesof naturehas never known suchhumaniti. Consequentlythere has been no soil for a literatureof defianceto take root and grow, and postwarliterature in Japanhas continued, unchanged, to be dominatedby quotidian, domesticand egocentricfiction. Perhapsnothing can be doneabout this lack of a historical sense,a lack which meansthat atomic-bomb literaturecannot be seenas anythingother than a literatureof pariahs. (qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 104-5)

For Kurihara,the existencein Europeof a twentieth-centuryliterary tradition that attemptsto dealwith the complexitiesof the representationof atrocity, a tradition that goesback at leastto the First World War, easesthe burdenof incommunicability. Indeed,it is this Europeanheritage of a literatureof atrocity that contestsWiesel's point that it is the generationof Holocaustsurvivors who inventedthe testimonial genre.Whilst Kuriharacould be accusedof presentinga Japan-centricperspective that minimisesor evenoverlooks the significantproblems faced by European

20 survivorswho tried to narratetheir wartimeexperiences, the fact that A-bomb writers believedthemselves to be forging an entirely new literary spacemust be takeninto considerationwhen readingA-bomb testimonies.3

Concomitantwith the attemptto define"testimony" is, however,the question asto whethersuch a definition is desirable,or evenuseful. Julian Wolfreys argues that "any gesturein the direction of regulatinga responseto traumaor establishinga methodologyor modeof analysisshould be resisted,if one is to do justice to trauma andthe work of testimony" (126). By framing his responsein this way, Wolfreys intimatesthat to taxonomisetestimony as a distinct genreconstitutes a betrayalof the experience,a betrayalthat Wiesel is actively seekingto avoid by the processof writing andthe invocationof the testimonialgenre. Wolfreys continues:

Testimony,in order to be such,cannot be calculated,for every testimonymust respondto the singularspecificity of the traumatic [ ] Testimonyis irreducible figure, experience ... to someconcept or somegenre or speciesof narrativewithin historical narrativeor literature.(130)

3 This is not to suggestthat Japandoes not havea thriving tradition of autobiographicalauthorship. The tradition of nikki bungaku,or 'diary literature,' datesback to the tenth century.Stylistically distant from Westerninterpretations of life-writing andautobiography, nikki bungakucan be moreaccurately describedas a form of literary memoiras it wasusually written long afterthe eventsit describes. Written primarily by aristocratsand femalecourtiers, nikki bungakuis characterised.by careful composition,reflections and meditations on the emotionalinner self, andmultiple narratingvoices. It wasnot until the seventeenthcentury that Japanesewriting developeda strongerhistorical consciousnessand became more self-reflective in style.Yet little in this autobiographicaltradition pavedthe way for an authenticallyJapanese literature of atrocity. Writers aimedtowards achieving a miyab!or 'courtly' style,attempting to evokephilosophical thought and reflection on beautyand mannersthrough a condensedand economic use of language.This style clashedwith the attemptby hibakushaauthors to representhorror andviolence in a contextwhere language failed, andcould no longerevoke meaning (see Chapter 2 for furtherdiscussion of the relationshipbetween language and traumanarratives). A furtherkey characteristicof Japaneseliterature is that of emulating,and so honouring,the style and sensibilityof earlierwriters, an approachwhich is of little useto thosewho neededto developnew formsof writing in responseto an unprecedentedevent. As Japaneseculture was increasinglyexposed to Westerninfluences throughout the Meiji Restorationperiod of 1868-1911, the literary formsof Japanesenaturalism and realism emerged. One of the most significantgenres to emergefrom this new formswas shish5setsu of the 'I-novel,' a form of fictive autobiographical writing. Written from the perspectiveof a singleauthoritative narrative voice, I-novelsoften focus tightly on the detailsof everydaylife. Whilst the traditionsof the I-novel andnikki bungakuoffered a basicmodel for hibakushaauthors, there is little in Japaneseliterary culturethat offereda stylistic solutionto the difficulties, impossibilitieseven, or representingatrocity. For Kurihara,this is why the experienceof the hibakushaauthor is so differentto that of the EuropeanHolocaust survivor author. For a moredetailed discussion of pre-WWII Japaneseliterary style, DonaldKeene's Japanese Literature:An Introductionfor WesternReaders remains a classicaccount.

21 Whilst it is to be acceptedthat eachtestimony is unique in that it is respondingto an individual experience of a specific event, the fact that not every narrative confornis to a prescribedpattern is not in itself a denial of genre.As TzvetanTodorov points out:

The fact that a work 'disobeys' its genredoes not meanthat the genre doesnot exist. It is temptingto say 'quite the contrary' for two reasons.First because,in orderto exist as such,the transgression requiresa law - preciselythe one that is to be violated. We might go evenftirther and observethat the norm only becomesvisible - comes into existence- owing only to its transgressions.(196)

Wolfreys' objection to the development of testimony as a genre is based on the Derridean theory that genre places a limit on texts, "and when a limit is established, norms and interdictions are not far behind: 'Do', 'do not' says 'genre', the word 6genre',the figure, the voice or the law of genre"' (Derrida, Law of Genre 56). However, as Todorov points out, it is only by contravening these "norms" that genre can be recognised at all.

Todorov continuesthat as much as a genrecomes to be recognisedas such throughthe discourseupon it - the authoritythat imposesthe norms- it is not simply metadiscursive.For example,the volume of writing on the tragedygenre that seeminglysets its limits "doesnot meanthat the tragediesthemselves lack common features"(198). As much as codifying thesecommon features into a recognisable genre,Todorov arguesthat the genretheorist shouldalso be engagedin a searchfor narrativecommonalities. It is in this way that testimonycan be engagedwith as a genreor, perhaps,a potentialgenre. The repetition of certainnarrative elements indicatesthat personalaccounts of the Holocaustand the atomic bombingsshare certaincharacteristics that setthem apartfrom other forms of literature.

1.2 Fragmented Selves: A Comparison of the Testimonial and Autobiographical Writings of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel

If the Greeksinvented tragedy, the Romansthe epistle,and the Renaissancethe sonnet,our generationinvented a new literature,that of testimony.(Wiesel, Holocaust as LiterM Inspiration9)

22 In a lectureentitled "The Holocaustas Literary Inspiration7'delivered at NorthwesternUniversity in 1977,Elie Wiesel directly confrontsthe seeming impossibility of the Holocaustas a narratableevent.

Thereis no suchthing [as literatureof the Holocaust],not with Auschwitz in the equation."The Holocaustas Literary Inspiration" is a contradictionin terms.As in everythingelse, the Holocaustnegates all systems,destroys all doctrines.(7)

For Wiesel, the very extremity of the Holocaust denies the possibility of traditional literary conventions, compromising both fictional and non-fictional modes by the restrictions it places on language, identification and imagination. The "sacred awe" (9) that Wiesel claims the Holocaust evokes prohibits the translation of this particular experience into literature. He questions the moral and ethical difficulties of narrating the Holocaust, commenting:

Wouldn't that mean,then, that Treblinka and Belzec,Ponar and Babi Yar all endedin fantasy,in words, in beauty,that it was simply a matterof literature?(7)

"And yet", to cite Wiesel's self-confessed"two favourite words, applicableto every situation,be it happyor bleak," thereis, indisputably,Holocaust literature in the form of the writings of witnessesand survivors(All Rivers 16). It is thesewritings that Wieselclaims constitutea "new literature", and that shall be the concernof this chapter.

Wiesel names this new literature "testimony" (Holocaust as Litem Inspiration 9). For Wiesel, the classification of witness and survivor writings as "testimony" positively brands these forms of writing as distinct and unique as he perceives the Holocaust itself to be. However, such an emphatic declaration of a new genre is not unproblematic. Wiesel is attempting to fix a definitive label to a form of writing that so far eludes a concrete definition. Indeed, Wiesel's own narrative style problematises any simple categorisation. Critics frequently respond to Wiesel's entire body of work, both fictional and non-fictional, as autobiographical. Robert McAfee Brown writes that "the story of Elie Wiesel is the story of his characters,and the story of his charactersis the story of Elie Wiesel" (12). David Daiches, in a review of

23 Wiesel's novel The Gatesof the Forest,clarifies this point evenfurther, claiming that, "all his works areclearly autobiographical,directly or indirectly, and they representa genuineand sometimespainful endeavourto cometo termswith post-Auschwitzlife" (qtd. in Downing 1442).Irving Abrahamsonconcurs, commenting that "in a very Wieselhas is 'autobiography'[ ] specialand complex sense, all that written ... autobiographyconstitutes an integral elementof Wiesel's work and plays a central and complexrole in if' (3). However,these multiple confirmationsof Wiesel's work as autobiographical,speaking of both his fiction and non-fiction as they do, serve more to complicatethe questionof genrerather than clarify it. Centralto this complicationis that the term "autobiography"is in itself fluid and indefinable.As JamesOlney points out:

there is no way to bring autobiography to heel as a literary genre with its form, terminology [ ] own proper and observances ... all sorts of generic boundaries (and even lines dividing discipline from discipline) are simply wiped away. (4)

Such flexibility, Olney continues, makes real the possibility of every narrative being interpreted as autobiographical, in that "all writing that aspires to be literature is autobiography and nothing else" (4). Conversely, he argues, that in the wake of deconstructionist criticism and the dissolution of the self into the text, it is equally valid to argue that the loss of the self has resulted in the death of autobiography (22).

Wiesel's work is, it appears,at once definable and indefinable, an ambiguity that he adds to with a personal interpretation of his work. In concordance with those his he that, "I that the who critique work, comments would say ... mood of all of my books is autobiographical" (qtd. in Downing 1443). However, despite this understanding of his work as autobiographical, he seemsto be curiously resistant to using this term to describe his most conventionally autobiographical work, All Rivers Run to the Sea: Memoirs. In the first chapter of this book, Wiesel offers an explanatory description of his intentions:

I meanto recountnot the story of my life, but my stories.Through them you may understandthe rest a little better.Some see their work as a commentaryon their life; for othersit is the other way around.I

24 countmyself amongthe latter. Considerthis accountthen, as a kind of commentary.(17)

This statementpresents an ambiguityabout the text from the beginning."The story of my life" seemsto be, superficiallyat least,the simplestrule for defining an autobiographicalnarrative. By rejectingthis description,Wiesel appearsto be attemptingto definehis work as somethingother than autobiography.The grey area generatedby his commentthat the text is not "the story of my life" but rather"my stories"prohibits simpleclassification. Yet, as the passagecontinues, Wiesel claims that his life is a commentaryon his work. By askingthe readerto considerthis text to be a commentary,he is, then, askingimplicitly that it be perceivedas his life, thereby seeminglyreturning the text to the fold of autobiographicalnarratives. The complicatedquestions that this producesabout genre and literature,and in particular aboutHolocaust literature, appears to be an extensionof his call for the recognitionof a "new literature".Not only is Wieselproposing that testimonyshould be considered as a new form of literature,he also appearsto be suggestingthat all previously recognisedliterary genresneed to be reconsideredand re-evaluatedin the aftermath of the Holocaust.

Wiesel is not the only authorto rejectthe simple classificationof his personal narrative.Levi is equallyambiguous about the natureof his "autobiography",The PeriodicTable. The text is structuredas a seriesof chaptersdetailing Levi's life, each titled for a different elementwithin the periodic table. In the final chapter,"Carbon7', he attemptsto give his own definition of his text:

The reader,at this point, will haverealised for sometime now that this is [ ] Nor is it in not a chemicaltreatise ... an autobiography,save the partial and symboliclimits in which everypiece of writing is autobiographical,indeed every human work; but it is in somefashion a history. (224)

In commonwith Wiesel,Levi is swift to denythat he haswritten his autobiography, but he is keento describeit as "a history". This is as equivocalas Wiesel's "stories"; an autobiography,after all, can be definedas a history, a history of the self, but Levi is keento draw a line of distinctionbetween the two. Levi's preferencefor the term "history" ratherthan "autobiography"seems to indicatea suppositionthat "history"

25 permits a greater engagementwith the place of the self in the world than autobiography allows. If autobiography proper is an account of the private history of , the self, then perhaps a "history" permits a greater collusion between private and public history, and so Levi's personal history is not the only story revealed in The Periodic Table. Despite his insight that all writing is autobiographical to some extent, he is wary of definitively categorising this account of his life as such. However, again in common with Wiesel, Levi later blurs this distinction. During an interview with Philip Roth, Levi submits that all of his past work is for the most part "plain or disguised autobiography" (Roth 15).

The comparisonbetween Levi and Wiesel is apt, as in addition to thesebooks which are conventionallyrecognised as autobiographies(regardless of authorial interpretation),both havealso written personalHolocaust narratives which are regardedas "testimonial". Wiesel'sNight detailsthe occupationand ghettoisationof his hometown of Sighet,and his family's deportationto Auschwitz. Separatedfrom his motherand sisterson arrival, the rest of the narrativeis concernedwith his andhis father's experiencesin the camp.Wiesel attemptshis own definition of this text, describingit as "an autobiographicalstory, a kind of testimonyof one witness speakingof his own life, his own death" (qtd. in Downing 1450).Wiesel's cautious useof the word "testimony" seemsto contradicthis confidentcall for testimonyto be recognisedas a "new literature".However, it is at the point when he suggeststhat as a form of testimonyNight is a narrativeconcerned with a story of death,a thanatography,rather than simply a story of life, that potentialdistinctions between autobiographyand testimony begin to emerge.Wiesel frequentlyrecognises his work as a meansof bearingwitness to thosewho died, as opposedto a personalaccount of the self. The subtle,but significant,distinction betweenwitnessing and testifying will be discussedin more detail later in this chapter.

In the introductionto Levi's The Drownedand the Saved,Paul Bailey writes that in this book, "as always,Levi assumesthe role of the witness" (xv). In common with Wieselonce more, Levi takeson the position of a witness,seemingly reluctant to employthe term "testimony". Indeed,in the prefaceto If This is a Man, Levi is keenerto explain what his work is not, ratherthan what it is:

26 As an accountof atrocities,therefore, this book of mine addsnothing to what is alreadyknown to readersthrough the world on the disturbingquestion of the deathcamps. It hasnot beenwritten in order to formulatenew accusations.(15)

The closestthat Levi comesto defining his text is in describingit as "an interior liberation," suggestinga classicalcathartic intention in his writing (15). He seesits purposeas being ableto "fumish documentationfor a quiet study of aspectsof the humanmind" (15); indeed,it is in many ways a philosophicalinvestigation into what it is to be a man,as is implied in the title (an implication that is lost in the clumsyre- titling of the book as Survival in Auschwitz for the American market).

Writing the Self and Authenticity

GeorgeYddice presentsthe following definition of testimony:

an authenticnarrative, told by a witnesswho is movedto narrateby the urgencyof a situation(e. g. war, oppression,revolution etc.) (44)

In this definition, Yfidice arguesfor threefeatures which must be presentfor a work to be consideredtestimonial: it must be an authenticnarrative; it must be createdby a personwho witnessedthe event,(be it as a victim, a perpetratoror a bystander);and it must emergefrom a traumaticevent. Each of thesethree points may be presentin any form of life-writing, or littirature intime as Philippe Lejeuneterms it, but it is the combinationof the threethat, for Yfidice, determinesa work as testimonial.However, eachpoint also needsto be examinedmore carefully if Wiesel's claim that testimony is a "new literature",distinct from other forms of life writing, is to bejustified.

The ascertaining of authenticity is a preoccupation which stretches across all modesof life writing, as demonstratedby Philippe Lejeune'sefforts to determinea definition of autobiographyas:

A retrospectiveprose narrative produced by a real personconcerning his own existence,focussing on his individual life, in particularon the development his [ ] For be of personality. ... thereto autobiography (andmore generallylittirature intime), theremust be identity between the author, the narrator, and theprotagonist. (193)

27 However,Lejeune's central thesis that identity betweenauthor, narrator and protagonistis a guaranteeof authenticityis problematic.He continueswith a definition of this tripartite but unified "identity":

The narrator and the protagonist are the entities referred to, within the text, by the subject of the speechact, i. e. the utterer, and the subject of the utterance; the author, who is representedon the outer edge of the text by his narne, is, then, the referent who is designated, through the autobiographical contract, by the utterer. (211)

Essentially,for Lejeune,the utterer,or narrator,is confirmedas having the same identity as the authorby way of the declarationof the author's nameon the title page of the text. By usingthe term "I", the narratoris then transferringthis authenticityof authorshipto the subjectof utterance,or protagonist.Whilst significantdissimilarities betweennarrator and protagonistmay be presentin the narrative(due to timespan betweenthe narratedevent and the narrating,memory flaws, and other mitigating factors),this doesnot compromisethe identity betweenauthor, protagonist and narratorwhich is ultimately authenticatedby the author's nameon the text. Furtherto this, Lejeunealso claimsthat if the nameof the protagonistis not the sameas that of the author,then "this aloneexcludes the possibility of autobiography"(204). For the autobiographicalcontract to operate,assumptions of authenticitymust rest ultimately upon the authorialname, an assumptionLej eunejudges as fair, commentingthat "everyoneknows only too well how much eachof us valueshis own name" (202).

This assumption is, however, misplaced when it comes to reading the Holocaust accounts of Elie Wiesel and Levi. The senseof an identical relationship between protagonist, narrator and author based upon a uniformity of names is jeopardised, particularly in Night and If This is A Man. Rather than being focussed on an individual self in the way in which Lejeune intimates as a definitive rule for autobiography, these two accounts are based on the recognition of a divided self The protagonist does not automatically correspond to either narrator or author. Of course, this division, or split self, has been observed as a feature in many autobiographical narratives. William Howarth writes of autobiographical writing in general that:

28 We must carefully distinguish this character [Lejeune's utterer] from the author himself, since it performs as a double persona: telling the story as a narrative, enacting it as a protagonist. Although these two figures are the same person, artist and model, we may still distinguish their essentialpoints of separation. They share the same name, but not the sametime and space.A narrator always knows more than his protagonist, yet he remains faithful to the latter's ignorance for the sake of credible suspense.Eventually the reverse images have to merge; as past approachespresent, the protagonist's deeds should begin to match his narrator's thoughts. (87)

Whilst Howarth's point is valid, it is essentiallyan extensionof Lejeune'sargument, in that althoughthere may be "points of separation"between narrator and protagonist, theseeventually converge, together with the author,to createthe unified autobiographicalpersona. However, there is a fundamentaldifference between the way that Howarth and Lejeuneenvision autobiographical identity and the way in which the self is constructedin the Holocaustaccounts by Levi and Wiesel which are consideredto be testimonial. A notablecharacteristic that setsthese accounts apart from conventionalautobiographical narratives is that in both Night and If This is a Man, protagonist,narrator and authorare driven apartby the extremity of experience, resultingin a text in which the narratableself is constructedas separatefrom the narratedself. LawrenceL. Langerargues that there is no final reconciliationbetween the threein Holocausttestimonies. In HolocaustTestimonies, he distinguishes betweentwo, ratherthan three,personas and writes extensivelyof the way in which Holocaustsurvivors repeatedly testify to the senseof a past experientialself that lives alongsidea post-warnarratorial/authorial self. The tensionbetween these selves, a productof their Holocaustexperiences, is neverresolved in the way that Lejeuneand Howarthpropose.

AproposLejeune, the significanceof namingis crucial to identifying this divided self. The fracturingof identity is revealedby the adoptionof era-specific namesin the testimonialnarratives of both Levi and Elie Wiesel.

Naming and the Representationof the Divided Self

The Nazis were well awareof the value that is attachedto personalnaming,

29 and the part that an individual's name plays in constructing their identity. From the very beginning in 1942, Jewish prisoners in Auschwitz had their prisoner numbers tattooed onto their left forearms. Men were tattooed on the outer arm, women on the inner arm. The only victims who escapedthis were those who were sent directly to 4 their deaths. This replacementof personal,given nameswith allocated,identifying numbershad a powerful dehumanisingeffect on the prisoners,as Levi's poem "Shema7'demonstrates. The poemis the epigraphto If This is a Man, and its title is a post Auschwitz echoof the Jewishprayer, the Shema.The poemcontains the lines:

Considerif this is a woman, Without hair and without name(17)

From the very beginningof his testimony,Levi is calling upon the readerto consider the significanceof the relationshipbetween naming and identity. Without a name,we are askedto considerif this is a woman,if this is an individual. In this way, namingis constructedhere as somethingcrucial to the definition of an individual self, and the loss of namerepresents a crisis in the understandingof what constitutesan individual identity.

In readingLevi's life writings, it can be seenthat the way in which he narrativelyreconstructs his pastself centresaround his name.From his autobiography,or "history" as he prefersto term it, we learn that Levi was born into an assimilatedJewish family in 1919in Turin, north-westItaly. He graduatedfrom the University of Turin in 1941with a chemistrydegree, and commencedwork in a factory in Milan. The fall of Italian fascismin 1943,and the subsequentNazi occupationled Levi to join a partisanresistance group. The group was betrayed,and arrestedby the Fascistson December13 1943.Fearing immediate executionas a political activist, Levi willingly declaredhimself to be "an Italian citizen of Jewishrace" in the hopeof leniency(If This is a Man 19). However,he was takento a holding campin Fossoliin January1944, and was deportedto

4French survivor Marie-Claude Vaillant-Couturier, who was a prisonerin Auschwitz,where she arrivedon January 1 1943, testified to thisat the Nuremberg Trials: M.Dubost: Then they [those sent directly to thegas chambers, primarily women and children]were not registered? Vaillant-Coutrier:No. M. Dubost:They were not tattooed? Vaillant-Coutreier:No,they were not even counted. (qtd. in Arad360).

30 Auschwitz on February21 1944,where he remaineduntil he was liberatedby the Russian army on January 27 1945.

The first chapterof his autobiography,The Periodic Table, "Argon", focuses on Levi's ancestors,and situateshim firmly within his family history. As with many chaptersin the book, the chemicalelement of the title reflectsthe content.Nicholas Patrunodiscusses this relevance,arguing that:

To him [Levi], the family is a noble body whosetraits are coincidental with thoseof the elementargon. Whereas argon is an inert or nonreactiveelement, however, the family has divergedfrom this characteristicslightly over time in integratingitself into the goyim who largely forrn the Turinesepopulation. (59)

The nobility which Levi perceiveswithin the family is revealedin the affectionate familiarity of tone in this chapter,a tone that seemsto indicatea unity betweenLevi the authorand Levi the narrator.By focussingon both the distantand the close membersof his family, Levi is constructinga solid heritagefrom which he has descended,providing a familial contextfor both his identity and his name.Indeed, the entire chapteris saturatedwith the importanceof names.He introduceseach member of the family by name,at times in exhaustivelyinclusive lists:

Barbai6tb (Uncle Elijah), Barbasachin (Uncle Isaac), Magnaidta (Aunt Maria), Barbasmelin (Uncle Moses) Barbasmelin (Uncle Samuel), Magnaviagaia (Aunt Abigail). (6)

It is tempting to read this inclusivity, this urge to leave no family member unmentioned, as reflective of his style and purpose in If This is a Man, where he repeatedly describes fellow prisoners in an effort to give voices to his fellow 5 prisoners. The fact that each family member's name is preceded by a familial in affiliation - uncle, aunt, and at other points the chapter, grandmother and

3 That the Holocausthaunts this chapteris undoubted.He opensthe chapterwith the migratoryhistory of his family beforethey arrivedin Turin, wherethey encounteredanti-Semitism, albeit much less violent than in otherparts of Europe.He recallsan old anti-Semiticchant "Pig's ear,donkey's ear, give'em to the Jewthat's here", which was a convolutedinsult to pious Jewswho would ritually show eachother the hem of their prayershawls when called to readthe Torah at synagogue.He continuesI rememberhere, in passing,that the vilification of the prayershawl is as old as anti-Semitism- from thoseshawls, taken from deportees,the SSwould makeunderwear which wasthen distributedto the Jewsimprisoned in the Lage?'(5).

31 grandfather- servesonly to emphasisehis attachmentto them, and their part in constructinghis identity as it is to be revealedin the following chapters.The very namesof his family beartestament to the integrationand assimilationreferred to by Patruno.Levi writes:

The attribute barba Cuncle"), or, respectively, magna ("aunt") tends gradually to merge with the name, and, with the concurrence of ingenious diminutives and an unsuspectedphonetic analogy between Hebrew and the Piedmontesedialect, became fixed in complex, strange-soundingappellations, which are handed down unchanged from generation to generation along with the events, memories and sayings of those who had borne them for many years. (6)

Inscribedwithin the very namesof the family is both their religious and national identity, both of which are passeddown to Levi. Patrunoclaims that "Levi did considerableresearch to uncoverthe languageof his ancestors"(58). The fact that Levi the authorhad to researchthis unusualheritage, rather than receiveit through the oral history of his family (as Levi the narratorclaims to be the case),suggests that the comfortableease with which Levi the narratorrecalls his family history is, in fact, an artificial construct.Such a constructreveals an otherwiseconcealed division betweenLevi the authorand Levi the narrator,thereby preparing the readerfor the catastrophiccrisis in identity that camewith the Holocaust.

This crisis is narrated later in the text, in the chapter entitled "Ceriunf':

At a distance of thirty years I find it difficult to reconstruct the sort of human being that corresponded,in November 1944, to my name or, better, to my number: 174517. (139)

The protagonist of this chapter, 174517, is representedas unrecognisable. Cicioni observesthat in Levi's personal accounts, "his narrated self is one of the charactersin his narration" and this division between narrated and narratable self is exaggerated here (45). The self-aware narration in this extract seemsto suggest the intejection of an authorial voice which cannot reconcile itself to the subject of narration, and it is the difference in name that symbolises this breakdown in the self. This chapter relates 174517's thefts from the chemical lab in Buna in which he worked as a prisoner. He stole some rods of iron-cerium (the element for which the chapter is named) which,

32 with the aid of his comradeAlberto, he managedto file down into cigarettelighter flints, which the pair plannedto useto buy breadon the flourishing black market.6 The plan nevercame to fruition as the campwas evacuateddue to the approachof the Russianarmy, andwhilst Levi remainedin the campand was eventuallyliberated, Alberto was lost on the deathmarch. The following chapter,"Chromium", begins abruptly: "The entre6was fish, but the wine was red" (147), describingthe menuof a post-wardinner, as if Levi is keento dismissthis crisis in identity which occupiedthe previouschapter. However, the mis-matchedwine and fish, which continuesto be the subjectof the narrationfor sometime, seemsto echothe mis-matchedselves of the precedingchapter.

Evidenceof suchfracturing in identity is, however,minimal in the first chapter,and for the most part Levi is sharingtraditional family storiesthat havebeen passeddown throughthe generations,and so prioritising the familial closenesswhich characterisesthis chapter.Members of the family are introducedanecdotally, and often comically. Amongstothers, his GrandmotherFina is rememberedas once having fed an eruditerabbi a pork cutlet without his knowing, as shehad no other food to offer. His great-grandfather,Grandpa Leonin, is rememberedfor his eccentric exclamations,including the inexplicablecurse: "'Cai takeissa 'na medameshdna faita a paraqua' ('May he havean accidentshaped like an umbrella')" (13). As Myriam Anissimov points out in her biographyof Levi, it is incidental"whether all the anecdoteswere completelyreliable, they belongedto the saga,to the way the family saw itself' (17). It is the senseof a preservedand treasuredcontinuity that binds the family togetherthat is of significancehere.

Levi the protagonistis not introduceduntil the end of the chapter,and his arrival is heraldedby the voice of his father,thereby further cementinghis relationshipwith his family. His father,Cesare, proudly declaresto Levi's grandmotherthat "He's at the headof his class!" (PeriodicTable 19). In this simple announcement,Patruno reads a further affirmation of Levi's Jewishidentity:

' This episodeis not narratedin If This is a Man. Levi is carefulnot to repeatmaterial between the two books,and twice in "Cerium" he haltshis narrationwith the explanationthat what wasto follow has beennarrated elsewhere.

33 Implicit in this statementis the expectationthat Levi must fulfil a fwnilial promiseto carry on the educationaland intellectual tradition of his predecessors.This is an establishedand significant aspiration for the Jews,who for centurieshave been continuously rejected and ejectedand, both symbolically and in fact, have neverbeen given an opportunityto put down roots. (59)

The chapterconcludes with Levi's own childhoodmemories of the embarrassmentat being offered a "worm-eaten"chocolate by his grandmother,and so neatly brings the narrativeto the point whereLevi can continuewith his own story, securelysupported in his identity by the family heritagewhich precedeshim. The implicit suggestion earlier in the chapterthat Levi the authorand Levi the narratorare divided is overshadowedby the explicit harmonybetween Levi the narratorand Levi the protagonistat the end of the chapter.This permits an endingto the chapterwhich is in accordancewith Lejeune'sautobiographical pact, therebyseemingly confirming, for Lejeuneat least,the statusof The PeriodicTable as autobiography.

This security of identity, built upon family, and so implicitly upon name, is harshly demolished in If This is a Man. Within the first few pages of his testimony, Levi narrates the trauma of having his name forcibly removed in Auschwitz, and replaced with a prisoner number, 174517. David Patterson comments that:

T'lle numberwas calculatedto obliteratethe namebecause the nameis full of memory- the memoryof a life, the memoryof a tradition in which othersbore the samename, the memory of the responseto the name.Stealing away the name,the numbermurders memory. (165)

In having his nameforcibly removed,Levi lost everythingthat allowed him to recognisehimself as Levi. He becamedislocated from the family he embracedin The PeriodicTable, and his numbercame to representhis new self in the camps.

Levi soonrecognised that the tattooednumbers represent a new genealogyin Auschwitz. As the traditional family storiesin The PeriodicTable told Levi of his history, so in If This is a Man:

to the old handsof the camp,the numberstold everything:the period of entry into the camp,the convoy of which one formed a part, and consequentlythe nationality.Everyone Will treat with respectthe

34 numbersfrom 30,000to 80,000:there are only a few hundredleft and they representedthe few survivals from the Polish ghettos.It is as well to watch out in commercialdealings with a 116,000or a 117,000:they now only numberabout forty, but they representthe Jewsof Salonica, so take carethey do not pull the wool over your eyes.As for the high numbersthey carry an essentiallycomic air aboutthem, like the words 'freshman' or 'conscript' in ordinary life. The typically high numberis a corpulent,docile and stupid fellow. (34)

Levi retainsthe sameconversationally anecdotal style in relating this new camp lineage.Whereas the anecdotesin The Periodic Table operatedto familiarise the readerwith Levi's family, theseanecdotes breed only alienation.It is impossibleto becomecomplicit in Levi's dark mockery of the "high numbers".The reverence accordedto the elderly in ordinary life is horribly distortedinto a respectfor the low numbers,the survivorsof the Polish ghettos.Equally, Levi's comic warinessof the stereotypicallycanny Greeks is overwhelmedby the realisationof the statisticsof forty". As massmurder - "they now only numberabout Wiesel recognisedthat hlight was a pieceof life writing concernedwith writing death,so theseanecdotes are storiesof death,in contrastto the vibrancy of the storiesof life which featureso prominentlyin the openingchapter of The PeriodicTable.

The HolocaustEncyclopedia cites that 405,000prisoners were tattooedin total at Auschwitz,and the processof being tattooedis narratedin many Auschwitz survivor accounts.Miklos Nyisli, a doctor who was forced to work alongsideDr Mengelein his pseudo-scientificexperiments in Auschwitz, writes of his own feeling of loss,of becomingsomeone other than he had alwaysrecognised himself as being: "HenceforthI would be, merely,KZ prisonerNumber A 8450" (30). Patterson interpretsthe experienceof beingtattooed as the defining symbol of fracturedidentity in personalaccounts of the Holocaust.He observesthat:

is [ I [a] The number the oppositeof the name ... usedas weaponto rob the humanbeing of his or her nameand therebyremove any identity that may determinethe who of the humanbeing. (164)

This loss of name,argues Patterson, was particularly damagingto Jewish understandingof self-identity,for "it is, indeed,a part of Jewishtradition that the nameand the soul, the nameand the personare of a piece" (164). Patterson's

35 interpretationof the Jewishtradition of naming is slightly misleadinghere. Rather than a nameasserting identity betweenname, soul and person,tradition calls for patronymicnaming which affirms a continuity betweenindividual Jewsand their ancestorsand confirmstheir commitmentto the covenant.In this context,the theft of nameis symbolicmore of a loss of Jewishidentity rather than human identity. The replacementof the namewith a tattooednumber is a further violation of Jewish identity, for the act of tattooingis forbiddenby God in Leviticus 19.28. By removing the name,the Nazis wereputting into questionthe very notion of being and selfliood in their prisoners.Levi commentsspecifically on the way in which tattooing compromisedhumanity in The Drownedand the Saved:

The operationwas not very painful and lastedno more than a minute but it wastraumatic. Its symbolicmeaning was clear to everyone:this is an indelible mark, you will neverleave here; this is the mark with which slavesare branded and cattle sentto the slaughter,and that is what you havebecome. You no longer have a name;this is your new name.The violenceof the tattoo was gratuitous,an end in itself, pure offence.(95)

By interpreting the tattoo as meaning "you will never leave here," Levi is not merely paraphrasing Dante, in whose writings he seeks solace in If This is a Man but also echoing those survivors who write that their "Holocaust self' has never left them. For instance, Charlotte Delbo writes of her "Auschwitz double," that lives alongside her (Days and Memory 3). For Delbo, and also for Levi, a post-Auschwitz life is unattainable, for the self that was born in the camps lives alongside the individual forever, testifying to Langer's view of the irreconcilable split self in testimonial writing. Levi is also emphasising the dehumanising nature of the tattoo. Without a name, the individual is subsumedinto a mass, like "cattle". The use of the words 46slaves"and "cattle" also points to the view of the victims becoming objectified as property, an ideology confirmed by the frequent Nazi use of the word "Stacke", pieces, to describe the Jews.

Levi powerfully evokesthe experienceof being tattooedin If This is a Man:

I have learritthat I am Haftling. My numberis 174517;we havebeen baptized, the tattoo left die. [ ] we will carry on our arm until we ... And for many days,while the habitsof freedomstill led me to look for

36 the time on my wristwatch,my new nameironically appearedinstead, a numbertattooed in bluish charactersunder the skin. (33)

Levi's responseto this experiencebears witness to the dehumanisingeffect of replacinga given namewith an allotted number.He openshis accountof this experiencewith the bald statement,"I have learnt that I am Haftling". He is not a Miftling; sucha constructionimplies that for Levi, Haftling has becomehis definition 7 ratherthan a descriptionof his status. His new Hqftling identity is confirmedby the new namewith which he is "baptized"; 174517.Such a phrasingimplies the birth of a new self, a birth that is both incongruousand paradoxicalwithin the contextof the deathcamp.

This is a significantmoment in If This is a Man, for it is herethat Lejeune's autobiographicalcontract begins to breakdown. The nameof the protagonist, 174517,and the authorialname, Primo Levi, have divided. Sucha fracturing indicatesthat this text is deviatingfrom "autobiography",implying that this book constitutessomething else, something that can be termed"testimonial". The name "Prinio" doesnot return for the protagonistuntil the final chapter,"The Story of Ten Days", when Charles,a fellow prisoner,calls to him "Dis donc,Primo, on est dehors" 'I say,Primo, we're outside' (173). The significanceof the resumptionof the namecannot be underestimated,for it is on this day, the 23rd January 1945 that Levi emergedfrom the hospitalblock, known as Ka-Be, to discoverthat the campwas deserted,that both prisonersand guardshad evacuatedthe site. Although they had not beenofficially liberatedat this point, Levi was in effect a free man, and thereforeable to resumehis name.However, this reunionof namebetween the author's,narrator's and protagonist'svoice cannotbe viewed as a return to the autobiographicalcontract. The tattooednumber is inscribedon the body "until we die"; post-Auschwitz, therefore,his name"Prinio" will alwaysbe shadowedby the indelible numberson his arm, denyingcontinuity betweenpre-war and post-waridentity.

7 This lack of an indefinitearticle couldbe a quirk of translation.In both Germanand Levi's native Italian, this word would not requirean indefinitearticle in this contextas it doesin English.However, the fact that it is precededby an indefinitearticle at otherpoints in the translationsuggests that its absencehere is of significance.

37 Tbroughoutthe text, thereseems to be a deliberateplan to refer to fellow prisonersby their name,and we are introducedto Steinlauf,Elias, and Alberto amongstothers. Such an effort is testamentto Levi's refusalto comply with the Nazi processof dehumanisationthrough narrative style. If This is a Man is primarily the story of peoplein the camps,and an attemptto understandwhat happenedto humanityunder such conditions. The retentionof namesis, then, not simply a sign of Levi's familiarity with his co-prisoners,but also part of an actively philosophical statement.The significantexception to this rule is Null-Achtzehn, a Muselmann.8 Unnamedand unknown,Null Achtzehnis presentednot as a prisonerbut as a figural representationof dehumanisation.Levi writes that it "is as if everyonewas awarethat only a man is worthy of a name,and that Null Achtzehnis no longer a man" (48). This episodein the text servesto reinforcethe relationshipbetween naming and identity; the loss of Null Achtzehn'sname is to be recognisedas the loss of his humanity,of his identity.

The breakdownof the relationshipbetween naming and identity is also centralto Wiesel'sN ight. Wieselwas deportedto Auschwitz in 1944along with the rest of his family. He was separatedfrom his mother and sisterson arrival, but managedto staywith his fatherthroughout their internmentin the camp.Whilst Wiesel doesnot focuson the processof being tattooedto the sameextent as Levi, he also clearly presentsthe way in which the loss of the namecompromises individuality. He recordsthe experiencesimply in one line: "I becameA-7713. After that I had no name" (54). It is, though,the following episodethat betterillustrates the consequencesof this loss.During roll call, a prisonercalls out "Which of you is Wiesel from Sighet?" Wiesel's father replies"I'm Wiesel of Sighet." Wiesel's father and the man who called out studyeach other in incomprehensionfor sometime beforethe man speaksout: "You don't recogniseme - you don't recogniseme. I'm a relative of yours. Stein.Have you forgottenme already?Stein! Stein of Antwerp. Reizel's husband.Your wife was Reizel's aunt" (54). That Wiesel's father was unableto recogniseStein is perhapsnot unsurprising;not only was Stein a fairly distantrelative, but the processof shavinginmates' heads, and clothing their

' Thiswas the term used to describethose prisoners who were near death who, as a resultof the brutalityof camplife, were physically and mentally unable to holdon to life.The word literally means "Muslia'andwhilst the reason as to whythis word was used remains unknown, it has been suggested thatthe stance of themuselmann was similar to thatof a devoutMuslim at prayer.

38 weakenedbodies in identical uniforms had the effect of making all look alike. Yet Stein,desperate to be recognised,clings to his nameas the one featurethat would distinguishhim from all others. However,the identifying power of individuals namesis destroyedin this context,for in the camp"Stein" has ceasedto exist, and hasbeen replaced by a number.The genealogywhich he eagerlyrecounts is now false,unrelated to his new, numberedself. The possibility of knowing and identifying the self throughname becomes an impossibility.

ThroughoutN jght, namingis centralto Wiesel's portrayal of the divided self. Wiesel's testimonyemphasises the division of the self throughoutby the adoptionof era-specificnames. Wiesel the adolescentwho enduredthe campsis namedEliezer, whereasWiesel the narratorial/authorialsurvivor writing Njg_ ht is namedElie. 9 For Colin Davies,these must-be read as a unified figure. He termsNight a "tdmoignage" 'testimony', and claimsthat:

for its impact,the text requiresour belief in the literal truth of the facts that are described.In consequence,we shouldidentify the Eliezer who narratesLa Nuit with the Elie given on the title pageas the authorof [ ] If do the identification Eliezer Elie, the text. ... we not accept of with then the direct link betweenthe text and historical reality will be broken.Moreover, the moral urgencyof the text dependsupon our acceptanceof it as truthful; without that claim to truthfulnessthe ethicalunderpinning of the t6moignagewould be lost; it would becomefiction, a novel ratherthan a historical document.(32)

In making such an assertion, Davis is reconfirming that textual authenticity is reliant on identity between author, narrator and protagonist. The historical truth of the text is reliant on the reader's acceptanceof the autobiographical contract. The adoption of different names functions, for Davis, as a literary conceit rather than as evidence of a dualised self.

Both Elie and Eliezer appearin Night as seeminglydifferent characters,with Elie inteýectingparenthetically to commenton Eliezer's experiences.For example,

9 It is worth noting that JosephSungolowsky contests the significanceof this discrepancy,noting that in the original Yiddish edition of h!ight, both authorand protagonist are called 'Eliezer'. However,the decisionto change'Eliezer' to 'Elie' in the morewidely readEnglish edition cannotbe ignored,and to me suggeststhe importanceWiesel attributes to the dissociationbetween the campself and the post- war self.

39 the accountin the text of the imposition of the Nuremberglaws in Wiesel's small town in Transylvaniarecords Wiesel's father poignantly commenting:"The yellow it? You don't die it Elie the deposesthe star?Oh well, what of of ...... narrator position of Eliezer the adolescent,replacing any words the son may have spokento his father at the time with hindsight,commenting: "(Poor Father! Of what then did you die?)" (21). Significantly,these retrospective comments on the father's naivety in the face of oncomingcatastrophe are absentin his autobiographicalaccount, All Rivers Run to the Sea.Indeed, the narratorialvoice in All Rivers Run to the Seais contemporaneous with his father's in Nigh-1, commenting"The yellow star?That scarcelybothered me" (61). In the sametext, he writes againof his father's initial disregardfor the dangers of the growing anti-Semitism: "Never mind, my father said, it will pass.Everything passes,even the thirst for Jewishblood" (57). His father's (mis)understandingof the situationhere is not correctedby a narratorialvoice.

This is not to suggestthat retrospectivecommentary is exclusiveto Wiesel's testimonialwriting. Indeed,in relating his mother's responseto the Warsawghetto uprising in All Rivers Run to the Sea,he adoptsa very similar style:

"Why did our young Jewsdo that?" shemused. "Why couldn't they havejust waited calmly for the war to end?" That was the word she used- calmly. My poor mother.(38-39)

Retrospectivecommentary is, then, a featurein both his testimonyand his autobiography,but it is only in his testimonythat this narratorialvoice interactsas a characterby actuallyresponding to his father.The participatorynature of this intedectingvoice emphasisesduality in testimony,and prioritises the senseof the split self to a far greaterextent than in autobiographicalwriting.

The distinctionbetween the narrated,experiential self and the narrator becomesfurther exaggeratedby the conclusionof Night:

Oneday I was ableto get up, after gatheringall my strength.I wanted to seemyself in the mirror hangingon the oppositewall. I had not seenmyself sincethe ghetto.

40 From the depthsof the mirror, a corpsegazed back at me. The look in his eyes,as they staredinto mine, hasnever left me. (126)

This passageevokes a senseof the uncanny in the form of the living corpse that gazes back from the mirror. It is the corpse of the experiential self that can never be fully laid to rest, and returns as an animate object to haunt the narratorial self, resulting in a permanent doubling of the traumatised self. In The Uncanny Freud refers to the figure of the double as the "uncanny harbinger of death" (142). In Wiesel's construction of the dualised self, however, the double is less a portent of death, and more a symbol of the inability to escapefrom trauma. Robert Jay Lifton comments on the widespread phenomenon of the senseof a split self in survivors of trauma:

Extreme [ ] in traumacreates a secondself. ... extremetrauma, one's senseof self is radically altered.And thereis a traurnatisedself that is created.Of course,its not a totally new self, it's what one broughtinto the traumaas affectedsignificantly andpainfully, confusedly,but in a very primal way, by that trauma.And recoveryfrom post-traumatic effects,or from survivor conflicts cannotreally occur until that traumaticself is reintegrated.It's a form of doubling in the traurnatised person.(qtd. in Caruth,Interview 137)

Much of Lifton's previousresearch into the phenomenonof doubling focussedon the perpetrators,most notably in his book The Nazi Doctorswhich soughtto use doublingas an explanationas to how educatedpeople could perform actsof barbarity in the nameof medicinein the camps.However, Lifton recogniseshere that the survivor of traumacan also be subjectedto a senseof duality, which can be reconciledonly throughrecovery from the trauma.Wiesel's later works, however, testify to the impossibility of recovery.He returnsto the imageof the reflected doublein his fictional novel Dawn. Despitethe fictional natureof this book, thereis, Colin Davis argues,identification between the authorWiesel and the young protagonistElisha, and seemsto representa fictional progressionfrom Night. The action in Dawn takesplace over one night in a housein Palestine,during which Elisha contemplatesthe executionthat he must perform at dawn.His victim is John Dawson,a British officer who hasbeen taken hostage and is to be executedin retaliationfor the executionof David, a young Israeli, by the British. Elisha,a Holocaustsurvivor, is visited throughoutthe night by the ghostsof the deadwho

'JIVIýERSITY 41 haunthis thoughts.The figure of a beggarreveals a secretto Elisha which invokesthe uncannyspectre that hauntsWiesel at the end of Night:

"I'm teachingyou the art of distinguishingbetween day and night. Always look at a window and failing that look into the eyesof a man. If you seea face,any face,then you can be surethat night has succeededday. For, believeme, night has a face." (Dawn 126)

The doubleis manifestedas night in the beggar'stale, night that is the symbol of the Holocaust,of death,Wiesel's Kingdom of Night. The presenceof night as it succeeds day is the presenceof the living corpse,the symbol of the impossibility of Lifton's "recovery" from the traumaof the Holocaust.The novel endswith an echoof Night's concludingpassage, serving to ftirther blur the definition of Dawn as purely fictional:

[Elisha] [ ] 'I'lie lifted, leaving behind it I went to the window. ... night a greyishlight the color of stagnantwater. Soonthere was only a tattered fragmentof darknesshanging in midair, the other side of the window. Fearcaught my throat.The tatteredfragments of darkness had a face.Looking at it, I understoodthe reasonfor my fear. The face was my own. (204)

The fear that Elisha feels is the uncannyfear of the recognitionof the double.Here, the face canbe recognisedin a way that is impossiblefor Wiesel at the end of Night. The unrecognisableliving corpseof Night is recognisedin Dawn as the self. It is the awarenessof the Holocaustexperiential self that lives parallel to the survivor self. This recognitionof the dualisedself is testified to by many Holocaustsurvivors. Survivor IreneW. similarly tries to explain this hauntingpresence as:

a sort of division, a sort of schizophrenic division, you know, a compartmentalisation of what happened,and it's kept tightly separated,and yet as I said, it isn't. There is this past of daily living that one has to attend to and adhere to, and family and children and everyday needs and work and so on, and that must not interfere, the other must not become so overwhelming that it will make normal life unable to function. Yet it's always there. (qtd. in Langer, Holocaust Testimonies 59)

The "other" to which Irene W. refersto is an other that refusesto remain so. It cannot be "compartmentalised"and kept separate.The doubleis manifestednot as an other, but as part of the self

42 Wieselreturned to this senseof duality in his 1986Nobel PeacePrize acceptancespeech:

I remember: it happenedyesterday, or eternities ago. A young Jewish boy discovered the Kingdom of Night. I remember his bewilderment, I remember his anguish. It all happened so fast. The ghetto. The deportation. The sealed cattle car. The fiery altar upon which the history of our people and the future of mankind were meant to be sacrificed. I remember he asked his father: "Can this be true? This is the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages. Who would allow such crimes to be committed? How could the world remain silent?" And now the boy is turning to me. "Tell me," he asks, "what have you done with my future, what have you done with your life? " And I tell him that I have tried. That I have tried to keep memory alive, that I have tried to fight those who would forget. Because if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices. And then I explain to him how nSfve we were, that the world did know and remained silent. And that is why I swore never to be silent whenever wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation.

The demarcationbetween man and boy, betweenpast and presentself is emphasised throughthe conceitof a conversationbetween Wiesel's experientialself and his survivor self. Wiesel's Holocaustself is literally constructedas another,referred to throughoutonly as"him", or evenmore impersonally,as "the boy". The adult Wiesel seemsto exist only as a responseto the child Wiesel, emphasisedby "the boy .. s reproachfulquestioning: "what haveyou donewith my future, what haveyou done with your life?" Wiesel's detachmentfrom his past seemscomplete with the suggestionthat his father is relatedonly to his pastHolocaust self- "the boy" asks "his father". The survivor Wiesel seemsunrelated to this man, the father/son relationshipbelongs to the past.Yet the conceptof the pasttoo is distorted,with the eventsof Wiesel's Holocausthappening both "yesterday"and "eternitiesago". He echoesthis sentimentin All Rivers Run to The Sea,writing that "ElsewhereI have told of what happenednext - or ratherI havetried to tell it. But it feels like yesterday. It feels like now" (76).

The Holocaustis representedas an eventthat can neverbe over. Robert Eaglestoneargues that "the impossibility of closureis simply a fact of life for the

43 survivors" (134), a perspective he supports by referencing the number of survivors who return to their experiencesagain and again in successivetestimonial and fictional narratives. This impossibility of understanding the Holocaust as a past event and resultant senseof incompletenesssurrounding the catastrophe disturbs the chronology of testimonial narratives. Such a disruption in the temporal order feeds into the complexities of representingthe self in Holocaust testimonies, as the linear progression through life is disrupted, and the sub ect of the testimonial narrative fails to be recognised by the narrating self.

"An Event Without Witness": Testifying and Witnessing

For GeorgeWidice, the seconddefining featureof a testimonyis that it must be written by a witness. The Holocaust, however, by its very extremity complicates the process of witnessing. Dori Laub regards the Holocaust as an event without a witness, a criterion which he judges to be central to the claim of uniqueness. "A witness," claims Laub, "is a witness to the truth of what happens during an event" (Felman and Laub 8 1). However, he claims that it is "inconceivable" that any individual would have been capable of perceiving this "truth". The extremity of the experience means that no

historical insider could remove herself sufficiently from the contaminating power of the event so as to remain a fully lucid, [ ] No is unaffected witness ... observer could remain untainted, that to maintain an integrity -a wholeness and a separateness- that could keep itself uncompromised, unharmed, by his or her very witnessing. (81)

The impartiality of the witnesswhich enablesthe perceptionof the truth of the event is madeimpossible, since there is no "unviolated,unencumbered, and thus sane,point of referencein the witness"(8 1). Evidently, it is the casethat for every eventthe act of witnessingcannot be completelyobjective; for Laub however,the extremity of the Holocaustexacerbates the impossibility of objectivity. Paradoxically,then, the experienceof being presentand thereforecapable of being a witnessis exactly what preventsthe possibility of witnessing.

44 Laub's understandingof "witnessing" is basedon the idea of historical witnessing,that the witnessmust recountthe historical truth of an event.This form of witnessingbelongs, however, to historical discourse,rather than testimonial discourse.For PaulVeyne, "history is simply an accountof the past, all elseflows from that" (19). Veyne's configurationof "history" is concomitantwith Laub's understandingof witnessing,in that it is the "relating of true events" (11). Felman points out that whilst on initial observation"the essenceof the testimonyis historical, and that its function is to recordevents and to report the facts of a historical [ ] historical for occurrence, ... the eventfails to exhaustivelyaccount the natureof the testimony" (Felmanand Laub 8). This is not to contestthe significanceof history, of the event,in testimonialwritings but ratherto point out that the historical eventalone doesnot shapethe literary form of the testimony.Yfidice's third defining featureof testimonyis that it is directly spawnedfrom a specific historical event;indeed, it is this very historical specificity which complicatesany simple comparisonof testimoniesemergent from the Holocaustand the atomic bombings.The focus on a specific eventhas been noted as a featurewhich distinguishestestimonial writing from conventionalautobiographical writing. In his analysisof Holocaust autobiography,Joseph Sungolowsky states that:

While autobiographymay chooseto embracea greateror smallerpart of one's life, Holocaustautobiography will essentiallydeal with the period markedby the eventsof the Nazi genocide.Just as any autobiographyrelated to a troubledhistorical period acquiresan added significance,so doesHolocaust autobiography exert a unique fascinationupon the readerbecause of its centralmotive. (137)

Although Sungolowsky choosesto use the term "autobiography- to define the genre he is discussing, it is clear that he seesa significant distinction between autobiography concerning accounts of the Holocaust and other forms of autobiography. This differentiation can be recognised as one of the features that marks the testimonial genre as separatefrom other forms of life-writing, suggesting that texts which he labels "Holocaust autobiographies" could be more accurately termed "testimonies". For Sungolowsky, the authorial decision to focus on a distinct aspect of the past life is a crucial and defining feature of the testimonial genre. Autobiography, he argues, is a tale of a life; testimony by contrast is the narration of a specific event in a life, be it the Holocaust or any "troubled historical period. " For

45 Sungolwoskyand Yfidice, testimonialwriting can be identified through its focus on the event.

However,as Felmanacknowledges, this focussingon the historical eventdoes not fully revealthe natureof testimony.There is disparity, it would seem,between witnessingand testimony, a distinction clarified by Michael Bernard-Donalsand RichardGlejzer. Witnessing, they argue,is the "moment of seeingin which the is [ ] him " witness confrontedwith the ... eventrenders speechlessand terrified, whereastestimony is the "witness's obedienceto the compulsionto speak,though is [ ] by if' what the witnesssays neithera reflection of the event ... nor unaffected (xii). As codified here,testimony is not simply the narrationof an event,but rathera narrativerepresentation of the witnessingof an event.According to Bernard-Donals and Glejzer's formulationof testimony,it is not focussedon the eventin the simplistic way suggestedby Sungolowskyand Yfidice. Rather,the eventhaunts the narrativerepresentation of the self at a particularpoint in history, making testimonya narrativecomposite of an accountof the eventitself, and an accountof the eventas it is Perceivedby the witness.

Sucha perspectivereinforces the centrality of the representationof the self and the experiencesof the self when comparingautobiographical and testimonial narratives.In reviewing Wiesel'sNight and All Rivers Run to the Sea,it becomes clear that eachaccount renders somewhat different versionsof his Holocaust experiences.In eachbook, the experiencesof the experientialself, or protagonist,are relateddifferently by the narratorialself. The experientialself is namedEliezer in both texts. Significantly, in All Rivers Run to the Sea,the experientialself is referred to as "Eliezer, son of Shlomo" (21), therebyreinforcing the father/sonbond that is so crucial to the constructionof the experientialself. Eliezer's identity in Night, (and also in the Nobel speech)is boundup with his relationshipwith his father;the experientialself is a son.In All Rivers Run to the Sea,Wiesel returnsto the significanceof the father/sonrelationship, stating, "in the campI had no more childhood.I had only my father,my bestfriend, my only friend" (50). Whilst the narratorialvoice doesaddress the father,Elie is neverso explicitly configuredas a son.The familial bondsare broken, leaving Elie with a different heritageto that of Eliezer.

46 As previouslynoted, Wiesel seesa clear differencebetween his two accounts. In his autobiographicalaccount, All Rivers Run To The Sea,he writes:

My intent hereis not to repeatwhat I recountedin Night, but to review that testimonyas I seeit now. Was I explicit enough?Did I miss what was essential?Did I servememory well? In fact, if I had to do it over, I would changenothing in my deposition.(79)

Not only is this commentsignificant in that it is one of the few occasionson which Wiesel directly refersto Night as a testimony,but his use of the word "deposition99 is also interestingas it reinforcesthe definition of testimonyas a legal document.From his words, it is clearthat Wieselsees All Rivers Run to the Seaas a form of clarifying appendixto Night. Written at a datecloser to the event,Night standsas a narrative representationof his witnessingof the Holocaust:a testimony. All Rivers Run to the Seafunctions as a commentaryon this former representation,situating his autobiographicalnarrative as twice removedfrom the eventitself.

The very structureof the two booksreflects the different representationsof witnessingthat are to be found in Wiesel's autobiographicaland testimonialtexts. Night openswith the return of Moch6the Beadle.Having escapedas the only survivor from a transportof murderedJews, Moche has returnedto wam the remainingJews of Sighetof their impendingfate. His warning is repeatedlyignored until eventuallyhe falls into silence.The figure of Moch6 also appearsat a later stage in All Rivers Run to the Sea,where Wiesel refers to him as "the first survivor," a man who "lived our destinybefore any of us" (60). As suchhe representsan end, a destiny,and his presenceat the beginningof heraldsthe impossibility -Night of simple linear chronologyin the text. It beginswith an end. Mochd servesto invert the Jewish story of exile and return,where the return symbolisesnot the end of exile, but only the beginning.Significantly, however, this was not Wiesel's plannedopening to the book. The original manuscriptbegan with "two pageswhich soughtto describethe premisesand early phasesof the tragedy" (All Rivers 319). At his editor Jdr8me Lindon's suggestion,Wiesel excised these two pagesand openedwith the story of Moch6. Wieselnotes that many survivorsopen their testimoniesin way he had plannedto, "evoking loved onesas well as one's hometownbefore the annihilation,

47 as if breathinglife into them one last time" (319). Suchan affirmation of life at the beginningof the text could be readas contradictingthe publishedtestimony which openswith a confirmationof death.However, this invocation of the presenceof a town and communityat the inceptionof the testimonywould in actuality not offer a significantly different beginningto the narrative.Destroyed in the Holocaust,the descriptionof the town and its communitywould standas a reminderof the presence of an absence,and this is exactlythe function fulfilled by Mochd's story. His presenceserves to makeclear the absenceof the murderedJews on the transporthe escaped.Read with eitherWiesel's plannedopening or with the openingas published, Night thus becomesa cyclical text, wheredeath is presentat both beginningand end, and the very structureof the narrativecomes to representthe inescapabilityof the Holocaust.At the sametime, as a survivor, Mochd representslife, structurallysetting up the motif of doublingwhich dominatesNight.

In contrastto this cyclical structurein the testimony,Wiesel's autobiography strugglesto maintaina conventionallinear chronology.The narratorialvoice outwardly and openlybattles to keepevents in their place.Of his little sisterTzipora (the only one of his threesisters whose fate is madeknown in Night0 he says:"My little sisterwas a blessing.But-no, no buts.Not yet. Everything in its time" (All Rivers 25). He later speaksof his grandfather,"my maternalgrandfather, Reb Dovid lived But let his death.First I (Dodye) Feig, until ... no, us not yet speakof needto see him alive" (41). Throughthe ellipsesthe narratorialvoice censorsitself. The urgency of the intedecting,retrospective parenthetical voice in N-ightis deniedin Wiesel's autobiographyin orderto sustainthe linearity of the narrative.

Whilst the structureof the texts may alter from a cyclical testimonialnarrative to a linear autobiographicalnarrative, so too doesthe focus of the contentdiffer. Wiesel's hometown Sighethaunts his writing: "in all my novels,it servesas [ ] I tell Biblical, Talmudic, Hasidic backgroundand vantagepoint ... evenwhen or tales,it is from my town that they take flight" (AILRI= 32). However,it is somethingof a phantomtown, an imaginal placethat is a site of duality in itself. Transitorycountry borders shift its namerepeatedly from the RomanianSighet to the HungarianMdramarossziget, and Wiesel's representationof the town shifts equally in Njght and All Rivers Run to the Sea.The Sighetof Night is a peacefultown, where

48 Wiesel's fatherowns a shop,and Wiesel is left free (despitehis father's disapproval) to study Kabbalah.Even after the traumaof the expulsionof the foreign Jews,life devote [ ] My father returnedto normality: I continuedto myself to my studies ... was doings [ I My began occupiedwith his businessand the of the community. ... mother to think it was high time to find a suitableyoung man for Hilda" (Night 18). The tranquillity of Sighetwas destroyedonly with the arrival of the occupyingGerman forcesand the swift formationof the two ghettosin 1944.

The Sighet of All Rivers Run to the Sea is painted as a very different place, strewn with hostility and antisemitism. Wiesel writes of violent pogroms, launched d6onthe slightest pretext." "My sisters," he continues, "often didn't go to school. On those days the store was bolted shut [and] at the slightest warning we rushed to the I had idea [ ] We the cellar, though no why ... couldn't rely on police, who not only failed to protect us from these murderers but helped them. We lived in terror" (18). Wiesel fails to date these occurrences,but the ordering of the text places them firmly in the pre-war period. Why is there such a marked difference between the Sighet of testimony and the Sighet of autobiography? Understanding testimony as the narrative representation of the witnessing of an event, and autobiography as the narrative representation of a life is key to interpreting these opposing representations of the town. Night is the story of Wiesel's Holocaust experiences, and to portray Sighet as a peaceful idyll accentuatesthe horror of the Holocaust that follows. The representation of the town can be interpreted as a narrative shorthand to stress the violent rupturing in life brought about by the Holocaust. Autobiography, conversely, need not focus expressly on a specific event, indeed All Rivers Run to the Sea covers Wiesel's post- war experiencesas a displaced person, as a student in Paris and as a writer. The author of an autobiography, then, can be considered to be freer in what he writes, not needing to prioritise any event over another. Yet with Wiesel, it is difficult to maintain such a claim, as his Holocaust experiences are central to his understanding be of his self, and so must be considered to central to any life-writing that he has produced.

Oneof the most significantepisodes to be excludedfrom Nig- ht is the arrest of Wiesel's father. His fatherworked with the undergroundnetwork in Budapestaiding Polish refugees.He arrangedto supplythe refugeeswith foreign currency,having

49 discoveredthat anyonecaught in possessionof suchmonies would be sentdirectly to the counterespionagebureau in Budapest,rather then being deporteddirectly back to Poland.Once in Budapest,other members of the undergroundwould help the refugees.This measure,according to Wiesel, ensuredthe survival of almost all whom Wiesel's fatherhelped. Unfortunately, one refugeewas arrested,and gaveup Shlomo'sname under torture. His father was arrested,and held in prison in Sighet, and then in Debrecenfor severalweeks. He was eventuallyreleased, thanks to the efforts of his undergroundcontacts who bribed various officials, and returnedto his family in Sighet.

This episodehas haunted Wiesel throughout his life, as he revealsin All Rivers Run To The Sea:"I will neverforget my father's arrest,nor the look on his face after his release;all the things he neversaid could be read in his eyes" (3 1). In thesewords, Wieselonce again resurrects the imageof the eyesthat gazeback as a symbol of somethingthat cannotbe escaped.Whilst he writes that his father's unspokenexperiences could be readthrough his eyes,Wiesel cannotescape from the fact that he doesnot know what happenedto his father during his imprisonment. Wiesel's elder sisterBea, a marginalfigure in Nigh collectedtheir father on his release,and it wasto her that he impartedthe secretsof what he endured.These experienceswere, however, to remainhidden always from Wiesel, for his sisterdied without revealingthem to her brotherdespite his pleasfor her to tell him. In All Rivers Run To The Sea,he berateshimself, "I could have askedhim in the camp, wherewe sharedour grief and fear, but I was too shy evento mentionhis imprisonment.I told myself it wasn't the time or the place.I was wrong" (3 1).

The fragmentationof the self as representedin both autobiographicaland testimonialnarratives is the productof the encounterwith trauma.Similarly, testimonialaccounts of the atomicbombings reveal that the experienceof atrocity transformsthe self, denyingthe possibility of identity betweenthe pre-bomband post-bombselves. Indeed, in a post-nuclearworld, it will be argued,the very concept of the self is compromisedto the extentthat it is not only fragmented,but utterly absented.

50 1.3 Anonymous Selves: Representing the Hibakusha Experience

Narratingone's own experienceof surviving the bomb, whetherin speech,in writing or in pictorial forms, is inextricably tied to the constructionof a narrator'ssubjecthood. (Yoneyama 85)

Yoneyamaadds a historical specificity to Anne Lear's perspectivethat the constructionof the self is revealedthrough the act of autobiographicalstorytelling. However,as with Holocausttestimonies, the "I" that is constructedis difficult to locate.John Whitter Treat considersthe identification of a "self' to be rendered nearly impossiblein the contextof the A-bomb. "Atomic-bomb literature," he argues, "asks of us to accepta post-Hiroshimaimperative to useculture, and with its ideologyof the self, to representthe antithesisof culture implicit in our useof total weaponson 'populations' within which the 'self is an irrelevant,anachronistic word" (Writing GroundZero 79). The presenceof the A-bomb must, then, result in the absenceof an individual self. The recognitionof the self is further complicatedby anonymityof testimonialvoices that is frequentlyencountered in collectionsof eye- witnessaccounts. The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days, a collection first publishedin 1989,is characterisedby the absenceof an author's,narrator's or protagonist'sname. In theseanonymous narratives of the atomicbombings, the narrationof experience appearsas detachedfrom an experientialself. This situationis not confinedto this collection of testimonies;of the many survivorsinterviewed in RobertLifton's seminalwork on A-bomb survivors,Death in Life, many are left as anonymous voiceswhose words supportthe psychologicaltheorising of the author.Numerous other collections,such as Hibakusha:Survivors of Hiroshima andNagasaki. Children of Hiroshima,and Hibaku: Recollectionsof A-bomb Survivorsgive the namesof the authors,but no other information.The namesbecome free-floating, attached only to the experienceof the A-bomb, restrictingthe authorsto a single identity, that of the survivor. Whilst consideringthe way in which the absenceof any nameaffects the representationof the self in personalaccounts, the historical contextof testifiers concealingtheir namesmust not be overlooked.Many hibakushafaced discriminationin their post-warlives, encounteringdifficulties in post-war employmentand socialrelations, and so attemptedto hide their A-bomb experiences. ShizueKoga, one of only threein her seven-strongfamily to survive the Nagaski

51 bombing,speaks of her sister'sconcealment of her hibakushaidentity from eventhe closestmembers of her family:

My [ ] haskeloid her sister ... scarson right arm and neverwears short- sleevedclothes, even in summer.She does not want her children to know that sheis an A-bomb survivor, and thereforeshe has never appliedfor her healthallowance even though shewas eligible for it. I finally did the applicationfor her, and shestarted getting it only last year. Sheis still adamantthat her children shouldnot know that she is an A-bomb survivor. (114)

Dehumanisation, Objectification and Hibakusha Identity

The Japaneseterm "hibakusha"10was coinedin direct responseto the droppingof the atomicbomb, and its literal translationreads as "explosion affected person7,or "exposedone". David L. Swainand Eisei Ishikawa,translators of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki: The Physical.Medical, and Social Effects of the Atomic Bombins, a volume compiledby The Committeefor the Compilation of Materials on DamageCaused by the Atomic Bombsin Hiroshima and Nagasaki,translate hibakushasimply as "A-bomb and H-bomb victims" (592). Whilst the literature, from personalnarratives to scientific investigations,almost invariably employsthe term hibakushawhen using Japaneseterminology, Robert Jay Lifton, following extensiveinterviews with survivorsof the atomic bombing,claims that the term "hagalsha", an extantJapanese word meaning"victim' ' or "injured party", is commonlyused alongside hibakusha (Death in Life 13). The term most frequently usedin referenceto thosewho lived throughthe Holocaust,"selzonsha" 'survivor', is almostnever used in the contextof the atomicbombings, and Lifton reportsthat:

I was told that Japaneseavoid seizonshabecause it emphasisesthe ideaof being alive - with the implication that this emphasisis unfair to the lessfortunate people who were killed. (13)"

Pronouncedhi-bak'-sha The problematicsof terminologyrecur with equalfrequency in studieson the Holocaust.Primo Levi in particularreturns to this questionof how to describethose who lived throughthe Holocaust,sharing the concernthat the word "survivoe' is in someway triumphal,and thus dictatesan imageof those who lived as superiorto thosewho perished.This is a themethat he returnsto repeatedly,most significantly in If This is a Man andThe Drownedand the Saved.Such an attitudecomplicates the retitling of the formertext as Survivalin Auschwitzfor the Americanmarket. Interestingly, Lifton pointsout that Americanstend to translatehibakusha as meaning "survivor", a fact that he attributes largelyto "the Americantendency toward 'detoxifying' the experience".Using the word "survivoel hasthe effect of focussingon the living, at the risk of dismissingthe dead,and as suchits usageis

52 The sensitivitysurrounding the namegiven to thosewho lived through the atomic bombingsis not simply a matterof semantics.Firstly, the definition of hibakushais not stable.It is usedto refer to both direct and indirect victims, that is thosewho were actuallycaught in the explosionof the bomb, and thosewho cameinto the cities to give aid afterwards,as well as to thosewho sufferedin utero exposureto the bomb. It is alsoused to describethose born to hibakushaparents years after the event,who sufferedfrom deformitiesand healthcomplications as a result of their parents' exposure.Treat stretchesthe definition evenfurther, claiming that in a world where nuclearstrikes are still possible,"the conceptof the potential hibakushanow hasto extendto everyonealive today" (Writing GroundZero x). Secondly,just as the processof tattooingin Auschwitz impactedupon the individual's recognitionof self, so doesthe attribution of the term hibakushaaffect the self-formulationof thosewho lived throughthe atomicbombings. "Exposure to the atomic bomb," claims Robert Jay Lifton, one of the first scholarsto draw parallelsbetween the experiencesof the Holocaustand the atomicbombings, "changed the survivor's statusas a humanbeing, in his own eyesas well as in others'. He assumedthe identity of the hibakusha" Deathin Life 176).

The defining centralityof being a hibakushain the post-waridentity of those who lived throughthe bomb is starkly revealedin Hong Kai's play, I am a Eibakusha.Hong's intention with the play was to illuminate the plight of the Korean victims of the bomb,whose experiences have been largely marginalisedin the memoryof the event.The following sceneis set in an American hospital in Japan, whereYoungjoo, a young Koreanhibakusha, has goneto seektreatment for "A- bomb disease"after her first child died hoursafter birth due to Youngjoo's exposure to the bomb.Her nSfveexpectation that shewill be curedis shatteredby the angry responseof Shimura,a Japanesehibakusha and self proclaimed"prophet of the atomic age" (134):

Shimura: Now you want to be curedso that you can be normal again.To be a womanjust like any other woman. (morecoughs)

significantin recentdebates on the "detoxification",or domesticationof hoffor, exemplifiedby the ongoingargument that the remembranceof the Holocaustis becoming"Americanised".

53 How dareyou? You are a hibakusha,don't you forget. Oncea hibakusha,always a hibakusha.As you cannot escapebeing a Korean,so you cannotescape being an atomic man. (120)

Hibakushaidentity is showedhere as inescapable,equated with national identity. TO becomea hibakushais to be otheredby the dominantnorm of culture, from which the hibakushais permanentlyexiled. The useof the term "atomic man" is particularly significant,as it suggestsa genderedunderstanding of what it is to be a hibakusha. Japan'spost-war peace movement, largely dominatedby women, employsan essentialistrhetoric which links peacewith femininity, and atomic violence with masculinity.Youngjoo's exposureto the bomb has left her unableto bearchildren, and from an essentialistperspective this hascompromised her femininity; shecan no longerbe a "womanjust like any other woman". Hong's stagedirections allow that the phrasemay be changedto "atomic person"or "atomic woman7,but if this change is instigated,the line must be accompaniedby a "knowing wink" to the audience. This wink functionsto suggestthat the atomic violencehas in somesense defeminisedYoungjoo, and that exposureto the bomb hascompromised her identity as a genderedself

Holocaust testimonies, as previously discussed, often bear witness to the senseof a new self that is bom through the experience of the Holocaust. The phrasing here, "once a hibakusha, always a hibakusha," plays on this senseof the event creating a dualised self. The hibakusha self as representedhere, however, seemsto eliminate the self that came before, the preceding pre-war self overwhelmed by the hibakusha self Matsutani Sumiko, who survived the A-bombing of Nagasaki, testifies to this: "The shock of losing all of my family at once was so great that amnesia erasedall memory of my life up to the day of the atomic bomb" (128). For Matsutani, life began not at her birth, but on August 6 1945. Hayashi Ky6ko, a Hiroshima hibakusha comments that "my life has been one built on August 9th or, to put it another way, on my bomb-victim health booklef'(qtd. in Treat, Writing Ground Zero I 10). In this understanding of "always a hibakusha," a phrase that permanently detachesthe individual from the pre-event self, there can be perceived an echo from one historical context to another, in its reflection of the way in which Levi perceived the replacement of his name with a tattooed number as detaching him

54 from his Italian-Jewish familial ancestry. Youngjoo is identified primarily as a hibakusha, not as a daughter, sister, cousin or. wife, and so emerges from an atomic, rather than familial, heritage.

In his running commentaryon the play, Hong suggeststhat Shimura'sfinal line could be extendedto include the words "an entirely new speciesof being not quite humankind" (120). This sentimentof being other than "human kind" is echoed in the testimonyof an anonymoushibakusha interviewed by Lifton: "perhaps hibakushaare mentally - or both physically and mentally - different from others" (Deathin Life 176).Hibakusha identity is configuredas a dehumanisedother. A 1978international investigation in to the social consequencesof the atomic bombings reportedthat:

the very existence and the dropping of the A-bombs are a social and political phenomenon.The atomic bomb destroyed the total "society". destroyed "home", "workplace", "community" [ ] They and even ... Human beings became dehumanised.(Editorial Committee of JNPC, Findings 69)

Whilst the acknowledgementthat the effect of the atomic bomb was to dehumanise its victims is significant,this report seemsto focus more on the dehumanisationof individuals as a result of their own behaviourin extremis. It continues,"human beings[found] themselvesruled by the instinct for self-preservationand they respond[ed]in ways which indicatea completeloss of moral values" (69). This curiously condemnatoryattitude seems to suggestthat individuals became dehumanisedthrough their own morally dubiousactions. Such ajudgement is at odds with both Hong's representationof the dehumanisedindividual and Lifton's anonymoussurvivor's account,both of which presentdehumanisation as centralto the hibakushaidentity, regardlessof individual behaviour.

Lifton's anonymoussurvivor bearswitness to a physical othernessof the hiakusha.The most potentvisual symbolof this is the keloid, the prominentscar tissueformed on the skin, particularlythe facesand hands,of hibakushawho suffered severbums in the bombings.Lifton refersto thesescars as "A-bomb stigmata7, Deathin Life 183),a curiouslyChristian terminology to apply to the physical

55 appearanceof, for the most part, non-Christian victims. The keloid as a symbol of the physical othering of hibakusha carries echoes of the tattoo as a physical symbol of dehumanisation on the body of the Auschwitz survivor. Such a parallel, however, cannot be drawn without considerable caution. Whilst the effect of tattooing in Auschwitz was to render the individual nameless,paradoxically identifying the prisoner and yet also rendering the individual as unidentiflable from any other, as shown through Wiesel's account of his meeting with Stein in h! ight, the actual process of tattooing was highly personalised. Levi envisions the process as a dialogue between victim and perpetrator: "You no longer have a name; this is your new name" (Drowned and the Saved 95). The dropping of the A-bomb, conversely, was an indiscriminate attack that did not focus on any individual and so precluded the possibility of any such dialogue. The personalisation of the process of tattooing in Auschwitz constituted an integral part of the offence, a part that it necessarily absent for the dehumanisedvictims of the A-bomb. Whilst the keloid as visual symbol of dehumanisation may, then, carry echoesof the Auschwitz tattoo, the historical differences crucially disallow any direct comparison of the two.

The gazethat fell on the visual symbol of dehumanisationserves to objectify the hibakushaas a spectacle.The imageof the hibakushaas an object of the gazeis revealedin the simpleone line testimonygiven by an anonymousfemale survivor of the bombing,recorded in the The Witnessof the ThoseTwo Days project. Shewrites, "Camemflashes make my blood freeze"(Nihon Hidankyo 2: 126).The imageof her blood freezingevokes a senseof the uncannyin her accountas it brings togetherthe animatein the form of her blood, a symbolof life, and the inanimate,the blood as stilled and frozen.The suddenbrightness of the flash of the camerarevives the fear this womanexperienced when shewitnessed the bright flash, orpika, of the atomic explosion.This suddenbright flash is an integral part of the visual remembranceof the A-bomb; indeed,many hibakusha refer to the A-bomb as thepikadon, a word which roughly translatedmeans "flash-bang". Utilising the imageof a cameraalso, however,encourages the hibakushato be perceivedas an imagecaught in a photograph.The fear sheexperiences is not only a latent fear of the bomb itself, but alsothe fear of the removalof autonomywhich leavesthe hibakushaas an object of the gaze.

56 The creationof the Atomic Bomb CasualtyCommission (ABCC) in the immediatepost-war period of occupationwas resentedby many hibakushaas institutionalisingthe gazewhich soughtto objectify the victims of the A-bomb. The ABCC was conceivedof as ajoint venturebetween American and Japanesescientists and physiciansto look at the after-effectsof the atomic bomb on the survivors.In practice,this attemptat coalition was fraught with tensions.M. SusanLindee refers to the ventureas an exampleof "colonial science"(20), a phrasingwhich confirms a processof racial othering,whereby the hibakushawere perceivedas objectsto be studiedscientifically by the dominantAmerican colonisers.In practice,however, the division between"colonisers" and "colonised",or more appropriately,occupiers and occupied,was more blurred than suchterminology suggests.Japanese physicians and scientistshad alreadybegun studies into the after effectsof the atomic bomb, and their work was vital to the newly arrived Americanteam, none of whom was familiar with Japaneseculture or fluent in the Japaneselanguage. Lindee points to various misunderstandingson the part of the Americanteam that hamperedtheir studies.For example,the studyof the effectsof the A-bomb on infants was confusedby the Americanmisunderstanding of how the Japaneseculture fixed the agesof individuals.In Japan,babies are consideredto be one year old when they are bom, and all the childrenborn in a given yearturn two on the following new year.Thus, a child born a few hoursbefore the turn of the new year would be consideredto be two yearsold accordingto Japanesecalculations, whereas American calculationswould placethe child at lessthan a day old. In addition to this, the inability of the American teamto reador write JapaneseKanji also meantthat they could not recordthe names of their subjectsproperly, as many soundsand meaningscannot be transliteratedinto the romanalphabet, thereby complicating attempts to relocateindividuals for follow- up studies.These factors led to considerabledoubts on the part of the Japaneseteam as to the value of Americaninvolvement in the project. However,this scepticism from the Japanesewas matchedby an equalmistrust of the Japaneseby the Americans.The Americanteam was not convincedthat Japanesescientific ability matchedtheir own, and also doubtedthe capability of the Japaneseto produce objectivedata that was not contaminatedby post-waranti-Americanism. As a result of the needthat the Americanteam had of the Japanesescientists and physicians, Lindeeredefined the term "colonial science"to give it historical specificity to this instance,viewing it as "science,conducted by outsiders,that dependson local

57 knowledge,particularly when that knowledgeis invisible to the colonizers themselves"(20).

Tensionsbetween America and Japanwere heightenedby the controversialno treatmentpolicy operatedby the ABCC, and fuelled the senseof the objectificationof the hibakusha.ABCC policy dictatedthat the victims be studiedonly; any treatment was to be withheld. The first directorof the ABCC, Grant Taylor explainedthe policy, sayingthat "I sympathisewith you, but you are not the only oneswho sufferedeffects of the war. Thereforethere is no causeto renderspecial aid to the victims of Hiroshima7'(qtd. in Lindee 123).The occupyingforces viewed the A- bombvictims as no different to any other victims of the war, and saw no needto offer them any specialtreatment. A finther explanationof the no treatmentpolicy was the expensethat treatingall of the survivorswould incur. However,as early as 1956,a report arguedthat the cost of treatmentwould be only $30,000(a figure Lindee considersto be realistic) and so well within the budgetconstraints of a project that repeatedlyspent over $1,000,000per year (Lindee 132).It was also arguedthat if the ABCC offeredtreatment, the practicesof local Japanesedoctors would be destroyed, and would thereforeimpede the economicredevelopment of Japan.Liflon points out that the Japanesedoctors were actuallyin agreementwith this. Whilst he maintains that "American authoritiesmust bearresponsibility for the ultimate decision," he arguesthat Japanesephysicians were hostile towardsthe ABCC offering treatment, fearingthat it would generatea "professionalcompetition" (Deathin Life 365). However,the underlyingreason for the policy, it hasbeen repeatedly suggested, was politically motivated.To offer treatmentwould be tantamountto a tacit admissionof culpability on the part of the Americans,and was thereforeto be avoidedat all costs.

Lindee, however, suggeststhat the no-treatment policy was not adheredto in practice, and points out that the "staff in Hiroshima interpreted it loosely, provided occasional chemotherapy, and overlooked the actions of individual physicians who chose to ignore the restrictions" (128). Yet regardless of this, the popular perception of the ABCC promoted by the Japanesemedia and acceptedby the majority of the public was that it used the hibakusha as guinea pigs for scientific study. Outlandish rumours emerged, claiming that the A-bomb had been dropped solely to facilitate American military research.Such rumours still had credenceas recently as 1982

58 when a report on the A-bomb published by Nihon Hidankyo (the Japanese Confederation of A-bomb and H-Bomb Sufferers' Organisations) claimed that the bomb was dropped in order to:

do researchand studyon the power of an atomic bomb in preparation for the further useof nuclearweapons in the future. This is why Hiroshimaand Nagasaki were chosenas targetsfor conductingliving body tests.For this reasonthe US kept the damageof the atomic bombinga military secret,and refused to aid the Hibakushain spite of an offer madeby the InternationalRed Cross. The US forcibly took manyHibakusha to military hospitalsin Hiroshimaand Nagasaki, where they took samplesof their blood and cut off affectedparts of their weakeningbodies for pathological research,treating the victims as 'guinea-pigs'.But they gavethem no medicaltreatment. (Hibakusha 17)

Lifton describesthe imageof the hibakushaas guineapigs as being rootedin a resentmentof being "historically victimised on a racial basis" (Deathin Life 362). In this discourse,the hibakushaare doubly objectified,firstly on the basisof race,and secondlyon the basisof beingvictims.

This processof objectificationappears to begin in the momentof death.The overwhelmingcatastrophe brought about by the atomic bomb distortsany understandingof deathas a naturalpart of the life cycle. Lifton explainsthat:

[ ] 'knows death', least knows he die. To only man ... or at that will which we must add: only man could invent grotesquely absurd death. Only man, through his technology, could render the meaningful totally meaningless.(Death in Life 572)

Atomic deathcontradicts the possibility of our knowledgeof death.It is unprecedented,extreme, and unknownand in this contextdeath becomes unrecognisableas a humanexperience. At a 1977symposium held to discussthe damageand the after-effectsof the atomicbomb, MasahuruHamatani delivered a report on a three-phasestudy which exploredthe problemsof hibakusha.Masaharu describedthe way in which objectificationbecame embedded in the attemptto understanddeath caused by the atomicbomb:

59 Many h1bakushaspoke of the extraordinarynature of deathas they had seenit, andthe idea of 'deathof an object' -'the atrociousway of dying' which cannotbe called 'deathof a humanbeing' - the tortures of the A-bomb survivors.(n. pag. )

Throughthe experienceof death,victims were both dehumanisedand objectified,and theseattributes are carriedover to includenot only thosewho died, but all "explosion-affected"people; all hibakusha.Shigeto Fumio, directorof the Red Cross Hospital in Hiroshimatried to explainthe way in which the experienceof the atomic bombunified all thosepresent on that day:

I'm not surehow much peoplecan understandif they haven't experiencedthe atomicbomb. People often say that dying by an atomicbomb is no different from dying by an ordinary bomb. Of course,dying is the samewith either,but in the caseof the ordinary bombsthere was alwaysthe hopethat you would survive.If you suffereda direct hit that wasjust bad luck. But the atomic bomb blastedthe whole of Hiroshimaso everybodysuffered a direct hit. That's a fact. (qtd. in Ogura,Atomic Bomb and Hiroshima71)

Whilst Shigetois not historically accuratein suggestingthat "everybodysuffered a direct hit," he makesthe point in orderto emphasisehis doubtsabout the capacityof thosewho were not thereto understandthe experienceof atrocity, a sentimenthe shareswith many Holocaustsurvivors. For Shigetothen, all thosein the bombed cities shareda uniqueexperience that separatesthem from all otherswho werenot there.From this perspective,the survivorsof the bomb havemore in commonwith thosewho died than the living who did not experiencethe bomb.The deadand the survivorsexperienced equally the traumaof "a direct hit," and hibakushathus becomepartially definedthrough a strongidentification with the dead.It is this aspect of hibakushaidentity that shedslight on Oe Kenzabur6'sdescription of the ABCC hospitalas "a land of the dead"(qtd. in Treat,Writing GroundZero 243). The presenceof hibakushamarked the hospitalas a cemeteryrather than a site of treatmentand recovery. Lifton suggeststhat the bomb precipitated"a widespread sensethat life and deathwere put of phasewith one another,no longerproperly distinguishable"(Death in Life 3 1). Certainly,the boundariesbetween survival and deathseemed to becomefluid, as the after-effectsof radiationmeant that living throughthe bomb did not assuresurvival. Many hibakushatestify to life-long fears that they arenot survivors,but merely waiting to die from the after effectsof the

60 atomic bomb. Ota Y6ko felt an urgent need to complete her testimonial account, Cily of Colpses, swiftly, fearing that she may die any day. In her testimony, Hosaka Sakae,a young nurse working in Hiroshima at the time of the bombing, writes:

The terrible thing aboutradiation is that nobodyknows how or when it will makeits effectsfelt. I haveknown someonewho had virtually no healthproblems in thirty yearsdie suddenlyof leukaemia.Whenever I fall ill, I am afraid that I will neverget well again.(46)

Much of this fear originatedin the fact that the after-effectsof radiation,or A-bomb diseaseas it cameto be popularly known, were not understood.Particularly frighteningwas the fact that many who cameinto the cities only after the explosion sufferedgruesome deaths apparently without cause.Many hibakushaunderstandably becamemorbidly obsessedwith the stateof their health,and were consequently diagnosedwith A-bomb neurosis,a looseterm usedto cover all aspectsof mental healthproblems in survivors,ranging from post-traumaticstress disorder to hypochondria.Lifton arguesthat in fact this fear of A-bomb diseasewas often exaggeratedand misplaced,as medicalevidence does not supportthe widely held belief that all thosewho cameinto contactwith the radiationwould eventuallydie from its effects.Nevertheless, this "deathtaint, " as he hastermed it, and a resulting identificationwith the dead,dominates hibakusha identity.

The taint of death dominates not only the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but also the landscapeitself. Shortly after the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, rumours began to circulate that the city itself would die, that nothing would grow there for seventy years, that the air and water would be contaminated for decadesto come. Again, scientific evidence and the passageof time has proved this not to be the case,but neverthelessfuelled amongst hibakusha an identification not only with death but with the extinction of all forms of life.

This overwhelmingencounter with death,Liflon suggests,leads to a "life- long identificationwith death,dying and with an anonymousgroup of the dead" (Deathin Life 178).The anonymityof deathand suffering is inevitablein a catastropheof this scale.The victims can neverbeen known as individuals; evena rough consensuson the numberof deadhas never been reached, with estimates

61 rangingfrom 63,000to 240,000.Yet thosewho survivedare boundby their identificationwith this "anonymousgroup of the dead" to somehowtestify to their experiences.Ito Takeshi,secretary general of the JapanConfederation of A-and H- Bomb SufferersOrganisation in the 1970s,declared that "to conveyto othersthe meaningof thoseexperiences, we believe,is what thosewho survivedthe conflagrationmust do on behalf of thosewho died" (30). Frequentlyin hibakusha testimony,the experienceof deathand suffering is representedas dehumanisedand anonymous.

Hara Tamiki's Summer Flowers: Crises of Witnessing, Identity and Images of Anonymity

HaraTamiki was born the fifth of twelve children into a wealthy Hiroshima family in 1905.Although his family were prosperousfor the time, his early life was marredby tragedy,losing his father and four siblingsbefore he was nineteenyears old. Hara eventuallyleft Hiroshimain 1924in orderto study literatureat Kei6 University, wherehe developedan interestin left -wing and Communistpolitics. His increasinglyradical political activism led to his arrestin 1931, an experiencethat shookHara greatly,leading him to abandonpolitics all together.His marriageto Nigai Sadaein 1933marked a period in his life when he largely withdrew from the world and focussedon his literary interests,primarily writing poetry. However, following the deathof his motherin 1936,and the untimely deathof Sadaefrom tuberculosisin 1944,Hara decidedto return to his family homein Hiroshimain January1945. It was herethat he was living on August 6 when the bomb was dropped.

Hara's accountof his experienceof the bombings,Summer Flowers can be readnot simply as an eye-witnessaccount of the bombingbut ratheras a testimonyto a crisis of witnessing.The threesections which makeup the full tryptich were publishedindividually in Japaneseliterary journals prior to the publicationof the completetext in February1949. The first two sections,"Summer Flowers" and "From the Ruins," were publishedin Juneand November 1947 respectively in Mita Bungak The third final "Preludeto Annihilation" first in . and section, was published

62 12 January 1949 in Kindai Bunizaku. "Summer Flowers" gives an account of the day of the bombing. "From the Ruins" continues the linear narrative with an account of the days following the attack. "Prelude to Annihilation" then returns the reader to the days preceding the bombing, ending on August 4, two days before the attack. The most widely read Japanesepublication of the full text places the sections in chronological order, placing "Prelude to Annihilation" first, followed by "Summer Flowers" and "From the Ruins". The English translation of the text, however, follows Hara's intentions and places the sections in order of composition, concluding with "Prelude to Annihilation".

The structuringof the sectionscontributes to the senseof a crisis of witnessingthroughout the text. Inverting the chronologicalnarrative of the eventand presentinga non-linearaccount reflects the unendingtrauma of the atomic experience.Neither the experiencenor the narrativeculminates with a senseof resolution,and in being returnedto the beginning,the readeris presentedwith an inescapabletext. This approachalso functionsto destabilisethe testimonialaccount of the bombingitself. Thereis an implicit suggestionthat the precedingtestimony has not fulfilled its purpose,has not told the tale that "Preludeto Annihilation" is leading into. The "Annihilation7 of the title refersnot only to the destructioncaused by the bomb,but also an annihilationof witnessingand representation.

As discussedearlier, Laub recognises in the Holocaust a unique crisis in witnessing, predicated on the impossibility of anyone present being able to bear witness to the truth of the Holocaust. Without any reference to Laub's theory, Kyo Maclear argues for a similar crisis emerging from the experience of the atomic bomb:

These [ ] have The events ... produceda uniquecrisis of witnessing. almostcomplete vaporisation of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki appeared to takeplace in the absenceof any outsidewitnesses. Moreover, those

12In commonwith otherhibakusha authors, Hara facedissues of censorshipwhen he tried to publish his accountof the atomicbomb. Hara had initially hopedto publishall threeof the sectionsin Kindai Bunaaku.However, this journal wassubjected to the OccupationPress Code which bannedany unofficial accountsof the bombing.Mita Bungaku,a universityaffiliated journal with only a small occupationescaped the attentionof the OccupationAuthorities. By 1949,the restrictivepolicy of the PressCode was no longerenforced and it becamepossible for Harato publish"Prelude to Annihilation" in this journal. Seechapter 2 for a more lengthydiscussion of Occupationcensorship andthe silencingof hibakushavoices.

63 who survivedthe atomic bomb experience,those who might have actedas insidewitnesses to the actualoccurrence, were left confoundedby an eventthat had no historical precedent.There was little in the way of prior imagerythat could help lend form to the suddendestruction of an entire city by a single weapon.Even the tragic effects,which includedinvisible radiationdisease, extended beyond bounds [ ] (5-6) the of ... representation.

Whilst both Maclearand Laub claim this crisis of witnessingto be uniqueto either the atomicbombings or the Holocaust,the similarity of their interpretationof this crisis revealsit as a phenomenonwhich actually unifies thosewho seekto represent theseatrocities. The differencein their interpretationof crisis, however,lies in the possibility of the act of witnessing.Laub maintainsthat the act of witnessingwas impossiblefor thosewho experiencedthe Holocaust,as an accountfrom thosewho were insidethe whirlwind cannottestify to the full truth of the event.This then jeopardisesthe possibility of survivor representationof the Holocaust.In contrast, Macleardoes not explicitly deny the act of witnessing,but arguesthat thosewho experiencedthe atomicbombings cannot bear witnessin that they cannotdescribe or accountfor their experiencesof suchan unprecedentedatrocity.

Maclearmakes a distinction betweenoutside witnesses, designated as the perpetrators,and the inside witnesses,the victims. Certainly,the natureof bombing, an impersonalattack taking placemany hundredsof feet abovethe cities, excludes the possibility of the pilots and thoseon the bombingruns as being witnessesto the catastrophewrought on the groundby their actions.The difficulties facedby the Occupyingforces in their attemptto investigatethe aftermathof the bombings,as describedabove, also compromisestheir role as witnessesto the event.The absence of insidewitnesses once again can be seento parallel the crisis in Holocaust witnessing.As it is frequentlysaid with referenceto the Holocaustthat only those who died could be true witnessesto the event,so with the atomicbombings only thosewho perishedcould bearwitness to the totality of the A-bomb experience. Hibakusha,then, can offer only a partial and non-representativeaccount, and for Macleareven this is renderedimpossible by an inability to bearwitness to unprecedentedatrocity.

64 Hara evokes this crisis in witnessing not only the structure of his testimony, but also through his representation of his experiences in Summer Flowers. At the time the bomb was dropped, Hara was in his outside privy, and this building protected him from the immediate impact of the explosion. Apart from an injury to his eye, he was fortunate enough to emerge practically unscathed and after surveying the destruction around him, he almost immediately came to the conclusion that "I must set these things down in writing" (49). Yet this compulsion was clouded with a prescient awarenessthat as an 'inside witness,' he had "virtually no idea of the true state of things brought about by this air raid" (49). In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, Hara is unable to reconcile the scene of destruction around him with reality:

As the situationaround me, thoughstill hazy,began to resolveitself, I soonfelt as if I were standingon a stagethat had beenset for tragedy. I had surelyseen spectacles like this at the movies.(46)

Hara identifiesthe scenebefore him as a theatricaland cinematicenactment of tragedy,a tragedythat he occupiesdoubly as both a participatingactor on the stage, and as a spectatorin an audience.This descriptionpinpoints a momentof crisis in witnessing,in that despitebeing inside the event,he is only ableto describeit using a frameof referencewhich is outsidethe event- as a spectacleat a movie.

This crisis in witnessing suggestsa concomitant crisis in identity. Hara appearsto make a division between the self who experienced the atomic bomb and the self who struggles to bear witness to the experience. In common with other hibakusha, Hara sensesacutely the fracturing of identity wrought by the experience of atomic catastrophe.In "From the Ruins," he announces:"I felt almost like a new person, someoneborn with the atomic thunderclap" (62). The transition into this "new person" is revealed in "Summer Flowers" through Hara's diminishing ability to recognise himself in the aftermath of the bomb. In the secondsimmediately following the explosion as he struggled out of the small building that had saved his life, Hara recounts that "amid the hail of sound, I heard my own voice distinctly" (46). Yet as he stands and gradually surveys the destruction around him, this understanding of the self as a distinct and unified individual is lost as he cries out again only to discover that "my cry soundedin my ear like someoneelse's voice" (46). It is in this failure to

65 recognisethe soundof his own voice that the rupturing of the self becomesapparent. The unrecognisablecry is that of the newbomself, Hara's h1bakushaself.

The soundof voicescomes to act as an identifying motif for Hara's hibakusha self as the other.Treat suggeststhat, "since the bombing,everything [Hara] encounteredseemed radically alien to him, with his pastno longer continuouswith his present,there were no familiar landmarksto guidehim" (Writing GroundZero 151). In the daysfollowing the bomb Hara recallsthat:

Every now and then, normal human voices terrified me. When someoneover at the barn let out a sudden cry, that cry immediately called to mind the wailing voices of those dying on the riverbed. (65)

The voicesof living humanbeings are startlingto Hara's hibakushaself, and as his own unrecognisablecry heraldedthe deathof his pre-bombself, so the voicesin this passageare associatednot with life and survival but with death.

In keeping with his description of the event as a spectacle from a movie, Hara's account presentsthe victims he seesas anonymous objects under his gaze. He recounts his slow progress through the city as he sought a place of relative safety, and describesin painful detail the suffering of others:

As we proceeded up the narrow stone path running along the river, I for the first time defying description [ ] What saw a group of people ... kind Their faces it of people?... were swollen and crumpled and was impossible to tell which were men and which were women; their eyes were narrowed to slits; their lips were festering horribly. Baring their hideously painful arms and legs, they lay on their sides, more dead than alive. (52)

In this description,Hara respondsto the physical injuries of the deadwith a dismemberingof their bodiesin his prose.Their sex indeterminableand their distinct featureshomogenised by horrific injuries, the victims he describeslose their individuality. They "defy descriptiorf'as people,and insteadare describedas dissembledbody parts,dehumanised and inanimatein their appearance.As the narrativeprogresses, the imagesof dehumanisationintensify, culminatingin a

66 passagein which the destructionof humanbodies becomes indistinguishable from the destructionof materialobjects:

This was without doubt a new hell, broughtto passby precision craftsmanship.Here everythinghuman had beenobliterated - for example,the expressionson the facesof the corpseshad beenreplaced by somethingmodel-like, automaton-like.The limbs had a sort of bewitchingrhythm, as if rigor mortis had frozen them evenas they thrashedabout in agony.With the electric wiresjumbled and fallen, andthe countlesssplinters and fragments,one senseda spasticdesign amid the nothingness.(58)

Evoking impressions of the uncanny, the figures are caught in a "bewitching rhythm" that is characterisedby stillness rather than movement. Accompanying this is a paradoxical senseof order and coherencein the chaos, the precision of the aerial attack matched by a curious design and pattern in the destruction.

Yet thesedescriptions of dehumanisedindividuals shouldnot characterise Hara as a detachedobserver of anonymousdeath without empathy.Indeed, in his poetry Hara soughtto revitalisethe victims, and reinstatethe condition of humanity in the hideouslydisfigured corpses. Echoing Levi's attemptto restorehumanity to objectifiedindividuals in his post-Holocaustarticulation of the Shema,Hara's poetic collectionAtomic Bomb Landscapespublished in 1950opens with a poementitled "This is a humanbeing":

This is a humanbeing Pleasenote what changeshave been affected by the atomicbomb. The body is grotesquelybloated, Male and femalecharacteristics are indistinguishable. Oh that black, seared,smashed and Festeringface, from whoseswollen lips oozesa voice. "Help me" In faint quiet words. This is a humanbeing. The face of a humanbeing. (qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 168)

Within this poem,the imagesof dehumanisedsuffering, familiar from Summer Flowers areutilised onceagain to greateffect. The humanbody is presentedagain as brokendown into disfiguredbody parts,lending an ironic senseto the openingline "this is a humanbeing. " The shift from dehumanisedanonymity to individual human

67 sufferingoccurs with the introductionof the voice in line seven.Whereas in Summer Flowersthe voice is associatedwith deathand is unrecognisableas a humancry to Hara,in this poemit is the presenceof the voice that determinesthat "this is a human being."

"The Witness of Those Two Days" Project

In 1985, as part of the 40'h anniversary commemorations of the atomic bombings,Nihon Hidankyo conducteda surveyof some13,000 hibakusha. Each was questionedon their experiences,and accordingto their responses,1,000 were selected for printing in an initial two-volumeproject, The Witnessof ThoseTwo Dus: Hiroshimaand Nagasaki, August 6 and 9 1945 publishedin 1989.However, the overwhelmingresponse from hibakushaled Nihon Hidankyoto extendits publication plansto encompassa further two volume work, The Deathsof Hibakusha:The Days of the Bombingsto the End of 1945,which followed in 1991.

In his forewordto The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days, Oe Kenzabur6,the celebratedauthor of HiroshimaNotes, wrote that "this witnessof the survivorsis indeedtheir own" (Nihon Hidankyo, 1: vii). Oe's descriptionof the volume is, however,misleadingly simplistic. The anonymityof the accountscomplicates the provenanceof thesetestimonies. The self who "owns" the witnessingis unknown. Insteadof namingthe contributorsto The Witnessof thoseTwo Dqys,the editors haveattributed identifying numbersto them. Eachentry is headedwith the nameof the city, eitherHiroshima or Nagasaki,followed by the distanceof the survivor from the epicentre,their gender,their ageat the time of the attack,and their identifying number.For example,the aforementionedsurvivor who spokeof her fear of camera flashesis labelledsimply "Hiroshima, female,3 km, 22,13-32-037." Attributing numbersrather than namesto the individual contributorsin thesevolumes encourages complicity with the perpetrator'srhetoric of dehumanisation,which recognisedthe victims only as massstatistics rather than individuals. In The Politics of Memory, Raul Hilberg notesthat the individuality or otherwiseof the victims is dependenton the perspectiveof the narrative,commenting that "the victims do not havemuch individuality in [perpetrator]documents" (32). Speakingexplicitly of the representationof Jewsin Germandocumentation of the Holocaust,he notesthat

68 "they are coalescedinto categories:foreign Jews,Jewish labourers, Jewish children; or into numbers:20,105 Jews, 363,211 Jews, 1,274,000 Jews" (32). This processof categorisation,although derived from very different historical circumstances,can also be seenat work in the way in which the victims of the A-bomb are represented.A British report for the Home Office written in 1946refers to 32,959dead in Hiroshima,9,451 missing. The statisticsare broken down further; 95% of those within a quartermile radiusof the blast centrewere killed, within a half mile radius, 85% werekilled, within a threequarter mile radius,58% were killed, within a mile radius,35% were killed (GreatBritain Home Office 18).The experiencesof individual hibakushaare subsumedinto a generalisednotation of death.

Curiously,The ProjectOf ThoseTwo Days echoesthe methodof recording thesestatistics in the way in which the testimoniesare organisedin the collection. Thosewithin a one kilometre rangeof the blast centreare listed first, followed by thosewithin a two to threekilometre radius,and then thosewho were outsideof the threekilometre radius. The testimoniesof thosewho enteredthe cities after the bomb to offer aid to the victims completethe volume.As their proximity to the bomb affectedtheir actualexperience of the event,so doesit affect the positioningof their testimoniesin the volume.The deliberateordering of the responsesin this way imposesa falsehomogeneity on the testimonies,suggesting that all thosein a specific spatialarea shared the sameexperience of the A-bomb, when this wasnot the case. For in his BarefootGen: The DqYAfte example, autobiographicalgraphic novel , NakazawaKeiji recountsthat a womanstanding directly in front of him was killed by the force of the explosionwhilst he escapedunscathed, protected from the main force of the blast by his proximity to a wall. Similarly in SummerFlowers Hara explains that I too had survivedonly by chance.The young man on the secondfloor next door had beenkilled instantly,and he was only the width of a single fencefrom whereI was" (63). The orderingof the accountsin The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days alsoplaces an emphasison the actualexplosion, rather than the individual's experienceof witnessingthe explosion,thereby accenting the historical event,rather than the individual experienceof the event.Taking both Felman's and Bernard- Donalsand Glejzer's interpretationof testimonybeing more thanjust an accountof history, this structuringof the volumesjeopardises the testimonialstatus of the accounts.

69 By anonymising the accounts and structuring the collection in this way, The Witness of Those Two Dgys seemsto conceal, rather than reveal, the experiencesof the self. A female survivor makes a tacit protest against this focus on the historical event, writing: "For me it is not just a historical fact, it is something that happenedto me only a little while ago" (Nihon Hidankyo 1: 107). A male survivor, 28 years old at the time of the bombing concludes his brief testimony with the words: I don't want to write any further. I would rather keep it to myself' (1: 48). This suggeststhat the account he has given is rudimentary at best, and that the narratorial self has censored the experiential self.

Not only is the experiential self censoredto a large extent in this collection, but so too is the autonomous narratorial self. The responseswere garnered through a restrictive and stringent questioning process. This collection representsa form of controlled testimony, the voice of the hibakusha filtered through the very specific questioning of the anonymous compilers. The explanatory notes that preface the first volume of The Witness of Those Two Dqys reveal that the statementswere given in responseto the following question:

Do you haveanything unforgettable, terrifying or regrettablein your memoryabout your experienceson the day when the atomicbomb was droppedand immediatelyafter? If you have,what was it? Please describewhat happened,what were the circumstancesand what you felt. (1: viii)

Thereis an oddly neutral styling in this question.Implicit in the phrasingis the suggestionthat aspectsof the A-bomb experiencewere forgettable,mundane even, a perspectivewhich is underminedby the contentof the following statements.The contributinghibakusha were askedto relatetheir experiences"in keepingwith the following guidelines"(1: viii). The guidelinesoffered are put in placeseemingly to aid the witnesseswith structuringtheir responses,requesting that they record:

A: How peopledied or were dying. What the victims suffered. B: What you felt witnessingit. C: If you could not do anythingfor thosecrying for help or water, what regretsdo you feel? (1: viii)

70 Such a specific line of questioning seemsto align the following accounts with legal testimony, where a specific answer is required. Certainly it is not a method favoured by interviewers searching for a personal responseto catastrophe.Lifton statesthat when interviewing hibakusha for his book Death in Life he was keen to encourage 66spontaneousexpression of thoughts and feelings of any kind" (16). The methodology underlying The Witness of the Those Two Days eliminates any such possibilities. Indeed, one contributor actually felt the need to apologise for not conforming to the structure advocated by the compilers, beginning her account with the words, "I am sorry but I want to answer in the form of 'tanka'[a poem comprised of 31 syllables]" (2: 59). A review of the total number of accounts in the first volume of The Witness of Those Two Days reveals that 55 out of the 498 narratives are structured in the forrn of lettered bullet points, directly corresponding to the forinat requestedby the compilers. Following these fairly rigid guidelines leads to the creation of a very constrained text; what is written is less what the hibakusha feels compelled to bear witness to and more simply an account of what the compilers want to hear. A male contributor, numbered 34-2623, testifies to this senseof restraint, concluding his brief testimony with the words, "that's all I can say on this limited piece of paper, though many more things come to my mind intermittently. I'd like to write much more on another occasion'' (2: 17). His anonymity in this collection meansthat it can never be known whether he did record the "many more things" that he recalls.

A female survivor, numbered 13-19-025, further testifies to the narrative restraints that such a form of questioning imposes. Seventeenyears old at the time of the bombing, she was 1.5km away from the epicentre. She begins her testimony:

I am hesitatingwhether to write in this spaceor not, to the last extremity.Though I havefinished other spaces,I don't feel like writing. If I were ableto write this pagesmoothly, I could haveeasily written like a memorandumof 5 or 6 piecesof manuscriptduring the past40 years. I feel sorry for leaving this spaceblank as it is the widest one. So I will try to write somethingfollowing the examplesof A to C. (2: 56)

Shethen proceedsto list her experiencesin accordancewith the requirements.This introduction,however, bears witness to the indescribabilityof what shewitnessed. To

71 suggestthat if shewas able "write this pagesmoothly" shewould havealready done so bringsto the fore the unavailability of words to describeher experiences.In commonwith the contributorwho respondedin tanka,this hibakushagives an apologyfor the difficulties shefaces in trying to narrateher experiences.She is unableto respondpersonally to the event,and can bearwitness only in a proscribed fonnat. The narrationof her experiencesis, then, governedby the questionsof the compilers.As this is a universalfonnat recommendedto all contributors,this potentiallyjeopardises the uniquenesswhich is expectedin the narrationof the experiencesof an individual self. It could be the casethat the absenceof such guidelineswould haveresulted in a very different account;conversely it could be that, as sheimplies, the absenceof thesequestions would haveresulted in an absence of any testimonyat all. Again, the anonymityof this contributormeans that any attemptto analysehow shemay havenarrated her experiencesoutside of the project can only be conjecture.

Significantly, it is possiblenumerically to addressthe responsesformulated in accordancewith the A-C guidelines.Looking at the structureof testimonies,of the hibakushawho were within 2km of the epicentre,13.8% responded in a bullet point format; of thosewho were 2-3km away from the epicentre,10.5% responded using a bullet point format; of thosebeyond Ain of the epicentre,0% respondedusing bullet points. Suchfigures suggest that greaterproximity to the blast resultedin a greater difficulty in creatingspontaneous responses to the event.The will to tell the tale, so commonin hibakushawho havegone on to play a role in post-warpeace activism, is also notably diminishedin the accountsof survivorswithin the 2km radiusof the epicentre.The completeaccount given by one 18-year-oldmale survivor, numbered 22-0052,reads:

1.1 was engagedin the work of pulling corpses out of the Ota river. The terrible sight still stays in my memory. 2. There was a mother who fell to the ground, giving her burnt breast to her baby. Pleasedo not make me remember. (;: 16)

Unableto respondto the requiredthree questions, the authorfinishes with a request to leavehis memoriesuntouched and unquestioned.This simplerequest is discomfortingfor the reader,implying an intrusion into a personal,private experience

72 that the authoris reluctantto makepart of wider and more public historical record.A working documententitled "Atomic Bomb and HumanBeings" deliveredat a 1977 symposiumon the atomicbomb suggestedthat "the shorterthe distancefrom the center,the greaterthe shock" (Editorial Committeeof JNPC 119).As physicalinjury was nearly alwaysgreater the closerthe hibakushawas to the epicentre,John Whittier Treatsuggests that the differing magnitudesof shockcan also be tracedin the narrativerepresentations of the event:

The geographical difference that determined living from dying is also a difference that determines meaning. First there is meaning in language, as greater distance from the silent epicenter parallels the greater easewith which the victim of nuclear war can speak of the fact of that day. (Writing Ground Zero x)

This idea of the "silent epicenter"can be usedto explain the greateruse of the designatedA-C format by thoseclosest to the centreof the explosion.The difficulty of spontaneousnarrative recreation of the eventis heightenedby proximity to the bomb,and analysingthe structureof the testimoniescompiled in The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days leadsto the conclusionthat respondingwithin strictly set parametersis the only way that somesurvivors can narratetheir experiences.

The following volume, The Deaths of Hibakusha, takes a different perspective to that of the preceding two volumes in the project. As the title suggests,the accounts in this book focus not on the survivor's experiences,but on those who died. The testimonies included were selected from about 13,000 responsessubmitted to the editors, and describe the deaths of close relatives, often in painfully graphic detail. The contributions are from hibakusha who were in Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the days of the bombings, and also from those who entered the cities after the attacks to searchfor missing friends and relatives. The contributors are once again anonymous, identified only by a given number, age, gender and distance from the epicentre. Whereas in The Witness of Those Two 12gys,the accounts are ordered according to the experience of the hibakusha in terms of their distance from the epicentre, the accounts in The Deaths of Hibakusha are, as the title suggests,ordered according to the experiencesof those who died. Listed first are the accounts concerning those who died during or immediately after the bombing, followed by those who died during the

73 days and weeks afterwards. This approach recognisesthe survivors as representatives of those who died, thereby structurally and thematically reinforcing the identification with the dead expressedby so many hibakusha in accounts of their personal experiences.

The anonymity of the contributors and the way in which they are identified with the dead rather than the living constructs a dehumanisedrepresentation of hibakusha identity throughout the volume. In his foreword to the text, Takahashi Shinji comments that:

Throughthe analysesof former Hibakushasurveys I havedrawn one conclusion.I havecome to define the "atomic bomb hell" as a conditionin which one cannotstay human and remainalive at the [ ] learn in sametime. ... we that the peoplewho savedothers or were chargeof medicaland other relief activities often had to die prematurely.In other words,those who stayedhuman, exactly because of their humanness,could not remainalive. Thereforewe realisethat the "atomic bomb hell" long outlastedAugust 6 1945in Hiroshima andAugust 9 1945in Nagasaki.It haspersisted throughout all the postwaryears. (English TranslationGroup v)

Takahashi'sconclusion presents a damninganalysis of hibakushaidentity as dehumanised,devoid of all finer humanfeelings such as compassionand sympathy for suffering.His condemnationfinds the root of dehumanisationnot in the act of violenceperpetrated against the peopleof Hiroshimaand Nagasaki, but ratherin their responsesto the catastrophe.It was only by abandoningthe principlesof humanity, suchas savingfellow humanbeings, that thosewho survivedmanaged to stay alive. Certainlyexpressions of survivor guilt are frequentin hibakushatestimony in the struggleto acceptthe fact of their own survival when so many perished.Yet much of the guilt in testimonialaccounts is rootedin the inability, ratherthan the unwillingness,of the survivor to help thosewho died. Takahashi'sradical misinterpretationof survivor guilt culminatesin his misleadingcategorisation of acts of humanand inhumanbehaviour by the deadand the survivors.

Takahashi'sconclusions are ultimately drawn from a dehistoricised interpretationof the eventsof August 6 and 9,1945. He constructsa falserelationship betweenhumanity and survival which doesnot take into accountthe harshrealities of

74 the afterinath of the bombings. By removing any trace of a perpetrator from his account, Takahashi presentsthe experience of the atomic bomb as outside of human control. In contrast, actions taken by victims in the aftermath are within the limits of human control and as such can be subjected to judgement. Referencesto images of hell, presentedthrough Christian and Buddhist interpretations, are common in hibakusha testimony. Hara describes being "enveloped in the dreadfully gloomy faint green light of the medieval paintings of Buddhist hell" (5 1). Umehara Sumiko, a female Hiroshima survivor recalls that "What I saw around me was a sceneof living hell" (13 7). Takahashi's vision of the "atomic bomb hell" however, is extraordinarily literal in its scope.There is no spacein his atomic landscapeof hell for good deeds. Those who tried to help others, and in doing so retained their humanity, "had to die prematurely," leaving only dehumanised souls to wander through an earthly hell. The reference to premature death implicitly draws on the concept of sacrifice, thereby building on the images of hell and judgment which characterisethe religious tone of Takahashi's foreword. The concept of sacrifice, particularly in terms of Christian sensibility, is often introduced in descriptions of the atomic dead. A Catholic nun, headmistressof a Nagasaki school, interpreted the deaths of her pupils in terms of Christian sacrifice:

[I myself believe] that thosegirls were a sacrifice.They were sacrificedfor humansins; for the sakeof othersthey had to die. They took other's places.It was a time of redemption- and their deaths were for the sakeof other Catholicsand all of the Japanesepeople. (qtd. in Lifton, Deathin Life 405)

Another Christiansurvivor, Hajime Yukimune,believes that the deadwere sacrificed so that the world may know of the horror of atomic weaponryin the hopethat suchan offencewould neveragain be committed.In this understandingof sacrifice, hibakusha"become Christ, havingwritten their dying wishesin order that their tragic and painful experiencesmay savehumanity" (47).

Hajime's interpretationof the conceptof sacrifice,however, differs significantly from Takahashi'smore simplistic definition of individuals who choseto sacrificetheir lives in orderto saveothers. Such an understandingof sacrificeis ahistoric,as those who enteredthe devastatedcities after the bombingshad no idea

75 that they were putting their own lives at risk from the residualradiation. Whilst the braveryand the compassionof thosewho went to assistthe victims shouldnot be underestimated,it is only with retrospectthat their deathscan be acknowledgedas actsof sacrificein Takahashi'sinterpretation of the word. His judgementthat those who did not help otherswere dehumanisedby their failure to act fails to take into accountthe actualitiesof the aftermath.It was often impossibleto provide help; survivorswere often so badly injured themselvesthey were unableto help others, therewas no transportto move the injured, medicaltreatment was in short supplyand evenwhen it was available,there was little or no understandingof how to treat the injured. A rumourthat giving water to the injured would prove fatal spreadquickly throughthe devastatedcity, and so many refusedpleas for water from the victims, as describedby an 18-year-oldfemale survivor, identified as 34-4319:"[my father] askeddesperately for water, but we were afraid that as rumour had it, if we gavehim waterhe would die. I regretnow that we could not give him any treatmenf'(English TranslationGroup 82).13 Many victims were trappedbeneath fallen buildings,and it was impossiblefor them to be rescued.In dangerfrom the fires that spreadrapidly throughoutthe destroyedcities, survivorshad little choicebut to flee, abandoning trappedrelatives and friends.A 27- year-old femalecontributor to The Deathsof Hibakusha,identified as 37-0038,recalls the deathof her husbandin preciselythis way: "My husbandwas seriouslyinjured but I had to leavethe fallen houseas it was. Whenthe fires drew nearerI had no choicebut to run. It was a most cruel death which makesme cry wheneverI think aboutit" (English TranslationGroup 68). Contextualisedhistorically in this way, Takahashi'scategories of humanand dehumanisedbehaviour carry little currency.Indeed, in the introductionto another collection of hibakushatestimonies, Hibaku: Recollectionsof A-Bomb Survivors, Tao Gotarupresents a counter-argumentthat in fact it is the experienceof surviving atrocity that humaniseshibakusha: "In their accounts,I find evidenceof a deepand gentlehumanity cultivated by their experienceof life's extremities"(Kubo, xv). Nevertheless,it is Takahashi'sunderstanding of hibakushaidentity as dehumanised

13This denialof waterto the sufferingand dying appearsrepeatedly as a hauntingregret in hibakusha testimony.Lifton suggeststhat this is dueto the cultural significanceof water in Japanesereligion and folklore in which water is understoodto havemagical restorative powers, capable even of bringing life backto the dead. In this context,argues Lifton, the pleasfor waterbecame "pleas for life itselEThe failure [ ] have survivor's to acquiesceto the victim ... could thus cometo the psychological significancefor him of refusingthe requestof anotherfor the privilege of life, whiles he himself clung so tenaciouslyto that privilege" (Deathin Life 175).

76 through a selfish will to survive which introduces the testimonial accounts contained in The Deaths of Hibakusha.

Alongsidethe perceivedloss of humanityin the hibakushaauthors is a loss of autonomy.The Deathsof Hibakushaprovides an evenstricter setof narrative guidelinesfor the contributorsthan The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days.The respondentsare presented with a six-point format aroundwhich to frametheir testimonies:

What was your feeling in the death of the person/persons?Please describe it referring to the following expressionsas appropriate.

a. I think his/herdeath was too terrible. b. I wish I could have found him/her sooner. C. I am sorry that I could do nothing for him/her. d. I regretthat I was the only one who survived(in my family). e. I wish he/shewas still alive. f. Give me back my child/children,father, mother and the people lost. (EnglishTranslation Group xi)

These points are so specific that they form a generic testimonial template for each contributor. In fact, the guidelines can actually be considered as a form of testimony, offering a universal account (in that it is not anchored to any specific individual) of the hibakusha experience. Yet in providing a testimony-in-waiting, as it were, the possibility of distinct narrative voices is removed from the collection and the anonymous contributors lose the potential to expresstheir experiencesas unique to the individual. The representation of the atomic experience is thus anonymised and universalised throughout the collection. Following the approach introduced by Takahashi's foreword, the suggestedtemplate demonstratesa bias towards the expression of survivor guilt from the contributors. Implicit in the template is the suggestion that those who died did so as a result of the survivors failing to take appropriate action to save them. If the dying had been found sooner, or if something had been done for them then they too may have survived. The regret or shame in surviving referred to in point D is presentedas being the inevitable consequenceof the survivors' failure to help others and of their dehumanisedbehaviour.

77 Lifton "no [ ] suggeststhat survival experience ... can occur without severe guilf '(Death in Life 516). He describesthis guilt as centred around "the survivor's unconscious senseof an organic social balance which makes him feel that his survival was purchasedat the cost of another's" (515). Survival becomesconstrued not as a matter of chance, but rather as a conscious act which led to the death of another in place of the survivor. In this way, the survivor may come to feel a misplaced senseof complicity in the deaths of the victims. The absenceof a visible perpetrator in the case of the atomic bombings compounded the sensethat it was the survivors who were somehow responsible for the deaths of the victims.

Certainly the expression of guilt is prevalent throughout the collection. A particular example is that of a female hibaksusha, identified with the number 34-054. 24 years old at the time of the bombing, she was 3.0 km away from the epicentre of the explosion, and her testimony reveals that she lost her mother, father and elder brother. Her account is carefully ordered into three sections describing the deaths of each member of her family. Searching among the ruins of the city, she found her elder brother badly injured, and he later died on August 7. Although she writes in prose form, her account of his death follows the first three points of the provided testimonial template almost exactly:

I can neverforget for the rest of my life the cruelty of his death,indeed it was hell. Every time I think of my elder brotherI am terribly distressedthat I could not find him earlier.My brothercould have survivedsomehow if I had takenhim to the hospital.(English TranslationGroup 59)

In the accountof her mother's deathshe reiterates a wish that shecould havefound her earlier.Yet in both cases,it is unlikely that anythingcould havebeen done to save eithermember of her family. Indeed,she herself acknowledges towards the end of her accountthat "no-onecould do anythingin that desperatesituation" (English TranslationGroup 59). This bald statementsuggests a defensiveposturing in her account,confronting the assumptionof survivor guilt madeby both Takahashiand the compilersof the volume.

78 Throughoutthe collections,there is an attemptto constructhibakusha identity as occupyinga liminal position betweenlife and death,as dehumanisedand anonymous.Yet the testimonialaccounts, and the work of Hara Tamiki, showthat throughthe act of testifying hibakushastruggle against this imposedconstruction of self, revealingthrough their authorshipan attemptto personalisethe experiencesof the anonymousdead as well as reinstatingtheir own individual identity as human beings,rather than being recognisedsolely as hibakusha.

79 Chapter 2

Absence and Presence: The Role of Silence in Testimonial Writina

PerhapsNazi campsurvivors [and A-bomb survivors] arethe only [ ] ... group[s]of modemwriters so uniformly and so severely restrictedby the samematerial of which they would tell. It is as if the paperthey face is their enemyas well as their ally, somethingto be fearedas the bitter return to the site of their suffering as well as a recuperativemeans for collecting,organising, and passingon the lessonsof that suffering. (Treat,Writing GroundZero 29)

2.1 Introduction: Silence and the Limits of Representation

To begin, I will examine two responsesto catastrophe.The first is taken from Holocaust survivor Miklos Nyiszli's testimony, Auschwitz, published in 1946. Nyiszli was selectedto work alongside Dr Mengele as a camp doctor to assist in pseudo-scientific racial studies in Auschwitz. As such he occupied a more privileged position than other prisoners, and keenly felt a responsibility to try and remember all that he witnessed in order to "give an accurate account of what I had seen if ever, by some miraculous whim of fate, I should escape" (49). However, even whilst in the camp he realised the impossibility of the task that he had set himself, asserting that:

word descriptions are quite incapable of furnishing anyone with an accuratepicture of what goes on here. So my efforts to photograph in my mind all I see and engrave it in my memory are, after all, completely useless.(66)

The secondresponse was recordedby A-bomb survivor Kijimi Katsumi in his 1965 testimony,Eternal Regrets. Kijimi survivedthe atomic bombingof his hometown of Hiroshimaon August 6 1945.He recallsseeing the Enola Gay, the AmericanB-29 which carriedthe atomicbomb flying overhead,and thinking to himself, "Oh look, there's anotherenemy plane coming"; his attemptto representwhat followed was utterly confounded:"Thereafter there were no more words" (qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 27)

The testimonyof both Nyiszli and Kijimi bearswitness to the challengethat that the experienceof traumaposes to the possibilitiesof representation.Each focus

80 on the fallibility of languagein the wake of extremity,a themethat occupiesthe majority of testimonialtexts emergentfrom both the Holocaustand the atomic bombings.Whilst theseintroductory quotations may suggesta unity betweenthe responsesto catastropheoffered by Nyiszli and KiJimi, the historical specificitiesof the individual eventsthey attemptto describewarns against a comparisonwhich focusessolely on the similarities betweentheir representationalefforts. However,as Leigh Gilmore observes,it is by exploring "the relation betweentrauma and representation,and especiallylanguage, " that we can seekto define "traumaas a category"(6). It is throughacknowledging this relationshipin testimonialtexts from both eventsthat an understandingof Treat's assertionof the link betweenHolocaust survivorsand hibakushacan be reached.

"Somethingof a consensushas already developed, " arguesGilmore, "that takestrauma as the unrepresentableto assertthat traumais beyondlanguage in some crucial way, that languagefails in the face of trauma,and that traumamocks language and confrontsit with its insufficiency" (6). In The Writing of the Disaster,Maurice Blanchotconfronts that which Michael Bernard-Donaldand RichardGlejzer describe as "the unsayableaspects of history" (40). For Blanchot,the incursionof the Holocaustinto history questionsthe possibilitiesof languageand the very processof writing. Indeed,in her prefatoryremarks to the text, Blanchot'stranslator, Ann Smock,argues for the interchangeablityof the words "writing" and "disaster," commentingthat:

the writing of the disastermeans not simply the processby whereby somethingcalled the disasteris written - communicated,attested to, or prophesised.It also meansthe writing doneby disaster- by the disasterthat ruins booksand wreckslanguage. (Blanchot ix)

Accordingto this formulation,the (failed) representationof the disasteractually becomesthe disaster.In many examplesof testimonialwriting it is this disasterof failed representation,as well as the disasterof the historical eventthat occupiesthe author.The disaster,claims Blanchot,"is what escapesthe possibility of experience- it is the limit of writing. This must be repeated- the disasterde-scribes" (7). It is the fact that the disaster"de-scribes" - destroysthe possibility of representation- that deniesthe possibility of experience.The subtledistinction betweenthe eventand the

81 experienceof the eventis drawn throughBlanchot's understanding of experience beingpredicated on intellectualassimilation and knowledgeableunderstanding of the event.As Ernstvan Alphen explains:

The experienceof an eventor history is, however,dependent on the termsthe symbolicorder offers. It needsthese terms if living through is to be transformedinto [ ] The the event an experienceofthe event. ... problemHolocaust survivors encounter is preciselythat the lived eventscould not be experiencedbecause language did not provide the termswith which to experiencethem. This unrepresentabilitydefines thoseevents as traumatic. (44)

The unlived experience,manifested as a failure in representationis, then, for van Alphen that which characterisesan eventas traumatic.The eventcannot be experiencedif it cannotbe reconstructedin language.This returnsus to Gilmore's thesis,that it is the (non) interactionbetween language and the eventthat defines trauma.Cathy Caruthcements the relationshipbetween language and trauma, describingtrauma as "the story of a wound that cries out, that addressesus in the attemptto tell us of a reality or truth that is not otherwiseavailable" CýLnclaimed Experience4).

Yet if languagefails in its capacityto represent,what is the natureof this cry? Blanchotis keento point out that whilst the disaster"de-scribes", this "doesnot mean that the disaster,as the force of writing, is excludedfrom it, is beyondthe pale of writing, or extratextual"(7). He describesthe Holocaustas "the absoluteevent in history - which is a date in history - that utter burn whereall history tookfire, where the movementofMeaning was swallowedup" (47). Here,Blanchot maintains his distinctionbetween the Holocaustas an occurrence-a datein history - and as an experience,the possibility of which is compromisedby the swallowingup of meaning.If the destructionof Meaningis that of the relationshipbetween language and that which it seeksto describe,then the possibility of representationmust lie in the 'Weeingsilence of the countlesscty" (47).

Superficially,the absenceof languagesuggests a failure of communication; thereis, it seems,an inherentconflict betweenexpression and silence. However,a readingof testimonialliterature forces this assumptiveunderstanding to be

82 challenged.The useof silencein testimonialtexts indicatesa more covert form of communication,for as Blanchotsuggests, "to be silent is still to speak.Silence is impossible"(11). He points to the paradoxicalnature of "the silenceof the word silence," recognisingthat the utteranceof the word itself banishesits meaning,and suggeststhat the utteranceof silenceis in fact a "voicelesscry, which breakswith all utterances"(5 1). Blanchot's interpretationof silenceforms a basicpremise for the readingof testimonialliterature, as he recognisessilence as a form of expression. Addressingthe Holocaustdirectly, Blanchotrecognises that languagefails to reveal its meaning."Work, " he writes, " in societieswhere, indeed, it is highly valuedas the materialistprocess whereby the worker takespower, becomesthe ultimate [ ] The is destruction in punishment ... meaningof work then the of work andthrough work" (8 1). Under theseconditions, language can offer little understanding."We read books," he continues,"on Auschwitz. The wish of all in the camps,the last wish: know what hashappened, do not forget, and at the sametime neverwill you know" (82). Here,Blanchot recognises that written narrativecan neverfurnish the reader with a full understandingof the event.Silence can function as a reminderof what we cannotknow, and in not knowing cannotexperience. The fact that the Holocaust cannotbe experiencedis mademanifest through silence.Understanding silence as a presentabsence leads to an awarenessof what hasbeen lost and what cannotbe represented,and so explained,in testimony.Terrence Des Prescharacterises the in Wiesel's "not [ ]a but silence writing as exactly this, ... vacuumor emptiness, as presence-of memory,of the dead,of an evil so overwhelmingand unspeakablethat only silence,in its infinitude, can begin to representit" (55). This, then, is the coreof what Bernard-Donaldsand Glejzer define as the central"paradox of Blanchot's purpose," the recognitionof "the impossibility of speakingof the immediacyof an experiencewhile acknowledgingthat speakingthe experienceis what constitutesif' (42). Speakingin this instanceis not restrictedto language,as Treat notesin his analysisof atomicbomb literature.He claimsthat is through"the silences,the oft- notedlacks and gapsin atomic bomb writing, may be preciselywhere the [testimonial]genre "speaks" to us the most." (Writing GroundZero 30).

As such,silence in testimonycannot be viewed as a void or an absence. Conversely,silence can be recognisedas the genesisof a text. Elie Wiesel acknowledgesthat "it was by seeking,by probing silence,that I beganto discoverthe

83 perils andpower of the written word" (Why I Write 200). The perils, that words can only betraythe experience,are balancedby the "power of the written word". Yet an essentialcomponent of this power is the recognitionof the role of silencewithin it. Thereis a differencebetween silence as an absence,and silenceas a presencewithin the written narrative.Viewed in this way, silencecomes to representan active presencein testimonialwriting, andthe way in which languageis not prioritised over silencecomes to be an identifying featureof testimonialliterature.

2.2 Absence as Presence in the Holocaust Narrative

Telling the Tale

In a review of Elie Wiesel's work, Terrence Des Pres comments, "if I select one single aspect of his writing that gets to the heart of the matter, I would say that silence, and the tension between silence and the the need of the witness to speak, is the matrix of meaning on which Wiesel's accomplishment lies" (50-5 1). Holocaust survivors frequently testify to a compulsion that forces them to tell the tale of their experiences.James E. Young has argued that "when survival and the need to bear witness become one, [the] desperateurge to testify in narrative cannot be underestimated" (17). This intimate relationship between telling the tale and survival is revealed by Primo Levi in the preface to If This is a Man, as he representsthe urge to testify as equivalent to other basic human needs:

The need to tell our story to 'the rest', to make 'the rest' participate in it, had taken on for us, before our liberation and after, the character of an immediate and violent impulse, to the point of competing with our other elementary needs. (15)

In his analysis of Levi's writing, Nicholas Patruno concludes that "it is only through a constant interface with his recollections that [Levi] seesany hope of surviving his survival" (9). However, as Levi makes clear, this association between testifying and surviving was not only realised following liberation, but was in fact present throughout his time in the camp. He statesthat "this was the sense,not forgotten later: [ ] that in this therefore either then or ... even place one can survive, and one must want to survive, to tell the story, to bear witness" (If This Is A Man 47). Repeatedly in If This is a Man, he refers to his desire to remember and testify. On one

84 occasion, he recalls awakening from a dream in which he was freely talking to family and friends of his experiences:

I am now awakeand I rememberthat I haverecounted it to Alberto andthat he confidedto me, to my amazement,that it is also his dream andthe dreamof many others,perhaps of everyone.(66)

The urgeto tell the tale is thus revealedto be a fundamentalneed shared by many prisoners.Levi frequentlyreturns to this compulsionto sharehis story, casting himself as an Ancient Mariner figure, hauntedby his past.He usesa versefrom Coleridge'spoem to introduceThe Drownedand the Savedwith the imageof the "ghastly tale" that bums within him. In The PeriodicTable he writes:

It seemedto me that I would be purified if I told its [the Holocaust's] story, and I felt like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, who waylays on the street the wedding guests going to a feast, inflicting on them the story of his misfortune. I was writing concise and bloody poems, telling the story at breakneck speed,either by talking to people or by writing it down, so much so that gradually a later book was born: by writing I found peace for a while and felt myself become a man again, a person like everyone else, neither a martyr nor debasednor a saint: one of those people who form a family and look to the future rather than the past. (15 1)

For Levi, the urge to write is the urge to survive; to return through words to being a man. Through writing he seeksto reject the image of the survivor as a martyr, as debased,or as a saint, and asserthimself as a "person like everyone else." His refuting of these images of the survivor which define him by his past experiencesis congruent with his desire to be a man who looks "to the future rather than the past."

This desire to tell the tale becomes inextricably bound up with the idea of a duty towards those who died. Elie Wiesel expressesthis sentiment most succinctly when he writes that:

I am duty boundto serveas their emissary,transmitting the history of their disappearanceeven if it disturbs,even if brings pain. Not to do so would be to betraythem and thus myself. (Why I Write 202)

85 In "Why I Write", Wiesel constantlyreturns to the word "duty". He feels "duty bound to give meaningto my survival," and assertsthat "for the survivor, writing is not a profession,but an occupation,a duty" (200). This feeling of responsibilityto convey the truth of the eventis fraught with the fear of betrayal.To refuseto write evinces, for Wiesel,the feeling that he hasbetrayed those who cannottestify. Yet, at the same time, the problemof representationis insurmountable,for as Wiesel writes "we do try to put the experienceinto words. But can we? Languageis poor and inadequate.The momentit is told, the experienceturns to betrayal" (JewishValues 264). Wiesel is, then,confronted with a paradox,summed up by McAfee Brown as "to speakis to betray,not to speakis to betray.There is no way not to betray" (25). The sourceof this betrayalis twofold. Firstly, there is the fact that survivor testimonyis somehow incomplete. Only thosewho did not survive could narratethe totality of the Holocaust,and to representthe Shoahas a story of survival is to deny the truth of the event.Levi acknowledgesthat thosewho survivedweie thosesuch as himself, who were "an anomalousminority, we are thosewho by their prevaricationsor abilities or goodluck did not touch the bottom" and that as a result the history of the campshas beenwritten by thosewho "never fathomedthem to the bottonf ' Q)rownedand the Saved64). Yet, outsidethis quite specificargument that it is impossiblefor a survivor to testify to the truth of the Holocaust,there is the larger fact that language fails in the faceof extremity.The compulsionto tell the tale is hamperedby the absenceof words which can describethese events. In the wake of the horrorsof the twentiethcentury, Saul Friedlander perceives a progressivecollapse in the descriptive power of language:

The inadequacy grows between language and certain events. That began well before Auschwitz, perhaps with the First World War, only to its Auschwitz. [ ] Events faster reach culmination with ... moved than language. Since Auschwitz, the distance between them seems insurmountable." (93)

The magnitudeof violencein the twentiethcentury threatens the efficacy of language,and compromisesthe possibility of descriptivetestimony. It is in this compromisethat the fear of betrayallooms large.

86 "Something will happen to it": Silence and the Failure of Language

It is an obviousobservation that whereviolence is inflicted on man,it is also inflicted on language.(Levi, Drownedand the Saved76)

AndreaReiter suggeststhat the "compulsionto bearwitness for murdered comradesand for life itself, eventhe wish to communicateone's experiencesto others,are not enoughto explain the mechanismthat led to the writing of a report" (NarratingLhe Holocaust 202). Sidra DeKovenEzrahi arguesthat the imperativeto speakis the culminationof severalfactors, and lists them as:

desirefor the bear [ ]; the somesort of revenge; needto witness ... the desireto commemoratethe dead,the impulseto absolveoneself or one's companionsof aspersionsof passivityor complicity; the sense of mission,to warn humanity of its capacityfor genocide.(21)

By identifying the desireto bearwitness as only one motive amongstmany, Ezrahi appearsto challengethe relationshipbetween survival and testimonythat Young understandsas crucial to the interpretationof testimonialwriting. Whilst she acknowledgesthat "the real victory to which thesedocuments attested was the very fact of personalsurvival, " shereads the urge to testify as a consequenceof survival, as opposedto Levi's formulation of testimonyas an aspectof survival (21). Reiter offers a further motivation behindtestimony, arguing that the act of writing is itself an "attemptto cometo termswith the experienceintellectually" (Narratingthe Holocaust203). Intellectualunderstanding is, however,dependent on the ability to assimilatememory into a coherentrepresentation of experience.Yet attemptsat representationare j eopardisedat the outsetby the failure of languageto describe theseevents. Elie Wiesel hasdeclared Auschwitz to be the "ultimate event,the ultimate mystery," in that it can neverbe known by thosewho were not there (Trivializing Holocaus Descriptivelanguage the . simply cannotconvey the enormityof the Holocaust.Anticipating SaulFriedlander, George Steiner argued that "what man hasinflicted on man, in very recenttime, hasaffected the writer's primary brain material- the sumand potentialof humanbehaviour - and it presseson the with a new darkness" Languageand Silence4). Wiesel built upon this idea of a new darknessinherent in the writer's task in a 1978lecture, "The Holocaustas Literary Inspiration," whenhe declaredthat "Treblinka meansdeath, absolute death, death of

87 languageand of hope, death of trust and of inspiration" (7). He continues by arguing that in the aftermath of the Holocaust, "language had been corrupted" (8), and it is this concept of corruption that forms the basis of Steiner's contentious analysis of the German languagein particular as becoming somehow deformed in the post-Holocaust world.

The German languagewas not innocent of the horrors of Nazism Gradually words lost their meaning and acquired nightmarish definitions [ ] Use language justify ... a to conceive, organise and Belsen; [ I Something happen it. (Language ... will to and Silence: Essays1958-1967 121-124)

Steiner proposedthis argument in an essayentitled "The Hollow Miracle", and in a 1982 republication of the essayhe added a footnote acknowledging the "hurt and anger" that his ideas caused(Language and Silence 117). However, he stood by his thesis, arguing that "the matter of the relations between languageand political inhumanity is a crucial one" (117). In the essay,he arguesthat historical circumstancemade the German languagea fertile ground for genocidal rhetoric. He concedesthat "a Hitler would have found reservoirs of venom and moral illiteracy in any language," but maintains that "by virtue of recent history, they were nowhere else so ready and so near the very surface of common speech" (12 1). However, Steiner offers little to support this assertion;suggesting that recent history in Germany provided a fertile breeding ground for virulent antisemitic discoursein the country actually overlooks the fact that the experienceof the majority of German Jews was assimilation rather than isolation, and that antisemitism was actually far more rampant in EasternEuropean countries such as Ukraine. Yet for Steiner, the acts of barbarity perpetratedduring the Holocaust were conceived of, ordered by and recorded in the German language,and it is for this reasonthat the Holocaust as an event is forever bound to the German language.Gen-nan has become,then, a perpetrator language,a languagethat can offer no illumination, no understanding;it can communicate,but can give "no senseof communion," a languagesummed up in the phrasehier ist kein warum (117). Indeed, the phraseology of Nazi camp rhetoric demonstratesa dislocation betweenlanguage and meaning within the German tongue. Wiesel recalls the signs that adornedthe electrified barbed wire that enclosed Auschwitz reading "'Warning. Danger of death'. Mockery: was there a single place

88 here where you were not in danger of death?" (Ni ght 5 1). The words on the sign constitute more than a warning of electrocution for Wiesel; they come to stand as words which define his whole experience. However, Ruth KlOger's testimony reveals a rejection of Steiner's assertion of the German language as permanently damagedon the grounds that it is too simplistic. She acknowledgesthat aspectsof German have been permanently damagedthrough the Nazi distortion of language,reflecting that "German proverbs nauseateme; I can't hear any of them without seeing its cynical application in the death factory" (17). Levi offers an example of this "cynical application" with bizarrely cheerful couplet "Nach dern Abort, vor dem Essen/Hande waschen,nicht vergessen"inscribed on the wall of the washroom. He recognisesthat this is not simply an incentive for hygiene, but rather a reminder that washing is "important as a symbol of remaining vitality, and necessaryas an instrument of moral survival" (If This is A Man 46). Yet at the sametime, Mager is insistent that the Nazism should not be regardedas the most influential legacy bequeathedto the German language.German, she argues,is also the languageof Jewish intellectualism, and to ignore this ancestry is to deny these voices their rightftil place in German history (257). Taken to its extreme, the erasureof the Jewish German voice is to participate in the Nazi aim to eradicateJewish life and culture from Europe. Steiner's account of the German language,then, whilst being a useful starting point for a discussionabout the relationship between languageand violence, can only offer a partial interpretation of the effect of atrocity on languageand the possibilities of representation.

However, the dislocation between languageand meaning that emergedin the camps is a common feature of many Holocaust testimonies. Languageis renderedas silence as it fails to communicateany message;simply, languageceases to make sense.Words acquired new meaning under Nazi euphemisms:the showers, Sonderbehandlung,Treblinka's Himmelweg. A brief incident in Filip Miller's testimony, Auschwitz Infemo, bearswitness to this breakdown in meaning. MUller was a young Slovakian Jew imprisoned in Auschwitz in 1942. Shortly after his arrival in the camp, M111lerwas selectedfor the Sonderkommando,a special work detail whose role was to remove the bodies from the gas chambersand strip the corpsesof any valuables that the victims had attemptedto conceal about themselves, a duty which included the removal of any gold dental fillings. 'Mey then transferred

89 the bodies to the crematoria for their final destruction. Miller's survival was particularly remarkable, as those selected for work in the Sonderkommandocould generally expect to live for only a few months before they themselveswere murdered, to deny the prospect of any future witnessesto the Nazi atrocities. In his testimony, Mfiller recountsan incident which demonstratesthe way in which languageceased to have any relevant meaning in Auschwitz. The story that Mfiller tells is that of a new prisoner, a lawyer, who demandsto speakto the Kommandant after having witnessing Vacek, a kapo or block leader, killing a fellow prisoner:

"Herr Kommandant, as a human being and a lawyer I wish to report that the block clerk" - pointing at Vacek - "has arbitrarily killed innocent [ ]I therefore have several people ... would request you to this morning's events investigated and to seethat the guilty are truly punished." (5)

The lawyer is beatento death by Vacek for his words. Whilst the terrible murder of this unnamedlawyer cannot be interpreted as anything but murder, the representation of his death in this particular text becomesa symbol for something greater: the collapse ofjustice and civilisation in the world of the camp. 'Me lawyer's words belong to the civilised world, rather than the atavistic state in the camp. Words such as "human being", "innocent" and "guilty" swing loose from their meaningsin Auschwitz, and languageis recodedto the extent that these words seemto have no relevancein Punivers concentrationnaire.

Structuralist theory has long argued for the arbitrariness of the relationship betweenwords (the signifiers) and their meanings,or concepts(the signified). In such an approach,then, there is no inherent relationship between glu/i/l/t/y, for example, as signifier and "guilty" as a concept. There is no reasonto assumethat the signifier g/u/i/l/t/y has a more privileged relationship with the signified "guilty" than the signifier c/o/u/p/a/b/l/c, for example. Yet to argue that the relationship between significr and signified is arbitrary is not to argue that it is therefore unstable.Through common usagein a languagesystem the signifier becomesanchored to its arbitrarily ascribedsignified. The practical effect of this, arguesJohn E. Joseph,is that "although the linguistic sign is arbitrary, it is impossible for anyone to changeit" (60). Yet whilst the relationship is resistantto changeinitiated by an individual, this

90 does not mean that it does not change over time in responseto historical and social factors. In the context of Miller's testimony, it can be seenthat the impact of the Holocaust on the languagesystem is to break down the relationship between the signifier and the signified in the camps. The experience of the Holocaust (indeed, it could be argued, the experience of all forms of trauma), then functions to reinstate the arbitrarinessof the signifier/signified relationship. The relationship that existed between g/u/i/l/t/y and "guilty" prior to the Holocaust is negatedthrough the experienceof the camps as the Nazi authorities rewrote the meaning of "guilty" as a concept.At its most basic level, the pre-Holocaust concept of "guilty" presupposeda crime or misdemeanourof some sort; the Nazi system of values (or perhapsmore appropriately "anti-values') rewrote the concept of "guilty": one was determined to be guilty not only on the basis on acts committed, but on the basis of being - being Jewish, Gypsy, homosexual, for example, meant that one was "guilty. " Tberefore the signif ier g/u/i/l/t/y which was anchoredto the pre-Holocaust meaning of "guilty" can no longer function as a signifier for the concept of "guilty" as the meaning of the signi f icd has been altered in accordancewith a Nazi perspective.

Wiesel's choice to write Night in French is a ftirther manifestation of the issue of tainted language.Colin Davis suggeststhat his decision to write in French was motivated by a desire to find a neutral languagein which to recount his experiences of the Holocaust. French was the first languagethat Wiesel learned after liberation. The decision to write in French instead of his native languageseems to be an attempt to consciously dissociate from the experiential self of the Holocaust, for as Davis suggests,French offered "a medium not directly associatedwith or compromisedby previous experiences"(27). It functions to provide a distance betweenthe event and its narration. By replacing experiential languagewith representationallanguage, Wiescl works with a languagethat is untainted, and thus perhapsless doomed to failure. Nevertheless,Davis arguesthat Wiesel's "sometimes torturous French style seemsto bear traces of the trauma of the Holocaust," in that it appears"contrived and awkward, deprived of fluency and harmony; his texts stutter rather than flow" (27). Wiesel himself commentsbriefly on his style in All Rivers Run to the Sea, acknowledging his difficulties in writing in a foreign language:"I write in French, but I learnedthe languagefrom books and therefore I am not good at slang" (321). The suggestionthat the vocabulary available to Wiesel the author differs from that of the

91 experiential Eliezer reinforces the understanding of the dualised self as discussedin chapter one. Barbara Engelking, however, suggeststhat the adoption of foreign languagesby survivors to describe their experiencesthreatens the authenticity of their testimony. Somewhat subjectively, she argues that:

I am convinced that it is easier to relate wartime experiencesin the languagethat was used at that time, in which the world was named. For this reason,I believe that accounts given by Polish survivors in Polish are more valid, nearer to the inner truth, than accountsgiven in other languages.(15)

This assertionis difficult to justify, as it fails to take into account the significance of the employment of a neutral language.To suggestthat testimonies written in the native languageof the survivor have a greater validity is to distort the meaning of authenticity. Arguing that authenticity is conferred primarily through the use of time and spacespecific language- through the employment of what could be termed the 6'language-scape"of the event - offers a very restrictive interpretation of what it meansto record an experienceauthentically. Her argument is also hamperedby the absenceof a fixed definition of what it meansto write "authentically. " For example, whereasfor Engelking, Wiesel's decision to write in French would diminish the authenticity of his account, it could be equally argued that his rejection of the Holocaust language-scapeis actually an authentic part of his responseto his experiences.His use of French could be viewed as symbolic of his survival and escapefrom the Holocaust, and thus an "authentic" part of his Holocaust experience. Yet Engelking continues to argue:

were they [survivors writing in a foreign language] able to communicateemotions and nuancesof meaning, as well as elements of wartime life, in languageswhich had no words which could precisely convey thesemeanings? Every languagedetermines an appropriate areaof meaning and emotions; it determinesways of naming and communicating the world. (15)

Engelking's analysis is further flawed in that it fails to take into account the nature of languageand communication in the camp. In arguing that there is a possibility of a 64prccisc"correlation betweenlanguage and meaning, she neglects to acknowledge the dcstabilisation of languagein the camps. Her view is also basedon the idea that

92 there was a consistencyof language in the camps which was continuous with languageoutside of the concentrationary universe. This assumption conflicts with survivors accountsof language in the camps.

Kitty Hart, for example, recalls the bewilderment she experiencedon arrival in Auschwitz:

Muselmann? What on earth does that mean? I could not make it out. This place seemedto have its own vocabulary, a complete languageof its own. But I realised that we shall get acquainted with it before long. Soon we shalI know everything. (5 1)

Testifyingto the singularlanguage of the camps,Hart alsoconstructs a relationship betweenknowledge and language.Through knowing the language,she will cometo know "everything." In suggestingthat the campcan only be understoodthrough its own language,Hart's testimonycontradicts Engelking's assertion that it is the native languageof survivors,specifically Polish survivors,that hasa moreprivileged positionin representingthe camps.Hart continuesto describethe languagein the camps,recalling "They [the otherprisoners] were of all nationalities,but we hadno languagedifficulties, for onesoon got acquaintedwith the campslang which was commonto all" (56). The nativelanguage of the survivorsis, then,arguably not the languageof the Holocaustexperience. The language-scapeof the Holocaustwas not for any individuala specificnational language but rathera combinationof different elementsof the nativelanguages of all the prisoners.In fact, for Engelking'sview to ring true,the only "authentic"narrative would be onewritten solely in campargot.

Testimony reveals however, that this notion of a stable camp argot is in fact false. I lart's representationof a "camp slang which was common to all" sits uneasily with other survivor's recollections of the camps. Levi in particular characterises Auschwitz as "perpetual Babel," a place where languageis never fixed and communication constantly marred by linguistic confusion (Drowned and the Saved 55). The majority of the camp languagethat he includes is, however, German. Odd exceptions such as Selekcja, a word he describesas a Polish Latin hybrid occur, but the languageof Levi's Auschwitz is primarily the languageof the perpetrators.As

93 well as drawing words from existing languages,new words emerged such as Muselmann, and Levi concludes that:

If the Lagerhad lastedlonger a new, harshlanguage would havebeen born; and only this languagecould expresswhat it meansto toil the whole day in the wind, with the temperaturebelow freezing,wearing only a shirt, underpants,cloth jacket and trousers,and in one's body nothingbut weakness,hunger and knowledgeof the end drawing nearer. If This is A Man 129)

The existenceof a distinctive campvocabulary is well documentedby survivors,but a closerreading of Levi's and Hart's testimoniesreveals subtle variations in the language.For example,Hart unfailingly refersto the camphospital as the Rewir, whereasLevi namesit Ka-Be. The different experiencesof Hart living in the women'scamp and working in the Kanadakommandocompared to Levi living in the menscamp and working in Buna is the most likely explanationfor this discrepancy, yet eventhis small lexical distinction suggeststhat therewas no uniform camp language.

Levi testifiesto the fact that the developmentof a campvocabulary did not necessarilyease communication in the campsin Momentsof Reprieve.In the short tale entitled"The Juggler",he writes aboutan encounterbetween himself and a Germanprisoner, Eddy. Eddy slappedhim, and from this blow Levi understoodthat Eddy was telling him, "watch out, you've really madea big mistakethis time, you're endangeringyour life, maybewithout realisingit, and you're endangeringmine as well" (3 1).Violence in the campsbecame a form of languagethat did not rely upon words and their distortedmeanings. Levi recognisesthat a spokenexchange between Eddy and himself "would havebeen useless, (not understoodif nothing else,because of languageproblems), out of tune, and much too roundabout"(3 1). Physical violencebecame a substitutefor words in the languageof the camp,and Levi records that:

A slap inflicted in the Camphad a very different significancefrom what it might havehere among us in today's hereand now. Precisely: it had a meaning;it was simply anotherway of expressingoneself. [ ] Punches daily language, ... and slapspassed among us as and we soonlearned to distinguishmeaningful blows from the othersinflicted

94 out of savagery,to createpain and humiliation, and which often resultedin death.A slap like Eddy's was akin to the friendly smack you give a dog, or the whack you administerto a donkeyto conveyor reinforcean order or prohibition. Nothing more in short than a non- verbalcommunication. Among the many miseriesin the Camp,blows of this naturewere by far the leastpainful. Which is equivalentto sayingthat our mannerof living was not very different from that of donkeysand dogs.(3 1)

The violent languageof the campis as filled with tonesand inflections as verbal communication.In referring to theseblows as "the leastpainful", Levi is speaking solely in termsof physicalbodily pain. The pain accordedby the dehumanisingeffect of the blows likenedto thoseinflicted on animalscannot be underestimated. ElsewhereLevi writes that "all humanspecies know how to speak,no non-human speciesknows how to speak7(Drowned and the Saved69). To take away this differentiation,precisely, to take away the power of languageand replaceit with acts of violenceis to reducethe victims to a sub-human,animalistic existence- to the statusof donkeysand dogs.Language in the form of blows dehumanisesthe individual, andthis active dehumanisationcame to be reflectedin the casualspeech of the Kapos.Levi recountsthe call given at mealtimes:

The kapo comesto us periodically and calls: 'Wer hat nochzu ftessen?' He doesnot say it from derisionor to sneer,but becausethis way of eatingon our feet, finiously, burning our mouthsand throats, without time to breathe,really is 'fressen', the way of eatingof animals,and certainly not 'essen',the humanway of eating,seated in front of a table,religiously. 'Fressen' is exactly the word, and is used currentlyamong us. (If This is a Man 82)

As Levi argues,where violence is inflicted on humanity it is also inflicted in language;at the sametime, it is when languageis destabilisedand its meaningis pervertedthat it becomespossible to inflict suchviolence on man. Wiesel makes explicit the link betweendehumanisation and violence,explaining that:

Strangeas it may sound,there was no hate involved in the relationship betweenJew and German.We didn't hatethe Germans,and the Germansdidn't hateus. It was worse.You can only hatea human being.To them we were objects.Man doesn'thate objects. (Wiesel and Rubenstein364)

95 Objectificationof humanbeings was madepossible the way in which languagewas usedduring the Holocaust.Indeed, Richard Rubenstein centralises the objectifying natureof Nazi languagein his analysisof the Holocaust,stating that:

Part of the technology of mass slaughter involves a process of so laundering the language used to describe the process that it appearsto be a technological and not an act which takes place between human beings. (Wiesel and Rubenstein 357)

Whilst contesting Engelking's view of a consistent experiential language within the camps, Levi's testimony also challenges Engelking's assumption of continuity of language from the camps to the post-war world. He writes:

Just as our hunger is not that of missing a meal, so our way of being cold has need of a new word. We say 'hunger', we say 'tiredness', 'fear', (pain', we say 'winter' and they are different things. They are free words, created and used by free men who lived in comfort and suffering in their homes. If This is a Man 129)

Charlotte Delbo also picks up on the emptiness of post-Holocaust language, implicitly acknowledgingthis emptinessas the product of the failed relationship betweenthe signifier and the signified, commentingthat:

Becausewhen I talk to you about Auschwitz, it is not from deep memory my words issue. They come from external memory, if I may put it that way, from intellectual memory, the memory connected with thinking processes.Deep memory preserves sensations,physical imprints. It is the memory of the senses.For it isn't words that are swollen with emotional charge. Otherwise, someone who has been tortured by thirst for weeks on end could never again say "I'm thirsty. How about a cup of tea." This word has also split in two. Thirst has turned back into a word for commonplace use. But if I dream of the thirst I suffered in Birkenau, I once again see the person I was, haggard, halfway crazed, near to collapse; I physically feel that real thirst and it is an atrocious nightmare. If, however, you'd like me to talk to you about it... " (Days and Memory 3-4)

For Delbo, the possibilitiesof languageare irretrievably boundto the processesof memory.The distinctionbetween external memory and deepmemory is crucial to her understandingof the possibilitiesof representation.Lawrence Langer renames externalmemory "thinking memory," and suggeststhat the words that emergefrom

96 this memoryallow the listenerto "imagine the worst." The key word hereis "imagine," for whilst the words that emergefrom externalmemory can describewhat is storedin deepmemory, they cannotreveal the meaningsthat the experienceof the Holocaustmaps onto them. Only deepmemory, argues Langer, can representthe "physical imprint" of the experience.(Delbo, Auschwitz and After xiv) This, however,is the crux of the incommunicabilityof the Holocaust.As the memoryof the senses,deep memory is personal,individual and cannotbe communicatedto othersthrough language, as indicatedby the silent ellipsis that follows Delbo's offer to try to tell the readerof that "atrociousnightmare. " Delbo's distinction betweenthe words of externalmemory and the meaningsfound in deepmemory evokes once againthe failure of the relationshipbetween the signifier and the signified. In Delbo's account,the Holocausthas creatednew signifieds,for which no signifier exists- thirst existsas a conceptin the contextof the Holocaust,but thereis no signifier, no matterhow arbitrary,that is capableof relating to it. Implicit in this passageis Delbo's frustratedcall for a new signifier that can expressthe conceptof "thirst" as it existsin her deepmemory. The experienceof traumabrings into existencesignifieds that canhave no signifiers.It seems,then, that in a post-Holocaustlanguage system, the relationshipbetween the signifier and the signified is characterisednot by arbitrarinessbut by absence.

The post-Holocaustdeath of the signifier/signifiedrelationship contradicts theoriessuch as Engelking'swhich call for the acknowledgementof the continuity of languagefrom the campsto the post-Holocaustworld. Wiesel arguesthat:

[concentration camp language] negated all other languages and took its place. Rather than link it became wall. Could it be surmounted? Could the reader be brought to the other side? I knew the answer to be negative, and yet I also knew that 'no' had to become 'yes'. (Why I Write 201)

Thejourney from "no" to "yes" must be traversedthrough the inclusion of silence. The necessityof silence,then, undermines Steiner's assertion that the German languageis forevertainted by its associationwith the Holocaust.As Wiesel acknowledges,the Holocaustchallenges "all other languages." The Holocaust emergesas an eventwhich challengesthe possibility of any languageand therefore

97 positsthe possibility that in the absenceof language,silence can becomea form of expressivecommunication.

Silence as Language

What mattersis to struggleagainst silence with words or through anotherform of silence.(Wiesel, My I Write 206)

In direct responseto this conceptof failed language,Levi wrote that that "To say it is impossibleto communicateis false: one always caif ' (Prowned and the Saved69). The true fallacy actually lies in the assumptionthat communicationis only possiblethrough language. In the words of Steiner:

We shouldnot assumethat a verbal matrix is the only one in which the articulationsand conduct of the mind are conceivable.There are modesof intellectualand sensuousreality foundednot on language, but [ ] There on other communicativeenergies. ... are actionsof the spirit rootedin silence.(Language and Silence12)

It is by steppingoutside the "verbal matrix" that the communicativepower of silence within testimonialwriting can be recognised.To paraphraseWiesel, silence constitutespart of the strugglefor expression,rather than a hindranceto it. In reading Wiesel's work, RobertMcAfee Brown identifies three forms of articulatesilence; the silenceborn, of frustration,the silenceof communicativepower and the silenceborn, of respect(30). The silenceof frustrationis a consequenceof that which Brown denotesthe "incommensurability"of the Holocaust,that is the fundamentalinability to understandthe eventfrom the outside.This is essentiallythe silenceof failed language,the frustrationemerging from the perceivedimpossibility of representing the Holocaustin existing forms of language."In the Jewishtradition, " arguesMary Gerhart,"the reluctanceto speakan eventinto languagecan be so strongthat it imposesa dramaticor ritual banningof naming." Speakingspecifically of Holocaust diaries,although making a point which expandsto cover testimonyas well, she continuesthat "this reluctanceto speakproceeds not only from horror at the degradationof the humanbeing but out of a disjunction of experiencefrom credibility" (76). It is this disjunction,or incommensurability,that createsthe spectre of silencethat is perceivedas hauntingHolocaust narratives. Ruth Klilger, however,

98 questionsthe existenceof this form of silence,since "any eventyou can turn into literaturebecomes, as it were, speakable"(14 1). Yet in arguingthat the Holocaust must be "speakable",KlUger is not denyingthe possibility of silencein Holocaust narratives.The specificevent to which sherefers is the gynaecologicalexperiments carriedout on womenin the camps,experiments that were not conductedfor even pseudoscientificreasons, but ratherto ensurethat the women had not hidden any valuablesin their bodies.In her testimony,she acknowledges that "I find it difficult down that I havedone in [ ] to write this andnotice so a rather circuitousway. ... Later, in college,I was oddly relievedto find similar scenesin that greatsatirical classic,Voltaire's Candide"(141). The discoverythat the representationof her experiencehad a literary precedentseems to comfort Klilger, as it placesher experiencesin the realm of the known and so the "speakable." Significantly, however,Klilger notesthat "it was not a traumaticexperience; it wasjust humiliating" (141). The experienceof traumathat hasno literary precedentcannot be so easily represented,and KlUgermakes an implicit distinction betweenthe humiliating which is "speakable," and the traumaticwhich belongsto the realm of silence.

Brown's secondpategory is that of expressivesilence, a silenceof "communicativepower, " and it is this modethat Wiesel favoursmost prominentlyin his Holocaustwriting. Wieselasserts that:

sometimes,when no words arepossible, silence can be an alternative language.It is possibleto transformsilence into a language,to havea language [ ] We is of silence. ... must alwaysask ourselveswhat the bestlanguage to let suffering speak.Sometimes our answermay be silence.(Wiesel and Beal 35)

In this formulation,silence becomes not an absencebut the presenceof that which cannotbe spoken.Brown arguesthat "It is the silencewithin his [Wiesel's] speech, the silencebetween the words,that communicatesto us. What is not said is as importantas what is said.Perhaps more so" (3 1). Daniel Schwarzreacts to this by consideringthe very structureof N&ht:

Perhapswe shouldfor a momentthink of Wiesel's text as a physical object and note its slimness,its titlelesschapters, its breaksbetween

99 anecdotes.We wonderwhat could be-added in thosewhite spaces- whetherhis loss of faith, for example,is gradual?(54)

Schwarzsuggests that the very brevity of Night encouragesthe readerto focus on that which is absent.In essence,the absenceof an exhaustivenarrative text calls for a greaterpresence of engagementfrom the reader.

In his novel A Beggar in Jerusalem, Wiesel specifically links language with destruction, writing "I don't like words! They destroy what they aim to describe, they alter what they try to emphasise.By enveloping the truth, they end up taking its place" (135). For Wiesel, language conceals rather than reveals truth, in that language will always distort, destroy even, the relationship between representation and the real. if language is linked in this way with destruction, then for Wiesel silence provides a spacewhich the real can inhabit.

But this relianceon silenceas a form of communicationcan be dangerous.As Brown points out, "the distancebetween what the storyteller saysthrough silenceand what his listenersmay hearmay be too great" (32). If silencecan be interpretedas imbuedwith meaning,then there is also the risk that it can be interpretedas emptiness.

In accepting that the failure of language is due to the radically different frames of reference between the survivor and non-survivor, where experience distorts the meaning of words, then surely the meaning of silence too is jeopardised by the distance between the survivor and non-experiential reader. The intention behind the silence of the witness may be as unrecognisable to the reader as the meaning conferred onto words such as "hungry" and "thirsty" by the experience of the Holocaust. The crisis of representation intensifies as the witness becomes doubly

challenged by the failure of language and silence. The only responseto this Brown, is "to break to be [ ] One becomes challenge, argues silence, a messenger. ... a messenger,then, becauseone cannot not speak" (3 6-3 7). The witness cannot simply remain silent, cannot refuse to testify, but must rather create a testimonial spacein which silence can be acknowledged, a narrative in which expression and silence are allowed an equal status. Although Brown's argument is valid, it fails to offer a

100 solutionto the original problemthat whilst silencemay be acknowledged,its meaningmay remainunintelligible to the reader.Yet perhapsthis unintelligibility is essentialto the Holocaustnarrative, for to replaceit with understandingwould be to betraythe experienceof the Holocaust.Paradoxically then, the Holocaustnarrative is at oncean act of representationand an admissionthat representationis not possible.

The third form of silencethat Brown identifies is that which is bom out of respect,"a silencethat honours,the deadtoo much to profanetheir memory by using words alreadydoomed to fail" (30). This silencebom from respectemerges from the senseof duty to the deadwhich dominatesthe desireto tell the tale. As discussed previouslyhowever, the fear of betrayingthe deadco-exists with the desireto tell their story and makethem present.In this formulation, the presenceof silencein the testimonialtext accordsthe deada placein the survivor narrative.

Silence and the Voices of the Dead

Why I write? To wrenchthose victims from oblivion. To help the dead vanquishdeath. (Wiesel, Why I Write 206)

In writing the preface to Moments of Reprieve, a collection of short stories abouthis time in Auschwitz publishedin 1981, Levi looked back to his accountof Auschwitz in If This is a Man and reflected on the individuals who populated his testimony:

A great number of human figures especially stood out against that tragic background: friends, people I'd travelled with, even adversaries - begging me one after another to help them survive and enjoy the ambiguous perennial existence of literary characters. This was no longer the anonymous, faceless,voiceless mass of the shipwrecked, but the few, the different, the ones in whom (if only for a moment) I had recognised the will and capacity to react, and hence a rudiment of virtue. (10)

This passagedemonstrates Levi's commitmentto rescuingthe deadfrom oblivion by bearingwitness to the experiencesthat they were unableto tell. The testimonial practicethat Levi exhibits in If This is a Man representsan attemptto replacethe silenceof the deathsof the sommersiwith a narrativeaccount of their experiences.

101 Reassertingthe individuality of the victims through narrating their personal experiencesis an act of resistance against the process of dehumanisation. Thus, we are told the stories of the bestial and atavistic Elias who thrived in the camps; of Steinlauf who retained his dignity as a man through his insistence on cleanliness; of Null-Achtzehn, whose brief story attempts to counter the anonymity his number bestowed upon him; and of Alberto, Levi's companion throughout their time in the camp.

However,the selectionof anecdotesincluded is not completelyarbitrary. Thosewho Levi choosesto write aboutare included as examplesto illuminate his own philosophicaland sociologicalattempts to understandAuschwitz. For example, his accountof Null Achtzehn,called only by his tattooedcamp number rather than "no longer [ ] inside, involucre, his name,as a man. ... empty nothing more than an like the sloughof certaininsects which one finds one the bank of swamps,held by a threadto the stonesand shakenby the wind" immediatelyfollows a passageof his own thoughtsin which he describesAuschwitz as utterly hostile to humanlife, renderingindividuals only as mastersor slaveswith no individuality (If This is a Man 48). Similarly, his accountof Steinlauf,a "man of good will" (47) who washesevery day to remind himself that he is a man, is interspersedwith Levi's understandingof Auschwitzas a socialexperiment which seeksto dehumanisethe individual. Steinlaufs story is a modemparable, explicating Levi's view that:

precisely becausethe Lager was a great machine to reduce us to beasts,we must not become beasts; that even in this place one can survive, and therefore one must want to survive, to tell the story, to bear witness; and that to survive we must force ourselves to save at least the scaffolding, the form of civilisation. (47)

Indeed,the analogywith a parableis apt, as Levi himself considersthat the storieshe tells arethe "storiesof a new Bible" (72). By viewing his testimonyin this way, Levi is connectinghimself to the Jewishtradition of midrash,seeking to banishabsence by encouraginga continuity within Jewishhistory. For Levi, the deadare not simply gonewithout trace,but ratherbecome incorporated into a continuingJewish heritage that cannotbe destroyed.By acknowledgingtheir absence,he makesthe sommersi present.

102 Yet Levi is also cautiousto acknowledgethat he cannotspeak for the dead, and that althoughby writing he can conjurea presence,words cannotdefeat absence completely.In the prefaceto Momentsof Reprievehe commentson the dubious ambiguityof the deadliving on throughthe text. He confrontsthis paradoxical relationshipbetween life, deathand the text in The Periodic Table when he spendsa chaptertrying to flesh out a friend from university, SandroDelmastro. Delmastro was caughtand killed by the Fascistsin April 1944when fighting with a resistancegroup. Levi sadly concludesthe chapterin the realisationthat "Today I know it is a hopeless task to dressa man in words,words to makehim live again on the printed page" (48). Despitethis, for Levi it is crucial that thesefragments of people'slives be told, if the experienceof the Holocaustis to be conveyed.For Levi, survivor testimonyis somehowincomplete. Only thosewho did not survive could narratethe totality of the Holocaust.In orderto conveyany understandingto thosewho were not there,it is necessaryto revealthe absenceof thosemurdered, and to makethat absencefelt as an overwhelmingpresence in the text. In If This is a Man, we are introducedto a number of namelessindividuals, whose stories are nevertold, most probablybecause Levi neverknew them. Yet the silenceof thesebarely introducedfigures communicates their presence.He mentionsa one man, a Pole namedRynek with whom he briefly shareda bed. We are given little information abouthim; he spokeimpeccable French, was aboutthirty, "but like all of us, could be taken for seventeenor fifty" (71). Like all people,Rynek had a story, but:

Ile told me his story, and today I have forgottenit, but it was certainly a sorrowful, cruel and moving story; becauseso are all our stories, hundredsof thousandsof stories,all different and all full of a tragic, disturbingnecessity. (71-72)

The acknowledgementof the silencesurrounding Rynek, and the hundredsof thousandsof othersis a powerful expressionof their existence.Through the absence of their stories,Levi emphasisesthe significanceof silencein testimonialwriting. Maurice Blanchotregarded silence as being "linked to the cry, the voicelesscry, " the voice of thosewho cannotspeak, the voicesof the dead(5 1). Thus by accepting silenceinto the text, it is acknowledgedthat the testimonyof the survivor experience

103 is, as felt by Wiesel and Levi amongst others, incomplete without the presenceof those who were the true witnesses. In The Survivor, Terrence Des Pres notes writes:

Silence, in its primal aspect, is a consequenceof terror, of a dissolution of self and world that, once known, can never be fully dispelled. But in retrospect it becomes something else. Silence constitutes the realm of the dead. It is the palpable substanceof those millions murdered, the world no longer present, that intimate absence love by is haunted. In - of God, of man, of - which the survivor the survivor's voice, the dead's own scream is active. (36)

Through acknowledging the silence of the dead, and allowing their tangible absence to constitute a large proportion of his test, Levi's testimony metaphorically comes to be a multi-authored piece of work, encompassingboth the living and the dead. The silence in Holocaust testimonies is in part the silence of a deferred presence; it is the cry of the dead through the voice of the living.

This desireto give a voice to the deadalso informs the structureof testimonial writing. RobertEaglestone has noted that "many [Holocaust]testimonies end with specificacts of rememberingindividuals who were murdered"(126). Testimonies frequentlyreturn to the dead,allowing to them the final words of the text. As discussedin the previouschapter, Wiesel endshis testimonyNight with an understandingof himself as one of the dead.Levi concludeshis accountof his daysin as a prisonerwith the hangingof a fellow prisonerfor his part in the revolt in Auschwitz.The final chapterof his testimony,"The Story of Ten Days", recordsthe limbo-like statein which Levi existedbetween the evacuationof the campand the arrival of the Russians.Although the text endson a seeminglyoptimistic note as Levi writes that he hopesto meetone day with anotherman who sharedthose final days with him, this hopeful conclusionis overshadowedby the deathof S6moygi,a I fungarianJew, during the night beforeliberation. The afterwordto Levi's testimony is concludedwith the starknessof death:"of the Italian deportees,for example,only about5 percentreturned, and manyof thoselost families, friends,property, equilibrium, youth" (If This is a Man 398). As such,the end of the book, that is the end of the words,does not constitutethe end of the testimony.The silencewhich signalsthe completionof the written text comesto constitutepart of the testimony, for that silenceis the representationof the storiesthat could not be told. Testimony,

104 then, can neverbe completedas the silencecontinues to relatethe presenceof the dead.Eaglestone suggests that the testimonialgenre is characterisedby what he terms a "lack of closure," the narrationof the Holocaustcan neverbe completed(13 3). This is indicatedby the frequencywith which survivorsrevisit their past in further accountsof their memories.In Momentsof Reprieve,Levi explainshis compulsionto revisit Auschwitz in narrativeform, twenty yearsafter the publication of his first testimony:

I realised that my experience of Auschwitz was far from exhausted. I had described its fundamental features, which today have a historical pertinence, but a host of details continued to surface in my memory, idea letting them fade distressed [ ] The and the of away me. ... reader may be surprised at this rediscovered narrative vein, thirty or forty years after the events. Well, it has been observed by psychologists that the survivors of traumatic events are divided into two well-defined groups: those who represstheir past en bloc, and those whose memory of the offense still persists, as though carved in stone, prevailing over all previous or subsequentexperiences. Now, not by choice but by nature, I belong to the second group. (9-11)

Levi's explanationreveals the hauntingpresence of a dualisedpost-Auschwitz self, as discussedin chapterone. It echoesDelbo's descriptionof her Auschwitz self that lives alongsideher everydayself, and coloursher day-to-dayexistence. Levi refersto an outsideauthority, the nameless"psychologists, " to legitimise his own feelingsof the doublethat manifestsitself as the memory of the offence.It is this memorythat fuels his responsibilityto narratingthe storiesof the sommersi.In The PeriodicTable he commentsthat "the things that I had seenand sufferedwere burning inside of me: I felt closerto the deadthan the living" (151). His affinity to the deadis revealed throughhis incorporationof their experiencesand their storiesinto his own.

Speechand Silencein the Holocaust Text

The failure of languageand the attemptto createa communicativesilence that incorporatesthe voicesof the deadall representaspects of silencein testimony. However,exploring Holocaust testimonies as narrativetexts revealsthat silencealso functionsmore overtly in themeand speech.When Wiesel refersto the "death of language," he is referring to the incapacityof words to be able to describeevents. It was on arrival in Auschwitzthat Levi carneto understandthat words aloneare

105 insufficient,writing "then for the first time we becameaware that our languagelacks words to expressthis offence,the demolition of a man7(If This is a Man 32). Holocaustnarratives confront the readerwith peoplewho cannotspeak, or whose speechis repressedby circumstanceor by a refusal on the part of the listenerto acknowledgespeech. Throughout Night, Wiesel tracesthe declining eloquenceof his fatherwho servesas a model for Wiesel's belief that the Holocaustresulted in the deathof language.At the beginningof Night, his father is a well respectedfigure in the establishedJewish community in Sighet,often consultedfor adviceon public and personalaffairs. Wieseldescribes him as "a good story tellee', a culturedand sophisticatedman (23). However,the experienceshis father underwentin Auschwitz brokenot only his spirit as his father becamemore and more childlike and dependent on his son,but alsohis power to communicate.As the tide of war was turning against the Germansin 1945,Wiesel learnedthat therewas to be a transportleaving Auschwitz for an unknowndestination. Facing the choicelesschoice of either leaving with the transportor stayingin the campwith an uncertainfate at the end of either decision,he rushedto consulthis father: "What shall we do?" My fatherdid not answer. "What shall we do father?" He was lost in thought.The choicewas in our hands. "Well, what shall we do father?" He was silent. "Let's be evacuatedwith the others," I saidto him. He did not answer.(94)

His father is silenced;how to reasonsuch a decision,how to communicatethoughts when facedwith sucha choice?His father's speechis broken,and in Auschwitz it is characterisedby brokenand fragmentedlanguage. Wiesel himself was not exempt from this inability to communicate.Early on in his testimonyhe recallsthe suffocatingsilence that consumedhim when he tried to wam his neighboursof the impendingliquidation of the ghetto:"my throat was dry, the words chokedin it, paralysingmy lips. I could not sayanymore" (26). It seemsthat thereare simply no words to expressevents. This is not simply a crisis in the individual. Levi recordsthe curioussilence that descendedwhen his transportfirst arrived at Auschwitz. Standing on the ramp,the prisonerswere confrontedwith a violent reality they could not have imagined,and were left simply incapableof respondingto events:

106 We were afraid to breakthat silence:everyone busied himself with his luggage,searched for someoneelse, called to someoneelse, but in [ ] Everything timidly, a whisper ... was as silent as an aquarium,or as in certaindream sequences. If This is a Man 25)

The useof the term aquariumrenders an elementof the exotic in the descriptionof the silence.Everything is strange,surreal to the new prisoners,and they are unableto graspany words to describeit.

Dori Laub argues that the act of testifying is dualistic in nature, in that it requires both a speaker and a listener. When the listener is absent, then the testimony is renderedmute, and Holocaust testimonies often describe witnesses who are effectively silenced by those who refuse to listen. Wiesel opens Night with one such character, Moch6 the Beadle. Moch6 was a foreign Jew in the town of Sighet, and as such was deported with all the other foreign Jews before the ghettos were even established in the village. Miraculously, he managed to escapeand returned to Sighet to try and wam the Jews of their inevitable oncoming fate:

Throughlong daysand nights,he went from one Jewishhouse to another,telling the story of Malka, the young girl who had takenthree daysto die, and of Tobiasthe tailor, who had beggedto be killed beforehis sons... Mochdhad changed.There was no longer anyjoy in his eyes. He no longer sangHe no longertalked to me of God or the cabbala, but only of what he had seen.People refused not only to believehis stories,but evento listen to them. (17)

Mochd's words becomeas silencewhen peoplerefuse to hearhis warnings. Eventually,Wiesel writes "even Moch6the Beadlewas silent. He was weary of speaking"(19). By havinghis words renderedmetaphorically absent by ignoring them,Mochd finally falls into a literal silence,his testimonysilenced by the absence of willing listeners.Schwarz suggests that throughthe figure of Moch6, Wiesel steps outsidethe narrativein orderto addressthe readerand focus attentionon their moral responsibilityto the text:

Wiesel is using him [Moche] as metonymyfor himself in his present role as narratorwho is, as he writes, calling on us to listen to his words

107 as he tells his relentlesstale of his own miraculousescape from the Nazi terror. Implicitly, he is urging us that it is our ethical responsibilitynot to turn away from the witnessingvoice. (50)

Wieselreturns to this imageof the voice repressedthrough the absenceof a receptive listenerin the figure of MadameSchdchter. Her appearancein the testimonyas a premonitoryfigure addsto the mysticismthat pervadesthe testimony.During the transportto Auschwitz,Madame Schdchter grew hysterical,screaming a warning that shecould seefire. Terrified, the occupantsof the cattle car forced their way to the window to seefor themselves.There was no fire, and in angerat the panic shehad causedthey turnedon her, silencingher with blows and tying her up. Like Mochd she falls into silence,only for her terrible warning to cometrue on their arrival at Auschwitzwhen they saw for the first time the flamesof the crematorium.

Textual Silence

As silencebecomes prominent thematically in the silencingof speech,it also breaksout visually on the written page.Wiesel writes that in Auschwitz, "silence grew oppressive"(MiZht 49). The configurationof silenceas oppressiveconstitutes a readingof silenceas presencerather than absence,and this presenceis reflectedin the structureof the text. The text is constructedin an awkward,stuttering fashion. Brief chaptersare complementedby the brevity of individual statements.Sentences are madeup of shortbarking isolatedphrases such as: "The military march.The gate. The camp.I ran to Block 36" (87); "1 repeatedto myself. Don't stop.Don't think. Run" (97). This sparsenessof style seemsto suggestthe presenceof unspokenwords behindthose expressed. There is no time to stop,no time to think; also it seemsthere is no time to speak,for it seemsthat eventhough Wiesel returnedrepeatedly to his Holocaustexperiences in subsequentautobiographical and fictional narratives,there is neverenough time or spaceto fully representhis experiences.Silence also breaks out in the text more explicitly in the form of frequentellipses and pauses.Towards father's becomesbroken: "I Have the end Wiesel's speech can't go on.... mercy on I'll here can get to the baths You can comeand find me" (116). me.... wait until we .... Thesepauses in direct speechare common,but thereare also suchmoments in the straightnarrative, for example,on the occasionof an Allied bombingraid on Buna, Wiesel writes: "The raid lastedover an hour. If it could only have lastedten times

108 hours! Then fell (72). The in is more ... silence oncemore" unnaturalsilence the camp mademore vivid to the readerthrough the unexpectedbreak in the narrative.Levi adoptsthis sametechnique in If This is a Man, recalling: "... And for the first time sinceI enteredthe campthe reveille catchesme in a deepsleep and its ringing is a return from nothingness"(56). Whilst the harshinterruption of the reveille is reflectedin the structuraldisjunction between the silent ellipsis and the comparative din of linguistic expression,this sentenceis also representativeof the rupture Auschwitz generatedin Levi's life. The openingcaesura intimates a fracturing betweentwo lives, a life outsidethe campbeing reducedto "nothingness"as Levi becomesassimilated into an existencein Auschwitz.

Wiesel interprets these silences in the text from a theological perspective, linking the silences in Holocaust testimony to Jewish traditions of sacred writing:

The spacebetween any two words is vasterthan the distancebetween heavenand earth.To bridge it you must closeyour eyesand leap.A Hasidictradition tells us that that in the Torah the white spaces,too, are God-given.Ultimately, to write is an act of faith. (All Rivers 321)

This theologicallyinflected understandingof textual caesurainvites the readerof testimonyto explorethe significanceof silencein testimony.Jewish tradition associatesthe sacredwith the unspeakable,evidenced through the written representationof God as YHWH. White spacesin the text reflect then not an absence, , but an unspeakablepresence in the Torah and also within Holocausttestimony. This connectionwith the sacredhas been noted by survivors;just as Levi has speculated that the storiesof the Holocaustconstitute the "stories of a new Bible" (If This is Man 72) so Wieselhas called for a "new Talmud" in the wake of the Holocaust (JewishValues 285). ErnstVan Alphen arguesthat if "the extremehorror of the language fall [ I Holocaust historical reality causes to short ... the assumes metaphysicaldimensions: it becomesthe absolutesymbol of Evil, and henceit is as unrepresentableas Yahwelf' (43). However,van Alphen characterisesthis approach as "undesirableand evendangerous because it ultimately makesit impossibleto see the Holocaustas a moment,albeit apocalyptic,in humanhisto? y' (43). For van Alphen, constructingthe Holocaiistas a metaphysicalphenomenon threatens to

109 exciseit from history altogether,as the Event cannotbe recognisedas the consequenceof humanactions, as part of "human history."

Drawing on theoriesof memory and trauma,Mieke Bal offers a different interpretationof the "white spaces"in the Holocausttestimony. Bal arguesthat "in narratologicalterms, repression results in ellipsis - the omissionof important elementsin the narrative[... ] repressioninterrupts the flow of narrativesthat shapes memory" (Bal, Creweand Spitzerix). Whilst Bal employsthe term "ellipsis" more generallyto meanany omissionin the narrative,rather than only textual pauses,the suggestionthat ellipsesare a consequenceof the repressionof traumaticmemories offers a useful approachto Kitty Hart's testimonyI am Alive. I am Alive is the first of Hart's Holocausttestimonies and was written, accordingto the dedication,to tell the story of her experiencesto her children.The story of Hart's survival is almost incredible:her family fled from Bielsko in Silesiain 1939to Lublin, hoping for safer conditionsin centralPoland. As the situationbegan to deterioratein Lublin with the implementationof the NurembergLaws and ghettoisationin 1940,her family attemptedto flee over the German-Russianborder, but were forced back to the Lublin ghetto.Recognising the dangerthey were in as the ghettoround-ups increased, the family chancedan escapefrom the ghettoby removingthe armbandsthat identified them as Jews,and boldly walking out of the ghettogates. They briefly soughtrefuge in small village to the southnamed Zabia Wola, but were all too awareof the precariousnessof their situation.Her father managedto obtain false ID papersfor them, and they returnedto the comparativesafety of Lublin under assumedidentities. On arriving there,the family decidedto separatein order to remain safe.Hart remainedwith her mother,and together they found placeson a transportof Poles being takento work in Germany.They worked for IG Farbenfor sometime but in 1942their true identity was discoveredand they were arrestedby the Gestapoand deportedto Auschwitz.In 1944,Hart and her motherwere transportedto Gross Rosen,and then onto a small labourcamp called Reichenbachin southeast Germany. In February1945, the order was given to evacuatethe campand sheand her mother were forced into a long and dangerousdeath march. The approachingend of the war broughtchaos as the prisonerswere marchedfrom placeto placeas their guards soughtto evadethe Allied advance.Liberation finally camein April of that year, and Hart and her motherworked for the Americantroops who liberatedthem for some

110 time as interpreters. It was in 1946 that they finally discovered that they were the only survivors from their family.

Yet Hart's story of a seriesof almostmiraculous escapes is told in a carefully measuredand restrainedstyle. The introductionto her testimony,written by Lord Russellof Liverpool, speaksof a "completelack of emotion in her fascinating accountof thoseterrible years," and attributesthis sparsestyle to Hart's repressionof emotions,since "a saturationpoint is reachedwhen all feelingsof love and hateare killed and all that is left is a kind of indifference" (9). It is possibleto detectthis repressionin her useof ellipsesin the text. Recallingher time in Auschwitz, Hart writes:

Only sheerfaith and willpower could keep one alive. Death seemedan easyway out. All that was neededwas a slight touch of the electrified fencewhich held us prisonerand finish.... Every day girls were found deadnear the fence.(66)

In this description,Hart usesthe ellipsis to move from an action performedby the fence image lain living - the touchingof the - to the of corpses on the floor. The ellipsis representsa repressionof the unspeakable,the momentof transition from life to death.Yet whilst the passagedoes not - cannot- representthis moment,the enforcedpause created by the ellipsis focusesthe reader'sattention on what is meant by the oddly neutralword "finish." Shereturns to this useof ellipsis as repression when describingher work in the Kanadakommandoin Auschwitz. Shewas working therein 1944,and recallsthe preparationsthat were madefor the arrival of the HungarianJews: "another party of girls was brought out from Lager BII - there would be so much more to be sorted"(10 1). The dashseems to signal an inability to confront what the arrival of more labourerssignified. The imminent murderof thousandsof Jewsin what would later be understoodas one of the most intense periodsof liquidation in Auschwitz is representedobliquely with a referenceto the additionallabour that would be forcedupon the Kanadakommando.Whilst this does not seemto be repressionexactly, it is an acknowledgementthat somethings seeminglycannot be describeddirectly.

III Hart's useof dashesalso drawsattention to the actual processof writing, highlighting, probablyunwittingly, the conflict betweennarrative techniques and the story that the narrativeseeks to reveal.In an attemptto describethe areawhere the Kanadakommandoworked, Hart exposesthe inadequacyof simile in her writing:

At the bottom on the left hand side,by the last huts, was a hugeheap - it really looked like a mountain- as high at least as a threestorey building. [ ] These the belongings dead.(85) ... were of thosealready

The dashesfunction to separatethe mountainsimile from the rest of the descriptive text in this passage,suggesting that this narrativetechnique is somehowout of place in her testimony.A later commentalso functionsto revealthe redundancyof simile, when shewrites "it seemedas if blood was coming out, as indeedit was" (87). Alvin H. Rosenfeldasserts that the failure of metaphorand simile is one of the "abiding laws" of Holocaustwriting. He argues:

Thereare no metaphorsfor Auschwitzjust as Auschwitz is not a metaphorfor anythingelse. Why is that the case?Because the flames were real flames,the ashesonly ashes,the smokealways and only [ ] burningsdo lend themselvesto smoke. ... the not metaphor,simile, or symbol- to likenessor associationwith anythingelse. They can only 'be' or 'mean' what in fact they were: the deathof the Jews.(19)

However,Rosenfeld's prohibition on the useof metaphorin Holocaustnarratives misinterpretsthe way in which metaphorcan function within theseaccounts. Rosenfeldjustifies his argumenton the basisthat metaphorcan only fail in a narrative which dealswith the horrorsof the Holocaust.Yet, I would argue,it is preciselythis failure of metaphorwhich confirmstheir value in thesetexts. It is throughthe recognitionof the failed metaphorand a realisationthat metaphorsare inadequatefor the task of describingthe Holocaustthat the readermoves towards an understanding of the unrepresentablenature of the Holocaustand so closerto an understandingof the reality of the Holocaust.However, this is not to suggestthat the useof metaphor in Holocaustnarratives is alwayscharacterised by failure. In a discussionof the writing of TadeuszBorowski, SidraDeKoven Ezrahi arguesthat metaphorsucceeds [ ] [ ] borrowedfrom only when "imagesof comparison ... are ... similes the same realm of experience"(55). Although Hart usesmetaphor and simile sparingly throughouther account,there are occasionswhen it seemsto work effectively. Hart's

112 successfulmetaphors work preciselybecause she writes from within her experience, and so seemsto sealthe narratorinto the world sherepresents in her narrative.Her descriptionof the SS guardsin the final daysof the deathmarch as "lost sheep" servesto dehumanisethe guardsin the sameway that Nazi rhetoric soughtto dehumanisethe Jewsby likening them to animals(142). The juxtaposition of these dehumanisedguards with the prisonerswho were "singing and laughing," joyous in the knowledgeof their imminent liberation addsto the power of the simile (142).

The pause is a stumbling point, a point at which the reader can hear silence as a tangible presence.Silence in the performative text takes on a dual reality; it is both a relation of the real silence of the Holocaust, and it is part of the text as a real and physical entity, a material trace of the Holocaust. Maurice Blanchot wrote that "the disaster happensafter the event" (5 1); the possibility of experiencing the disaster lies in its physical trace. Thus, the physicality of the text becomes participatory in the Holocaust, and indistinguishable from it. The fragmented construction of the text allows the chaos of the Holocaust to enter into its contemporary physical trace, and thus the text becomesnot an interpretative representation of the past, but rather a presentation of itself as the disaster.

In exploring these different forms that silence takes in Holocaust testimony, it can be seenthat silence operatesas a present absencethat bears witness to the unlived experience, to the failure of language and unspeakability of the event, to the connection of the Holocaust to Jewish history, and to the voices of the sommersi. To return to Treat who links the incommunicability to the Holocaust to that of the atomic bombings, silence is a primary theme in the writings of hibakusha. However, the composition of the silence in these writings differs to that in Holocaust testimonies. The event, the representation of the event, language, and silence interact in different ways in genbaku bungaku (atomic bomb writing) in a way which I have defined in an opposing manner as "presence as absence."

113 2.3 Presence as Absence: Writing the Japanese Experience

Silencing the Atomic Voice

The bond betweenhibakusha and testimonialpractice is expressedthrough the appellationkataribe or storyteller.In commonwith Holocaustsurvivors such as Primo Levi who keenly felt the needto tell their tale, many A-bomb survivorstestify to the same."I feel an urgentneed to passon to otherswhat happened," writes Masaki Sachiko,"I want to standbefore each and every personon the faceof the earthand tell of the madnessand horror of war" (146). Yet, as is the casewith Holocausttestimonies, this compulsionto tell the tale is compromisedby the inability to find words to describethe experience.Masaki was fourteenat the time of the bombing,and alongwith many other schoolchildrenof her agehad beenmobilised as part of the war effort to work in a Nagaskitorpedo factory. Shewas in the factory when the bomb fell and whilst shewas fortunatenot to be badly injured herself,she witnessedmuch sufferingas shestruggled back to her homethat day. In the aftermath,she fell victim to A-bomb diseasewhich disabledher for a year, and continuedto plagueher throughouther life, culminating in the needfor an operation for canceras an adult. "I alwaysfind myself in a quandarywhen I try to talk about my experiencesas a victim of the atomic bomb," shewrites. "I want to tell what it was like but I cannotfind the words. How can I possibly makeothers understand? I tend to give up halfway" (146). As John Whittier Treat suggests,it is at this point of inexpressibilitythat Holocaustsurvivors and hibakushafind unity. Whilst the difficulties of finding a way to representthe traumaof the atomic bomb, suchas the failure of language,are often immeasurablefor hibakusha,these are not the only barriersto expressionthat they face. Specificcultural, social and historical factors lend this thwartedcompulsion to tell the tale hasa further dimension.Silence ftinctions;as a measureof authenticityfor the hibakusha,in the commonlyheld belief that thosewho genuinelyexperienced horror would not speakof it. This belief is most explicitly statedby a secondgeneration survivor, whosefather neverspoke to him abouthis experiencesof "that day", as hibakushacame to term the day the atomic bomb was dropped.The son sawhis father's silenceas evidenceof the truth he "Those it [ ] of the trauma endured,saying who really sufferedcannot talk about ... for if you knew the real experienceof the nuclearannihilation, you would not even

114 wish to recall if' (qtd. in Yoneyama88). According to this perspective,silence becomesevidence for the truth of experience.The silencingof the experienceis actively encouragedby the potentiallistener.

This silencingof the victim is also encounteredin Holocaustnarratives. For example,Ruth KRIgerrecalls her aunttelling her after the war not to speakof her experiences,exhorting her to "erasefrom your memory everythingthat happenedin Europe.You haveto makea new beginning.You haveto forget what they did to you. Wipe it off like chalk from a blackboard"(219). Dori Laub arguesthat suchenforced silencedoes not authenticatethe truth of the story, but ratherannihilates the story itself:

The absenceof an empatheticlistener, or more radically, the absence of an addressableother, an other who can hearthe anguishof one's memoriesand thus affirm and recognisetheir realness,annihilates the story. (Felmanand Laub 68)

The possibility of testimonyis destroyedby the refusalto hearit. "For the testimonial processto takeplace, " Laub continues,"there needsto be a bonding,the intimate and total presenceof an o1her- in the position of one who hears.Testimonies are not monologues;they cannottake placein solitude" (70). Denying the possibility of dialogueby imposingsilence makes testimony impossible. Whilst both Holocaust survivorsand hibakushatestify to being told to remain silent abouttheir experiences, the natureof this injunction is subtly different. For the Holocaustsurvivor, thereis little to suggestthat revealingtheir experienceswould compromisethe authenticityof their account.For the hibakusha,this is a primary motivation for the concealmentof traumaticmemories. Criticism of hibakushawho speakout abouttheir experiencesof the A-bomb is widespread,and has become a commercialand industrial concern. Yoneyamapoints to the antagonismthe hibakushafaced from post-warurban redeveloperswho objectedto the city of Hiroshima's imagebeing forevertainted by its terrible past,a particularexample being the "PeaceTower". Plannedto be the world's largestskyscraper, it was proposedto be a centreof entertainmentand commercethat would rejuvenateHiroshima's prosperity. The plansincluded a monumentto the atomic bomb in the form of a "light of peace"within the development.Objections to the inappropriatenature of the building were greetedwith

115 the response:"we certainly do not meanto deny the Atomic Bomb Dome.But isn't it abouttime to pursuenot only the misery but also the pleasuresof peace?" (qtd. in Yoneyama43). The motivation behindhibakusha testimony is treatedsuspiciously, and Yoneyamaconcludes that the redeveloperssuspect that the survivors:

keepon speakingabout the pastnot so much becausethey genuinely believethat their storytellingscan somehowdeter the future useof nuclearweapons, but becausethey wish to further partisanpolitical interests.These redevelopers believe that thosewho "really know the bomb" would not be able to talk it so openly. (89)

Hibakushaface, then, an openly hostile receptionto their memorieswhich encouragesthem to remain silent abouttheir experiences.Further to this, many hibakushafeared discrimination as a result of having lived throughthe bomb. Employerswere often concernedthat A-Bomb relatedillness might impair the ability of their workers;ignorance, particularly in the early years,about the natureof A- Bomb diseaseled to the rumour that it was contagious,and so many avoidedcontact with hibakusha.Fears that hibakushawere left infertile by their experiences,or that they may passon geneticdeformities or disordersto their children as a result of their exposureto radiation,meant that many survivorsfaced harsh social prejudice when seekingmarriage partners. The Australianjournalist Wilfred Burchett,one of the first Allied journaliststo go to Hiroshimaafter the bombing,recalls the words of Ms Hasegawain 1971. Bom in the year of the atomic bombing,she spoke to him of the still prevailing social discriminationagainst hibakusha, saying "People who come from outsideto work in Hiroshimahave a slogan'Don't marry a Hiroshimagirl' becausethey fear for the after effects" (qtd. in Burchett63). The combinationof these attitudesled to many hibakushaconcealing their experiences,even from family members,as in the caseof ShizueKoga's sisterwho concealedher past from her children,as discussedin chapterone.

Censorship and Expression: Ota Yoko's "City of Corpses"

During the post-warOccupation period, the silencingof hibakushawas not merely encouraged,but legally enforced.On September19 1945,the General Headquartersof the Allied Occupationput in placea PressCode which soughtto

116 censorany materialconsidered to be seditious,including a blanketban on any unauthoriseddiscourse on the atomic bomb. Kyo Maclearhas aptly commentedthat the "post-war censorshipcodes operated to mute the voicesof atomic victims" and it did this very effectively (43). Not only political writings fell underthe remit of the PressCode, but also music,photographs, films and children's books.The Codealso mutedthe sufferingof the hibakushaon a much more individual level, as John W. Dower explains:

It is at the local level that U. S. censorshipwas most inhumane.With but rare exceptions,survivors of the bomb could not grievepublicly, could not sharetheir experiencesthrough the written word, could not be offered public counseland support.(127)

Retributionfor breakingthe codewas swift. ShiegoHayashi, a photographer,had all of his photographsof the immediateaftermath of the bombingseized by the General Headquartersin December1945 (Yamane 11). He was fortunateto escapefurther punishment,for as Maclearobserves, "on more than one occasion,the publication ban wasused as a basisfor harassingand threateningartists into compliance"(42). Sh6daShinoe, a little known poet, respondedto her experiencesof the atomic bombingof Hiroshimawith a privately publishedcollection of one hundredwaka (a genericterm coveringa variety of unrhymedpoetic styles).Although publishedin October1948, the dateson the edition were changedto readDecember 1948, when the PressCode restrictions were beginningto wind down. This modification of the date Treat, because [ ] publication was necessary,claims "Occupationofficials ... may havedecided to arrestSh6da - and accordingto the rumoursof the day, put her to death- for violating PressCode provisions" (Writing GroundZero 192).The Press Codewas widely consideredto be overly harsh,leading Kurihara Sadako,a leading critic of Ota Y6ko's work, to causticallycomment that "at that time it was forbidden to speakor write evenof the fact that therewas censorshipsystem in existence.It was not permittedeven to leavetraces indicating that the censorshad deleted anything" (qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 90). Setsuko,Thurlow, a feminist scholar,remains highly critical of the PressCode and arguesthat it meantthat the hibakusha"had to suffer alone,in silenceand with a senseof abandonment"(227).

117 Yet for all this the PressCode was inconsistent,particularly towards the end of the Occupationperiod in 1952.The publicationof objectivescientific datawas permitted,but literary works were subjectedto differing rulings. Whilst they were officially prohibited,some pieces evaded the attentionof censors.The most significantof theseis Tamiki's SummerFlowers,, which was publishedin 1947and avoidedcensorship, it hasbeen suggested, because it was publishedin a literary journal of suchlimited circulationthat it simply went unnoticedby the Occupation authorities(Treat Writing GroundZero 90).

Ota Y6ko was the first professionalauthor to publish work concerningthe A- bomb,in a piececalled "Kaitei no yd na hikari - genshibakudan no kashani atte" CIA Light as if from the Depths- The Atomic Air Bomb Air Attack"). Shelater echoedthe title of this piecein City of Corpseswhen shetried to describethe momentthat the A-bomb dropped,writing: I was soundasleep inside the mosquito [when A-bomb dropped].[ ]I dreamedI by blue flash, like net the ... was enveloped a lighteningat the bottom of the sea7(Ota 182).This brief article was publishedin the Asahi newspaperon August 30 1945,prior to the imposition of the PressCode. The style of this article, in its admirationfor the dignity of suffering,maintains a very different tone to her testimonyCity of CoEpses,,written immediatelyafterwards. She wrote:

The reality I saw in the riverbed in the sixth througheighth [of August] hell however, lived in was on earth... people the noblestspirit for days.[ II believe displayed thosethree ... that the end of the war the dignified beautyof the victims (qtd. in Tachibana30).

Prior to the bombingOta, like most Japanese,had maintaineda pro-war stance,and Treat suggeststhat this article standsas her final avocationof this perspective. Certainlythe sensethat imagesof beautycould be locatedwithin the experienceof the A-bomb is absentfrom any of her later writings. Treat attributesthis initial anomalousresponse to the "delusion of a personstill traumatisedby unprecedented events"(Writing GroundZero 202). These"delusions" would soonlift when she cameto write City of Corpses.

118 The easewith which this piecewas publishedin the pre-PressCode period contrastedstrongly with the oppositionOta facedwhen shecame to publish her testimonyjust a coupleof monthslater. Her manuscriptfirst attractedthe attentionof the censorswhen shesent it to her editor. Shewas visited by a non-Japanesespeaking Americanintelligence officer who had not evenread her manuscript,but nevertheless proceededto questionher extensively.He askedher to confirm who had readher manuscript,the political leaningsof her editor, and to supplyhim with a list of her friendsand their particularpolitical ideologies.She was also askedwhether she had beenback to Hiroshimasince the day of the attack(she had), and whetherher manuscriptexposed any atomic bomb "secrets".The official concludedhis interview with the order,"I want you to forget your memoriesof the atomicbomb. America won't usethe atomicbomb again,so I want you to forget the eventsin Hiroshima!' (Minear 141).Unsurprisingly, Ota repliedthat shecould not accedeto this order,but nevertheless,the first edition of her testimonywas publishedin November1948, albeit with significantdeletions. Richard H. Minear suggeststhat Ota's accountof this interview may not be entirely reliable as it was written someeight yearsafter the event,but eventaking this into account,the censoredfirst edition standsas testament to the stringentnature of the PressCode. The secondchapter of her testimony, "ExpressionlessFaces"', which lists the numbersof deadand injured using statistics sheclaims to havedrawn from an unnamednewspaper article, as well as the responsesof eminentJapanese physicians, was deletedentirely from the first edition. City of Co1pseswas not publishedin its entirety until May 1950.

"Wholly caught up in the city of corpses": The Testimony of Ota Yoko

Ota embarked on writing her testimony almost immediately on fleeing Hiroshima.She first movedto Hiroshimafrom a small village just west of the city in 1916when shewas 13 in orderto attendschool. She eventually married and remainedliving in Hiroshima,working as a schoolteacher. However, this, her first marriage,was troubled,and when it endedshe moved to Tokyo with her mother.By late 1944,the intensefirebombing of the capital led Ota to sendher motherto the comparativesafety of Hiroshima,and Otajoined her therein January1945. They were living theretogether with Ota's sisterand her infant daughteron August 6 when

119 the bomb was dropped.In the aftermath,they soughtrefuge in Kushima,and it was here,whilst living abovea sakeshop, that Ota wrote City of ColpLes.

In commonwith Wiesel,Levi and many other Holocaustsurvivors, Ota felt the needto tell the tale of the atomic bomb. Even as shewas walking throughthe ruined streetsof the Hakushimadistrict of Hiroshimain the immediateaftermath, Ota was awareof what sheperceived as her responsibilityto tell the world what had happened.As Ota and her sistermoved through the streetsnear the Teishin hospital, they found their way blockedby rubble and the corpsesof victims. Her sisterturned away from the sight, and criticised Ota for the impropriety of her gaze,who responded:"I'm looking with two setsof eyes- the eyesof a humanbeing and the eyesof writer" (Ota 205).This reply demonstratesthat Ota very rapidly became awareof a dualisedsense of self, as discussedin chapterone, developing out of traumaticexperience. Seemingly immediately she is able to distinguishbetween an experiential"human being" self, and an observingauthorial self, and sherealises the inextricablebond betweenthe two. Shecontinues, "someday I'll haveto [write about theseexperiences]. That's the responsibilityof a writer who's seenif' (205). Yet for Ota this imperativeto speaktakes on an addedpractical urgency that is absentfrom the writings of Levi and Wiesel. Indeed,Treat suggeststhat this "testimonial urgency"comes to inform her post-warfiction as well (Writing GroundZero 200). Whilst the ftill implicationsof the after-effectsof the atomicbomb were not properly understoodfor many years,the hibakusharapidly realisedthat surviving the initial blast was not a guaranteeof recovery. As time progressedmore and more people, including thosewho enteredthe cities after the daysof the bombing,began to succumbfatally to the after-effectsof radiation,the so-called"A-bomb disease".Ota was particularly fearftil of falling victim to this, and her testimonyis consequently overshadowedwith an awarenessof her potentially imminent death.In the prefaceto her testimony,written in 1950,she explains how thesefears came to inform her literary style:

Deathwas breathingdown my neck. If I was to die, I wantedfirst to fulfil my responsibilityof gettingthe story written down. Under thosecircumstances, I had no time to organiseCily o CoKpsesin good literary form. [... ] I had neitherthe time nor the emotionalreserves necessary to portray that reality clearly and skilfully in the format of superiorfiction.

120 I hurried with the writing, one thoughtin mind: to get it written, using the strengthI had and a form that cameeasily to me, beforeI died. (147)

It is interestingthat Ota considersfiction to be a superiorform of representationto testimony.It is perhapsher statusas a prominentwriter beforethe war that gaveher a greaterappreciation of literary style, and so a greaterstruggle when sheattempted to translateher experiencesof the A-bomb into written narrative.Looking back over her careeras a writer of both testimonyand fiction, Ota was left frustrated,commenting that:

I feel ashamedwhenever I plan a work making use of traditional Japaneseliterary techniques.I feel so ashamedthat I shudder.I live in a nationthat hasexperienced the unprecedented.I am unableto cling to the ordinary sortsof literaturethat we had before.(qtd. in Treat, Writing GroundZero 202)

Ota's recognitionof the failure of traditional Japaneseliterary techniquesin the wake of the atomicbomb conteststhe casualassumptions of somepost-war critics of testimonialliterature. Ian Buruma,in comparingthe (im)possibilitiesof narratingthe traumaof the Holocaustand the atomic bomb, suggeststhat "the jargon of Japanese imperialismwas racist and overblownbut it did not carry the stenchof the death camps"(50). The obviousimplication madeby Burumais that the Japaneselanguage did not sustainthe sameamount of damagethat the Germanlanguage did in the aftermathof the Holocaust.Buruma perhaps draws his conclusionfrom a simplistic understandingof the relationshipbetween acts of barbarityand the languagein which they were conceivedas interpretedby Steiner.According to Buruma'sformulation, as the Japaneselanguage was not contaminatedby perpetratorusage, the survivors can usetheir native languageto expresstheir experiencesas victims with greaterease than Holocaustsurvivors in Europewhose language was taintedby its association with the perpetrationof genocide.

As discussedin chapterone, Kurihara Sadakotakes an oppositeperspective and arguesthat the cultural experienceof resistancebom in World War 11bequeathed a new literary tradition upon Europeanwriters, which Holocaustsurvivors were able to draw upon when narratingtheir experiences.For Kurihara,the existencein Europe

121 of a twentiethcentury literary tradition that attemptsto deal with the complexitiesof the representationof atrocity, a tradition that goesback to the First World War, eases the burdenof incommunicability.Certainly, Ota's commentson the failure of existingJapanese literary forms to confront atrocity seemto accordwith Kurihara's opinion. Yet, this doesnot necessarilylegitimise Kurihara's claim. Holocaust survivorsalso recognise the failure of literary traditions to equipthem with the narrativetools with which to approachthe Holocaust.Wiesel explainedhis testimonialcrisis in writing that: I knew the role of the survivor was to testify. Only I did not know how. I lackedexperience, I lackedaframework. I mistrustedthe tools, the procedures"(qtd. in Schwarz53).

Ultimately, in arguingfor greaternarrative challenges for either hibakushaor Holocaustsurvivors, both Burumaand Kurihara are arguingfor a perspectivethat overlooksindividual responsesto atrocity, and generalisesthe representational difficulties that besetsurvivors from eachevent who attemptedto bearwitness to their experiences.Whilst the particularproblems of contaminatedlanguage and the absenceof an adequateliterary model cannot- and shouldnot - be ignored, questionsare inevitably raisedby the easewith which Burumaand Kurihara generalisetestimonial response. Is it really the casethat hibakushafaced fewer problemswith finding words to describetheir experiences?Did a different literary heritagewhich lent itself to the representationof atrocity significantly benefit Holocaustsurvivors who soughtto testify to their experiencesin narrativeform? The overwhelminglynegative response to eachof thesequestions found in the testimonies of survivorswarns against these generalised analyses which function to reducethe complexitiesof representationto a competitivelevel.

Ota's strugglewith literary form is evidencedthrough the fragmented structureof Cijy of Corpses,which incorporatesher personalresponse, characterised by her angertowards both the bomb and the Japanesemilitary authorities,whom she blamesfor the destruction,with extractsfrom newspaperarticles and statisticaldata. The inclusion of thesesources stems from her recognitionof the difficulty of trying "to communicatein writing the indescribablefright and terror, the gruesomemisery, the numbersof victims and dead,the horrifying conditionsof atomic bomb sickness"

122 (Ota 148).Directly contradictingBuruma's contention that hibakushadid not confront inadequacywithin existing language,Ota writes in her prologue:

The new methodsof descriptionand expressionnecessary to write cannotbe found in the repertoireof an establishedwriter. [... ] It would probablyhave been a simple matterif one were able to express the bitternessof that experiencein termsof that ready-madeconcept 'hell, ' whoseexistence I do not acknowledge.I was absolutelyunable to depictthe truth without first creatinga new terminology.(14 8)

To expandon this theme,she offers examples:of a girl whosebreast had beenripped out by the explosionshe writes, "try as one might to depict that in writing, it cannot be done" (149). Of anotheryoung woman,horrifically injured in the explosion,Ota sayssimply: "To peoplewho know nothing of the natureof a uraniumbomb, facts like thesemust seemlike lies" (149). As shefinds her skills of description jeopardisedin the face of individual instancesof suffering suchas these,so doesshe falter in trying to communicatethe more impersonalscale of the catastrophe,and at this point turns to a newspaperextract. In an understatedexplanation for her decision to includej ournalisticarticles, Ota writes:

Next, from newspaperclippings in my possession,I shouldlike to set down for posteritya statisticalof the casualtiesthe atomicbomb inflicted. I don't know why it is, but without doing so I can't get myself into the mood to start writing of the eventsof that summer morning in Hiroshima.(169)

Following this newspaper clipping, she includes extracts from the scientific report of Professor Fujiwara, and a medical report by Dr Tsuzuki. Words seemto fail Ota, and rather than remain silent, she choosesto include the words of others to supplement her own account. This reliance on factual data and scientific data when words fail is actually part of a wider trend, and comes to form an identifying characteristic of atomic bomb testimony.

Testimonialaccounts are characterisedby frequentreferences to the heatof the bomb,the size of the bomb,the survivorsdistance from groundzero. As the Holocaustnarrative falls into an expressivesilence at momentsthat defy description, so in the A-bomb narrativewe seea dependenceupon objectivedata as evidenceof descriptivelanguage failing the author.Yamaoka Michiko was agedfifteen when the

123 bombwas droppedon her hometown of Hiroshima.She states early in her testimony that:

My housewas one point threekilometers from the hypocenter.My placeof work was five hundredmeters from the hypocenter.I walked towardthe hypocenterin an areawhere all the housesand buildings had beendeliberately demolished for firebreaks[ ] They ... say temperaturesof seventhousand degrees centigrade hit me. (384)

Yamaokareplaces a descriptionof her experiencewith factual informationabout the temperatureof the blast that hit her, information that is not her own but borrowed from an anonymoussource. The geographyof the city is retrospectively acknowledged;she walks towardsthe blast hypocentre,as the topology of Hiroshima prior to the bomb is maderedundant in the face of the catastrophe.Descriptions of Hiroshimaas a city madeup of streetsand districts arerejected in favour of portrayingit solely in relation to the location of ground zero.The precisedetail revealedin this descriptioncan be betterrecognised when comparedwith the halting ambiguityin Yamaoka'sattempt to re-envisionthe momentthe bomb fell: "There was no sound.I felt somethingstrong. It was terribly intense.I felt colours" (384). The restraintdisplayed in this commentaryis inextricably linked to Yarnaoka's geographicalpositioning, and as discussedin chapterone, Treat is of the opinion that the closerthe individual was to the epicentreof the explosion,the greaterthe difficulty that survivor has in narratingtheir experiences,an opinion bome out by the evidencefrom The Witnessof ThoseTwo Dqys. The inclusion of factual datahere heraldsthe deficiencyin languageto describeexperience. This restrictionin expressionis further exemplifiedby Yarnaokaas sheattempts to portray the violent imagesthat shewitnessed:

Therewere people,barely breathing,trying to pushtheir intestines back in. Peoplewith their legswrenched off. Without heads.Or with facesburned and swollen out of shape.The sceneI saw was a living hell. (385)

The increasinglyfragmented sentences she uses are eventuallysilenced as Yamaoka falls into using familiar terms- the imageof hell - to portray the indescribable.On the other hand,Ota identifies her own inability, or refusal,to invoke the imageof hell in her narrativeas key to her strugglewith language.Ota commentsthat:

124 I havenot seenhell, nor do I acknowledgethe existenceof the Buddhisthell. Losing sight of the exaggerationinvolved, peopleoften spokeof the experienceof the atomic bomb as 'hell' or 'scenesof hell.' It would probablyhave been a simple matterif one were able to expressthe bitternessof experiencein termsof that readymade concept'hell' whoseexistence I do not acknowledge.(14 8)

Ota emphasisesher rejectionof the existenceof the Buddhisthell, and her comments carry a tone of condemnationfor thosesurvivors who slippedinto a "simple" comparisonof the destructionto hell. This makesher inclusion of the imageof hell in City of CorpLesall the more surprising.Writing of the chaosthat reignedin the city of Hiroshimain the aftermathcompared to the comparativetranquillity of the surroundingcountryside to which many survivorsfled, sheremarks, "The living hell that was Hiroshimaand the peacefulcountryside were distinctly different worlds" (237). In employingthe imageof hell, sheis betrayingher methodof testimonial practiceby "exaggerating"the sceneshe describes. Her choiceof the word 6'exaggeratioif'is curiousat first glance.However, Ota is not trying to diminish the horrorsof the bomb,but rathershe is expressingconcern that in utilising a "ready madeconcept", a conceptmoreover that is subjectto the interpretationof each individual who usesor hearsit, the witnessis shying away from the describingthe reality of the event.She is also wary of designatingany one sceneas like hell because sucha descriptionwould conjureup imagesof unsurpassedhorror to the reader.Yet for Ota, the horrorsshe witnessed cannot be rankedin this way, and shewrites frustratedly"I don't like to usethe word 'hell' becausethat would useup my vocabularyof horror; but therewas no other way to describethis scene"(205). However,her rejectionof the imageof hell placesOta in a difficult position. She acknowledgesthat as a descriptionit cannotdo justice to the bomb, but at the same time sheis unableto suggestan alternative.The corollary of her stridentrejection of hell imageryis the recognitionof the unrepresentabilityof the A-bomb.

Hibakushafrequently open their testimonialnarratives with a recordof their distancefrom the bomb, and this information often standsin placeof a descriptionof their experience.In anotheraccount, Yoshimura Katsuyoshi begins with:

125 In August 19451 was in the first gradeof primary school.My house was about 1.8kin from the hypocenter,at the approachto the Tsurami bridge.The bridge spansthe KyobashiRiver, a tributary of the Ota River that skirts Hijiyama Park.Along the embankmentwas a road five or six meterswide which our housefaced. From the road the houselooked as thoughit had only one storey,but from below it could be seento havetwo floors. (38)

Yoshimuracontinues in this descriptivevein for sometime. As with Yamaoka's account,the extentof this descriptioncan only be acknowledgedwhen comparedto the brief sentenceswhich describethe momentof the explosionitself.

The housecollapsed around us, and we were buried underthe debris. The ceiling andthe furniture from the secondfloor fell aroundus. It seemedlike a long time, but was probablyonly ten or fifteen minutes beforethings stoppedfalling and everythinggrew quiet. We were envelopedin darkness.(39)

The representationof the experienceof the bomb itself is detachedand emotionless,and minimal when placedin comparisonwith the lengthy factual descriptionof Yoshimura'sposition at the time of the attack.The emphasisplaced on positioningin so many hibakushatestimonies is in part due to historical context.The majority of early testimonieswere written by survivorsapplying for medical treatmentand financial assistance,and the genbakuWhO (the collective namefor the "two atombomb lawe'passedin 1957and 1968which dealt,somewhat belatedly, with hibakushawelfare) dictatedthat in orderto qualify, hibakushaneeded to clearly statetheir proximity to the epicentre. The effect of the atomic bomb on the individual had to presentedas calculablein scientific measurements,and as a consequence, personaltestimonies became littered with factual data.These early testimonies becamethe model for many later testimonies,and so the factual style of narration becamefirmly established.As Yoneyamapoints out, the effect of this scientific styling was that "survivors becamealienated from their pasts,as whateverevidence they suppliedfor their own experienceswas surpassedby externalisedand objectified criteria" (94). In this lengthy descriptionof quantifiablefacts, of the describable,is the implicit messagethat the personalexperience of the atomic bomb, of the indescribable,cannot be narrated.Personal experience becomes silenced, or at best, minimisedin the faceof factualnarration. This is not to suggestthat atomic bomb testimoniesdo not containmany disturbingpassages of horror both witnessedand

126 experienced.However, this relianceon factual datain descriptionsof momentsof extremisindicates a senseof detachmenton the part of the survivor; in replacingtheir own personalnarrative with anonymousfactual discourse,the survivor silencestheir own experienceby distancingthemselves from it.

Treat,however, suggests that Ota's call for a new languageis misplaced."The old one suffices," he argues."The real problem," he suggests:

is not the relationshipof the writer divorced from the meansof delineatinga new reality to that elusivemeans, but ratherthat of a writer fully initiated in that reality to a readershipwhich cannotbe, or, in considerationof the consequenceswhich might ensue,should not be. (Writing GroundZero 203)

This more subtleappreciation of the failure of languagein the face of atrocity reflects the concernsof Holocaustwriters suchas Delbo and Levi who acknowledgethat whilst atrocity may not destroylanguage, it destroysthe continuity of meaningin language.Survivors draw on a different frame of referenceto non-survivors,and Whilstthe words may exist to describethe atrocity they are renderedempty by the experienceof extremity. For Ota, the useof languagethat would be understoodby a non-survivor,that could recreatethe experienceof the bomb on the page,would heralda betrayalof the reality of the event.Lifton commentsthat shedeveloped "a survivor's senseof 'sacredhistorical truth', " that dominatedher attemptsto write aboutthe A-bomb (Deathin Life 425). In an interview with him, sheexplained "I just want to write the truth - to describeit as it was without exaggeration"(qtd. in Lifton Deathin Life 425). This desireto tell the truth as shesaw it is emphasisedin her prologueto City of Corpses.Ota writes:

My pen did not take in the whole city. I wrote only of my very limited experienceof the riverbed.[... ] I wrote also of the sightsI saw on our flight to the country.The whole city was buried in a calamity more sad and severethan the scenesI saw on the riverbed and in the streets;that fact I shouldlike my readersto be awareof. (148)

Ota's resistanceto the temptationto describeevents she had not witnessedis testamentto her desireto write only what sheknew to be the truth of the bombing, albeit limited in scope.In order to maintainher fealty to historical truth, shedismisses

127 the possibility of drawing on infort-nal reportage to supplement her account, preferring instead to rely only on that which she personally witnessed, and officially recorded factual data. Statistical facts in City of Cornses,then, in the form of confirmed death tolls and scientific reports stand as a form of representation that cannot be jeopardised by either the taint of exaggeration or inadequacy of language. For Ota, they are as direct a representation of the "sacred historical truth" as is achievable.

Ota has,however, been criticised for a senseof arrogancewhich pervadesher writing. On meetingher, Lifton recallsthat "surroundingher senseof being a leader hihakushawriter was a fragile auraof pride, anxiety,vanity and suspiciousness" (Deathin Life 422). He characterisesher as defensiveand somewhataggressive during interview, surprisedthat he had interviewedother A-bomb writers, remarking that "I am the only A-bomb writer. Who elsecould you find?" (qtd. in Lifton, Death in Life 423). Reiko Tachibanarefers to her "emotional tendencyto measureexternal eventsin termsof their effect on her personally"(59). Certainly Ota centralisesher own sufferingin her testimony,often describingthe agoniesof other victims in order to emphasisethe horror of her own experiences.In her prologueto Cily of Corpses shewrites:

It [ ] first hundreds was ... the time that thousands,tens of thousands, of thousandsdied in one instant,and I was the first to walk weeping amongcorpses lying about,so many that therewas hardly a placeto setone's feet. I was also the first to seethe gruesomenessof the atomicbomb sickness,a vast and profoundforce that destroysthe humanbody evenwhile the body is alive. Under theseconditions anythingand everythingI was forcedto seewas new underthe sun; being forcedto witnessit was itself tragic. (149)

This passagedoes suggest an elementof self-aggrandisement,in her assertionthat shewas the first to bearwitness to the destruction,and that the tragedyof her witnessingwas comparableto the tragedyof the deathof thousands.Tachibana points specificallyto the concludingchapter of Ota's testimony,in which shestates:

All the tears,I feel, havepurified my writer's soul; put waterthrough a filter, and in due time only pure water will emerge.In fact, I am angrierat the mindlessnessof Japan'simperialism, a mindlessnessthat

128 almost destroyed my life as a writer, than am at the destruction of Hiroshima. (Ota 270-271)

Tachibanainterprets this as Ota assertingthat "her individual ability to flourish as a writer shouldbe more importantthan all the lives lost in Hiroshima" (59). However, this readingfails to take into accountthe contextof her remark.In the text, Ota follows this commentwith an explanation:

It is not a personal anger; it is entwined with my lament for my country. Seeing the mortal defeat pass into history, I grieve. Japan seemsto be sloughing off much of its traditional character. Japan was crushed in the war, but that does not mean that Japan also came up short in all other aspectsof life. The idea that Japan failed across the board is a psychological side effect, something that defeat brings in its train. (271)

Contextualising Ota's statement demonstratesthat her anger at the way in which the bomb almost destroyed her potential as a writer is actually part of her grieving for the consequencesit had for Japan as a nation. She is swift to explain that "it is not a personal anger," but rather part of her understanding of how Japaneseculture, of which she considers herself a part, was impaired by the experience of the bomb. It is true in this statementthat Ota is not focussing on the dead of Hiroshima, but neither is she simply reacting to the effect of the bomb on her career as Tachibana somewhat simplistically suggests.Rather, at the conclusion of her testimony, she is considering the consequencesof the bomb on the future of Japan, concernedthat the understanding of the catastrophic defeat as a result of Japaneseimperialism may translate into a denigration of Japan's pre-war accomplishments, and a view that Japan as a nation, a culture and a people had utterly failed. This attempt to rescue Japan from the popular perception of failure is in line with her strong pre-war nationalism. Whilst her pre-war nationalism was characterisedby militarism, she recanted this position in the post-bomb era and her nationalism manifested itself in a desire to rebuild Japan."Japan and the Japanesebelong to the Japanese," she declares passionately, "they cannot belong to anyone else. Is that the reason there is room for both feelings, the sad and the happy?" (271). The sadnessshe refers to is the violence of the defeat; the happinessthe prospect of peace and democracy in the post-war Japanesenation.

129 Others have contestedthis view of Ota as an arrogant writer. Responding to Lifton's generally negative characterisation of her, Richard Minear acceptsthat "one sensesthat Lifton the person was more sympathetic than his psychological categories permitted him to be" (134). Nevertheless, he still defends Ota from Lifton's description, citing the circumstances under which they met as hardly conducive to congeniality. Lifton interviewed Ota in 1962, one year before she died of heart failure at the age of sixty. She was still haunted by the suicide of fellow A-bomb writer Hara Tamiki in 1951, connecting his death directly with his experiencesof the bomb. She resentedthe isolation that she believed his death had causedher, writing in 1952:

Had HaraTamiki lived he [ ] and written as could ... then my soul would soonfind rest. You don't know how hard it is, thinking that I must write all by myself Oneperson can't write it all. It is a disgrace for Japanesewriters that I am left to write it alone.(qtd. in Minear 132)

It seemslikely that this feeling of angry isolation fuelled her hostile declarationto Lifton that shewas "the only atomicbomb writer.- Yet by the time Lifton interviewedher in 1962,she had ceasedto write aboutHiroshima, the difficulties that had besetall of her attemptsto write aboutit finally overcomingher. Minear also suggeststhat Lifton himself may haveunwittingly antagonisedOta. He was a young man,a nationalof the countrythat droppedthe bomb who appearedto her at leastas utterly ill-equippedto interview her. He had not readany of her works, and being unableto speakJapanese fluently was forced to conducthis interviewsthrough an interpreter."Under theseconditions, " concludesMinear, "it is hardly surprisingthat shewas reluctantto seeLifton at all or that the picture Lifton paintedwas lessthan complimentary"(134).

Theseattempts to discreditOta as a cantankerousand arrogantindividual shouldhave little placein any analysisof her literary representationof the atomic bomb. It is, however,indicative of the low esteemin which atomicbomb writers wereheld. Indeed,Minear confirms that the very appellation"atomic bomb writer" was applieddisparagingly, and representedthe reluctanceand distastewith which A- bomb literaturewas receivedin the immediatepost-war years (123-124). Tachibana observesthat until the 1960s,literary representationsof the atomic bomb experience

130 were rejectedby the bundan,the Japaneseliterary circles,on the groundsthat such brutal and direct representationsof atrocity contravenedaccepted and established Japanesestylistic traditions."Hibakusha authors from Hiroshimaand Nagasaki who wrote aboutthe bombing," writes Tachibana,"thus sufferedfrom a double discrimination,first as hibakushaand secondas practitionersof A-bomb writing" (33). As a result,much of the testimonialliterature has emergedfrom thosewho were "insulatedfrom the preferencesof literary circles" (33). Many brief testimonieswere collectedfor certainprojects, such as thosefound in The Witnessof ThoseTwo Dqys volumes.Other wrote their accountsin order to seekcompensation for their sufferings,and schoolchildren were often setthe task of recordingtheir experiences as homeworkprojects, such as thosecollected in Children of Hiroshima.Others hibakushakept diaries,and later publishedthem as their testimony.Tachibana characterisesthese non-professional writings as:

graphicand vivid picturesof the bombedcities in straightforward [ ] do typesof narration. ... thesememoirs not attemptto present detailedor elaboratedescriptions, or to provide interpretationsof the event[... ] If larger questionsof societyor history are evoked,it is becauseof the extremenature of the experiencesthemselves, rather than becauseany consciousartistry of structureor style is apparent. (33-34)

Whilst these testimonies may be considered to be amateur in style, they offer valuable perspectivesof the bombing that are unencumberedby criticism from the literary establishment. One such important diary is Dr. Hachiya Michihiko's Hiroshima Dia famous in the West by Wemer Wells' His diary , made translation. offers an insight into day-to-day experience of survival and exposesthe chaos and confusion that dominated the rumour ridden city of Hiroshima in the aftermath of the atomic bomb.

The Diary Contract and the Illusion of Immediacy: Hachiya Michihiko's Hiroshima Diarv

Dr HachiyaMichihiko was Director of the CommunicationsHospital in Hiroshimawhen the bomb was droppedon August 6 1945. In commonwith most citizensof Hiroshimahe was at home,some 1700m. from the hypocentre,when the

131 bombwas droppedat quarterpast eight in the morning. He and his wife were injured in the blast,and madetheir way to the damagedCommunications Hospital (unwittingly moving closerto the epicentreof the explosion)seeking aid. Hachiya found himself in the difficult and frustratingposition of being both patientand doctor in the daysand weeksfollowing the attack.Despite the severityof his injuries, Hachiyawas ableto recordhis experiencesin his diary on a daily basis,from the day of the attackto September9 1945.

Reading the diary as a form of testimony introduces new challenges. The wartime diary of the Japaneseliberal journalist Kiyosawa Kiyoshi details his personal and professional thoughts and activities during the war, and has been described by Eugene Soviak as "inadvertent autobiography" (Kiyosawa xi). This definition of diary subtly highlights the distinction between diary and other forms of life-writing, the notion of inadvertency raising issues for both writing and reading the diary as a form of testimony.

Soviak's identificationof the diary as a form of autobiographyreturns us to the discussionof what constitutesautobiographical writing, and whetherthe diary form fulfils the conditionsof autobiography.As discussedin chapterone, Philippe Lejeunedefines autobiography through the meansof his autobiographicalcontract, the assertionof unity of identity betweenauthor, narrator and protagonist.By abandoningLejeune's perception of authorialresponsibility to ascertain autobiographicalauthenticity, the testimonialworks of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel rejectthis contract.The diary as a form of life writing, however,does not so much rejectas makeredundant Lejeune's contract. The diarist puts in placeno guaranteeof identity betweenauthor, narrator and protagonist, because they haveno responsibility to a reader,no needto ascertaintheir authenticity.Felicity A. Nussbaumdefines a diary as "a confessionto the self with only the self as auditor and without the public authority"; in suchcircumstances, there is no needto establishthe parametersof trust that Lejeunecalls for (135). The readerof personaldiaries is unanticipated,perhaps evenintrusive, and in accordancewith this "non-relationship"between author and reader,Rachel Cottam proposes a new contract:

132 The diary "contracf' would perhapsbe one,then, that legitimisesthe illicit natureof the reader:I subscribenot to be writingfor you. The result is a readingthat is acknowledgedby writer andreader as implicitly furtive. (269)

%ilst Lejeune's autobiographical contract encouragesa cosy relationship between author and reader based on mutual trust and belief in authenticity, Cottam's diary contract sets up a hostility between diarist and reader. The presenceof the reader is only reluctantly acknowledged. Donald Keene suggeststhat "the best diaries have an immediacy that may make us feel closer to the writer than any other kind of literature" (Modem JapaneseDiaries viii). The hostility evident in Cottam's diary contract, however, calls into question the nature of this closenessbetween the diarist and the reader. Indeed, the flaw in Keene's understanding of diary is that this perceived closenessis ultimately illusory. Alexandra Zaprudrer wams against any close engagementwith the writer, arguing that the senseof immediacy and intimacy offered by the text is false. She comments:

Although many diariescan give the illusion that the readeris in the presenceof the writer - becausethey arewritten in the first person,and are often intimatein tone and spontaneousin form - it is unfortunately not so. Whetherpersonal or not, private or public, spontaneousor crafted,the contentof the diary doesnot allow us to cometo know the [ ]A few writer ... collection of pageswritten over a monthsor years- intensely no matterhow personal,confidential or immediate- can be little morethan a pale shadow,a wretchedfragment from which to capturethe immeasurablecomplexity, likes, dislikes, dreams,wishes, desires,contradictions, and storiesthat composea whole, complete person.(8)

In her condemnationof the illusion of immediacy,Zaprudrer argues that narrative will alwaysfail to capturethe entirety of an individual, thus renderingany senseof closenessbetween a diarist and a readerimpossible. For Zaprudrer,the self cannotbe manifestedtextually, the self cannotbe known throughnarrative. The potentialof a relationshipbetween diarist and readerwill, then, alwaysbe thwarted;to return to the diary contract,the diarist will neverbe writing for the reader.

This perceptionof the immediacyoffered by the diary form is not restrictedto a perceivedintimacy betweendiarist and reader.Whilst the immediacybetween readerand writer may be questionable,as Zaprudrerargues, the contemporarynature

133 of diary has led many critics to suggestthat diaries privilege the reader with a greater closenessto the history of the events within the diary. David Roskies, writing specifically of Holocaust accounts but making a point which can be applied more widely to diaries that document historical events, makes a distinction between 66survivalliterature" and "real Holocaust literature". The former he categorisesas eye- witness accountswritten after the Holocaust which recollect events, the latter as accounts such as diaries that are actually written during the event. The "realness" of these texts emergesfrom the fact that they are linked in time and place to the event they describe (211). Linda Anderson concurs with the claim that a diary gives the reader accessto an enhanced"realness" in the description of events on the grounds that it registers a "freshness and authenticity of impression which might be lost in subsequentretelling" (Autobiography 35).

Both Roskiesand Andersonrecognise that the significanceof the diary lies in the minimal time lapsebetween the eventand its narration.Andrea Reiter, in her discussionof testimonies,acknowledges the problemsthat can be causedthrough an extendedtime betweenevent and narration:

any analysismust take accountof the time that elapsedbetween the the [ ] The distance experiencingand recordingof events ... greaterthe betweenthe two, the more did survivorsbase themselves on explanatorymodels not directly connectedwith the experience,and the morethey overlaytheir experiencewith modelsderived from literatureor history. (Narratingthe Holocaust199-200)

The fundamentaldifference between the diary and the latterly written testimonyis the durationof time betweenevent and narration.The longerthis period, the greaterthe chanceof the report being contaminatedby externalfactors denoted by Reiter as the influenceof literatureand history. Thereis, then, an assumedpurity inherentin diary which hasled Berel Lang to concludethat "the diary comesas closeas representation can to performingthe eventsit cites ratherthan to describingthem; it is an act in, if not fully of, the history it relates"(Ljolocaust Representation 22). The diary is not a memoryof, and commentaryon, history, but ratherparticipatory in history. The diary comesto be viewed as part of history in itself; in the words of Lang, it is not simply "historical narrative",but part "of the movementof history itself' (2 1). Significantly, the illustration on the front coverof Hachiya'sHiroshima PLia! y payshomage to this

134 view of diary as emerging directly from history, as it displays writing emerging From the centre of the nuclear mushroom cloud:

Crucially for Lang, the diary offers a "direct representation (an enactment) of

the contingency of historical time - insofar as the diarist writes in ignorance of what the next moment, let alone any longer period, holds for the event he describes, or more pointedly, for himself'(21). Paradoxically, it is this very quality so valued by Lang that offers the reader such privileged accessto the historical moment that has actually hamperedthe development of the academic study of diary. Donald Stauffer forcefully stated that "diary has scant claim to consideration," regarding it to be "not the record of a life but the journal of an existence, made up of a monotonous series of short and similar entries [making] no pretenseto artistic structure" (qtd. in Nussbaum 128). Stauffer makes an interesting distinction between life and existence in his critique ol'diary. Existence is simply a series of consecutive experiences, rendered monotonous by the inability of the diarist to recognise certain moments that become significant on reflection. A life, by contrast, he considers only possible to be recognised from a temporal distance, when on reflection, certain moments can have fuller meanings attributed to them. A journal of an existence provides the building blocks Fromwhich the story of a life can be constructed. Adriana Cavarero identifies this distinction with greater clarity, arguing that:

The meaning that saveseach life from being a mere sequenceof events does not consist in a determined figure; but rather consists precisely in leaving behind a figure, or something from which the unity ofa design can be discerned in the telling of the story. Like the design. the story comes after the events and actions from which it results. (2)

135 Cavarerointroduces this thesiswith an anecdoteborrowed from Karen Blixen's Out of Africa. Shetells the tale of a man who lived neara pond. Awaking one night, he realisedthat it was leaking,and ran out in the dark of the night to attemptto stopup the leak. He eventuallysucceeded and returnedto bed. It was not until the morning whenhe emergedfrom his homethe next morning that he sawthe footprintshe had madethe night beforehad tracedout the patternof a stork in the dust. In the same way that the dust revealedthe patternof the stork only after the event,so the story of a life only gainscoherence on reflection. Diary, however,represents the absenceof the stork. It is the narrationof the seeminglyrandom patterns in the dust, simply a "sequenceof eventsPwith no "unity of design".It is this "failing" that grantsthe readera greaterproximity to the historical moment.

It is, however,a mistaketo assumethat the lack of a coherentstory in diary deprivesit of meaning.As Nussbaumpoints out:

Diary, simultaneously preserving and evaluating, makes meaning inherent in the choice of words, the sequenceof phrasesand the dialogue to [ ] Diary journal assignment of self or other. ... and are representationsof reality rather than failed versions of something more coherent and unified. (136-137)

Nussbaum recognisesthat despite its contemporaneity, diary narrative is still selective, and the diarist, perhapsunwittingly, attributes meanings to events through the very way in which they are represented.The lack of coherent story, she rightly points out, is not to be perceived as a failure of diary, but rather a triumph. It is through the omission of a unified design at the time of writing that diary maintains its position as the closest representationof reality.

The imageof the belatedstork may be seenas a sourcefor Soviak's descriptionof diary as "inadvertentautobiography". The readerof a diary may detect a patternor story developingas the diary progresses,a patternthat hasbeen inadvertentlyput in placeby the diarist. A diary can becomethe story of a life only when readin its entirety.Yet the term "inadvertenf' also functionsto highlight the tensionbetween the public andthe privatethat is inherentin the diary format.

136 HachiyaMichihiko initially recordedhis experiencesof the atomic bomb in daily diary entrieswhilst he was bed-riddenin hospital.This was a personaldiary, never intendedfor publication.However, his friends quickly realisedthe historical importanceof his diary and encouragedhim to publish it, and his diary was consequentlyserialised in a small Japanesemedical i oumal entitled TeishinIgaku, which was circulatedamong the employeesof the JapaneseCommunications Ministry. This serialisationhad only a limited readershipand was mostly restrictedto Hachiya'sprofessional colleagues, and thosewith a similar level of medicalexpertise to himself. It was not until 1951that an Americandoctor, Dr Wemer Wells, learned of Hachiya'sdiary, and was determinedto translatehis recordinto English and publish it in its entirety.

Wells' position as self-appointed editor of Hachiya's diary is in itself curious. By his own admission he can read Japaneseonly in a "tedious and laborious fashion, with complete dependenceon dictionaries and grammars," a handicap which forced him to employ a Japanese-Americandoctor, Dr. Neal Tsukifuji, actually to carry out the translation (Hachiya xx). Wells' role as he perceived it was to revise and edit Tsukiftij i's translation in order to "preserve the balance, simplicity, and quality of values Dr Hachiya achieved in his own tongue" (xxi). Exactly how he managedto revise the translation in accordancewith these aims despite his scant knowledge of Japanese,he never explains. The extent to which Hiroshima DiM as a text has been subjected to revision is difficult to measure.Wells' revisions to the diary remain mysterious, although he does make one very clear addition to the text. He concludes his foreword to the diary with a catalogue of the names and roles of the most prominent people who figure in the diary. In its resemblanceto a cast list, this seems to present the individuals concernedas charactersin a play, thereby jeopardising their identities as real individuals who suffered the atomic bombing. Secondly, by clarifying and ordering the people in the diary in this way, rather than allowing Hachiya to introduce them in his own words, Wells is putting into place a false coherency in the text, and in doing so is denying the very quality that Nussbaum sees as central to the diary form. However, Wells is not alone in disturbing the potential immediacy of Hahiya's contemporary voice. According to Treat, Hachiya himself rewrote his diary for publication, although it is not known which aspectsin particular he may have altered, or indeed what his motivation for doing so was (Writing Ground

137 Zero 52). Hachiya's diary in particular, then, challenges the notion of immediacy in diary.

Wells' publicationof HiroshimaDiary markeda secondstage in the transition of Hachiya'sdiary from the private to the public sphere.Wells' objectivewas to introducethe English-speakingworld, particularly his fellow Americans,to the humanexperience of the atomicbombings. John W. Dower, the authorof the forewordto the 1995edition of the diary, describesthe publicationof Hiroshima Dialy as a "salutaryevent". He continues,"his simple accounttells us, as no onebut the Japanesewho experiencedthe bomb can,about the humanconsequences of nuclearweapons" (Hachiya vii). Whilst this may be a valid point, it doescompromise the personalnature of Hachiya's diary. In this formulation,the diary becomesnot a recordof the personalexperiences of one victim, but is ratherexpanded to become representativeof the Japaneseexperience. The importanceof HiroshimaDiaKy as an individual's experiencesis subsumedin favour of presentingthe accountas a universalexperience of the atomictrauma. In making the diary public, the personalis sacrificed.

In taking this approach,Dower is investingin that which Leigh Gilmore terms "the autobiographicalparadox. " This paradoxdictates that "the unusualor unrepresentativelife becom[es]representative" (Gilmore 19). Gilmore arguesthat the origin of this paradoxlies in the tradition of autobiographywhich encouragesa "close relationbetween representing yourself and participatingin a representativestructure in which one may standfor many" (19). The very act of writing the self, shesuggests, transformsthe experiencesof the self from the individual to the universal.This notion of representativenessis rendered ftuther paradoxicalwhen the representationof the self collideswith the representationof trauma."How, " asksGilmore:

can the explorationof traumaand the burdenit imposeson memory be representative?How can the experienceof one survivor of trauma standfor many?How can one tell the truth, the whole truth and nothingbut the truth, when facts,truth and memorycombine in the representationof traumato underminerather than strengthen representativeness?(19)

138 This senseof representativenessis imposedupon the diary by its readers.When the diary is a personaldocument the needfor representativenessis absent;it is when it crossesover into the public spherethat the readerassumes an individual's experiencesto be universal.

Writing the Pika: Manifestations of Silence in Hiroshima Diary

Hachiyasituates silence at the very heartof his diary by his silencingof the atomic explosion. His record of the attack and his representation of his experiencesis representedin a description that focuses on a series of visual images that demonstrate a shocking transition from early morning peace and tranquillity to sudden chaos. His diary opens with the following:

The hour was early; the morning still, warm, and beautiful. Shimmeringleaves, reflecting sunlight from a cloudlesssky, madea pleasantcontrast with shadowsin my gardenas I gazedabsently doors to [ ] Suddenly, throughwide-flung opening the south. ... a strongflash of light startledme - and then another.So well doesone recall little things that I remembervividly how a stonelantern in the gardenbecame brilliantly lit and I debatedwhether this light was causedby a magnesiumflare or sparksfrom a passingtrolley. Gardenshadows disappeared. The view wherea moment beforeall had beenso bright and sunnywas now dark and hazy. Tbroughswirling dust I could barely discerna woodencolumn that had supportedone comer of my house.It was leaningcrazily and the roof saggeddangerously. (1)

The delicacyof the images,from the "shimmeringleaves" to the "swirling dust", seemssimultaneously to belie and evokethe chaosof the moment,and suggestsan attemptby Hachiyato forge an aestheticsof chaos.Donald Keenecharacterises Japaneseliterature as focussingon smallerdetails in orderto subtly revealthe larger picture,a style that seemsvery much evidentin this passage,particularly in the image of the stonelantern illuminated by the atomic flash, orpika. Keenerelates a classic anecdote,which servesas a model for Japaneseliterary style, in which a general wearingpolished annour was awaiting an elite audience.He was informed that someonewho was not sufficiently privileged to seehim in his armourwas approaching,and to preventthis breachin etiquette,he threw a wrap of thin silk aroundhimself. Japanesewriters, particularly poets,aim for the effect of the polished

139 armour shining through the thin silk (JapaneseLiterature 9). The subtlety of Hachiya's representationof the atomic flash through the image of the illuminated stone lantern can be best appreciated when compared to the attempts of other hibakusha to describe the searing reality of the pika. Yoshimura Katsuyoshi was sevenyears old at the time of the bombing, and remembers in her testimony "being blinded by a brilliant flash" (39). Nonaka Fumiko, a young woman living in Hiroshima, describesit as "a piercing flash that bit into my face. I felt my body 1. shrivel with a hiss like that of a dried cuttlefish when you grill if' (89) The experience of the pika is representedviolently in the words of these two hibakusha, particularly in Nonaka's account. By contrast, Hachiya's image of the stone lantern mutes this violence, but neverthelessmakes the reader aware of its presence.In Hachiya's aesthetic account, the illuminated stone lantern functions as the thin wrap of silk in Keene's anecdote.

The vivid and evocative visuals that dominate this opening passageare accentuatedby the silence which accompaniesthem. In literal terms, it is true that Hachiya's experience of the A-bomb was silent, as those close to the epicentre were unable to distinguish the two phasesof the explosion - the intense flash, or pika and then the overwhelming boom, or don. Recollecting the moment of the explosion in his diary three days later, Hachiya wrote:

Now, I could state positively that I had heard nothing like an explosion when we were bombed the other morning, nor did I remember any sound during my walk to the hospital as houses collapsed around me. It was as though I walked through a gloomy, silent motion picture. (37)

His referenceto film hereheightens the visual natureof his experience,and compoundsthis visuality with a senseof unreality permeatingthrough his memories. Lifion explainsthat thosein the centralcity areaexperienced only the flash, and the knowledgeof the boom was suppliedlater by thosewho camein from outsideof the immediatecentre (Death in Life 88). Hachiyarefers to the atomic explosionas the pika throughouthis diary, tenaciouslyadhering to the term that describesbest his

1Nonaka's use of the culinary metaphorto explainher experienceis significant.As will be discussed in chapterthree, women hibakusha frequently employ metaphors directly relatingto a specifically traditionalfemale experience, in this casecooking, to illustratetheir experiences.

140 personalexperience, even when the conjoinedterm pikadon becameubiquitous. He first notesthe useof the word pikadon on the 9h August, and returnsto discussthis newly coinedword on II 1hAugust:

Pikadonwas acceptedas a new word in our vocabulary,although some,like old Mrs Saeki,who had beenin the city at the time of the bombing,continued to simply saypika. Thosewho had beenoutside the city insistedon sayingpikadon. (48)

The emergenceof this new word can be interpreted as a responseto the realisation that existing vocabulary was inadequate to the task to describing the A-bomb, and as a solution to the silence that would otherwise characterise attempts to describe the event. Curiously, however, Hachiya does not associatehimself with those who refer it to the explosion as the pika, even though he unfailingly continues to do so. The near universal replacement of Hachiya's preferred word pika with pikadon does in itself come to silence. Hachiya's particular experience of the A-bomb, as his understanding of his own experience and resultant word for the explosion are glossed over with a universalised term that ignores the specificities of individual experience. Hachiya's continuation to label the atomic explosion as a silent phenomenon acts as a frame to the silence that results when hibakusha attempt to describe the indescribable. The failure of words to describe the event is reflected in the silence of the word pika.

Hachiya'saccount of the immediateaftermath of the explosionis dominated by a silencethat he characterisesas "uncanny" (5). As he struggledthrough the streetswith his wife towardsthe hospital,he encountered"shadowy forms of people, someof whom looked like walking ghosts"(4). The prevailing silencecontributes to the blurring betweenthe living andthe deadas he lists the macabreprocession of injured that he passeson his j ourney.He writes fleetingly of seeinga nakedwoman carryingher nakedbaby throughthe streets,a nakedman, and an old womanlying on the ground.Many of thosein the immediateblast radius,including Hachiya,found that their clotheswere ripped off by the force of the explosion.Yet whilst he tries to maintainthe individuality of thesevictims in his diary, he notesthat it is silencethat unifies the experiencesof them all: "indeed,one thing was commonto everyoneI saw- completesilence" (4). This uncannysilence stands as a symbol throughouthis diary for the loss of individuality that resultedfrom the traumaof the bombing.Just

141 over a week after the explosion,his diary revealsthat his thoughtsreturned to this silencethat dominatedthe strickencity. He writes:

What a weak,fragile thing man is beforethe forcesof destruction. After thepika, the entire populationhad beenreduced to a common level of physicaland mentalweakness. Those who were ablewalked silently towardsthe suburbsand the distanthills, their spirits broken, their initiative gone.When askedwhence they had come,they pointed to the city and said,"that way"; andwhen askedwhere they were going, pointedaway for the city and said,"this way." They were so brokenand confusedthat they movedand behaved like automatons. (54-55)

The inanimatenature of these"automatons" reinforces the senseof uncannysilence that so disturbedHachiya in the immediateaftermath. Continuing, he recountsthe "amazement"of "the outsiders"when they encounteredthe survivorsemerging fro the ruins of the city. "The outsiders",he affirms, "could not graspthe fact that they were witnessingthe exodusof a peoplewho walked in the land of dreams"(55). This referenceto non-hibakushaas "outsiders"is an early indicator of the way in which victims of the atomicbomb would cometo be perceivedas different, and "other" becauseof their experiences.Significantly though, in this passage,by referring to the non-victimsas "outsiders",Hachiya is inverting this relationshipand representingthe "outsiders"as the other.

Hachiya continues his account of walking through the destroyed streetsby describing his arrival at the Communications Hospital. As director of the hospital, Hachiya was privileged to receive treatment from colleagues already there immediately on his arrival, and he recalls his admission to the hospital:

Miss Kado [his privatenurse] set about examining my woundswithout speakinga word. I askedfor a shirt andpajamas. They got them for me, but still no one spoke.Why was everyoneso quiet?(5)

The questionwith which he endsthis passageis typical of his style in this opening entry to his diary. Ile questionshis situationrepeatedly: "Where were my drawers and undershirt?" (1), "Where was my wife?" (2), "Could I go on?" (4), "What had happened?" (7). In the absenceof any response,these questions serve to heightenthe presenceof silencein this immediateaftermath.

142 Whilst Hachiyawrites of the actualsilence that dominateshis memoriesof the event,he is also forcedto confront the silencethat emergesfrom the difficulty of attemptingto describehis experiencesin his diary narrative.He rarely, however, refersdirectly to any difficulties, the most notableexception being in any entry on the 28thAugust, when he recountsmeeting with a closefriend, Mr Yamashita.Yamashita was renownedbefore the war as possessing"well-developed literary tastesand was known for his artistry and skill in the writing of waka,thirty-one syllablepoems" (131). Hachiyaconfides in his friend that he is trying to keepa diary of his experiences,and asksfor his advicein the matter."You know what difficulty I have as a writer," he confesses,"I havethe sametrouble this time. Perhapsmore, becauseI am out of practiceand so manythings distractme. SometimesI get my notesup to date,but beforeI know it I find myself againseveral days behind" (132). Interestingly,Hachiya sees his difficulties in writing aboutthe pika as logistical, ratherthan artistic. He finds himself distractedfrom his writing, ratherthan unableto write. This self-confessedattitude marks a stark contrastto Holocaustsurvivor- authors,and indeedother hibakusha-authors,who frequentlyreturn to the problemof trying to representtrauma. Yamashita's response accords more with the typical patternof the survivor renderedinarticulate by experience.Hachiya records him as saying:

I kept diary day [ I but I have done a until the of thepika. ... sincethen nothing.Yashushi, my son,was killed; my housewas destroyed;so I endurelife in despairand confusion.(132)

In commonwith Hachiya,Yamashita also refers to the atomic bombingas thepika, representingthe eventas a silent phenomenon.For Yamashita,however, this silence extendsto corrupthis eloquencein representinghis life in narrative.Following the bombing,Yamashita finds himself unableto write anymore,a condition which leads to the senseof confusionwhich seemsto dominatehis post-bombexistence. To return to Cavarerro,it is by narratinga life that sensecan be madeof it; in the absenceof narration,confusion must prevail.

Despiterarely explicitly revealingany difficulties in translatingthe lived experienceof thepika into narrativeform, Hachiya's strainingattempts to find a

143 comparativeevent, and so to find a literary model on which to basehis narrative, suggestan underlyingconflict betweenexperience and representation.On the 8th August,only two daysafter the bombing,he seeksa comparisonin ancienthistory with which to representhis experiences:

Those glowing ruins and the blazing pyres set me to wondering if Pompeii had not looked like this during its last days. But I think there were not so many dead in Pompeii as there were in Hiroshima. (32)

The comparison to the cataclysmic volcanic eruption of 79AD is ultimately rejected however, as Hachiya finds it deficient in terms of scale. He unconsciously returns to this searchfor comparative events in his sleep, as he relates in his diary entry for 24th August:

I slept poorly and had a frightfid dream. It seemsI was in Tokyo after the great earthquakeand around me were decomposing bodies heaped in piles, all of whom were looking right at me. (114)

In this dream,Hachiya seems unable to assimilatethe decomposingbodies that he sawwith his own experiences,and seeksa referencepoint in the greatTokyo earthquake.The attemptto describethe atomic bombingthrough referencing catastrophicnatural disasters in the diary is a commonresponse to the scaleof the disaster,for as Dower observes,"the destructivenessof the bomb was so awesome that manyJapanese initially regardedtheme - much like the calamitouslosing war itself - almostas if they were a naturaldisaster" (119). Attemptsto describean event without precedentresult in Hachiya'sultimately fruitless searchfor metaphorsin his diary, and evidencehis personaldifficulties in directly representingthe atomic bombing.The impossibility of metaphoris a problem facedby both survivorsof the atomic bomb and the Holocaust.In his analysisof the work of Elie Wiesel,Robert McAfee Brown explainsthe difficulties in representingan eventthat can haveno recourseto comparsion:

Descriptionsare madeby meansof comparison.Analogies are embeddedin all attemptsto communicate:this eventof which we do not know, is like that one of which we at leastknow a little. But what if thereis nothingwith which to makea comparison,no analogythat will hold? (24)

144 McAfee Brown interprets this absenceof analogies as evidence of the uniqueness of the Holocaust; however, as can be witnessed through the writings of Hachiya, hibakusha face a similar void when attempting to portray their experiences through the meansof comparative representation.Appreciating this point of commonality in Holocaust and A-bomb narratives does not diminish an understanding of each as singular historical events, but rather produces an awarenessthat survivors from each event face similar problems in their attempt to narrate unprecedentedand extreme moments in history.

On the 80'August, Hachiya had his first glimpseof the ruined city sincethe day of the explosion,and lying in his hospitalbed realisedthe inadequacyof languageto describewhat he saw:

Devastationmay be a betterword, but really, I know of no word or words to describethe view from my twisted iron bed in the fire-gutted ward of the CommunicationsHospital. (3 1)

His inability to describewhat he could seefrom his window is ironically emphasised by the detail with which he depictshis local environment.The imageof the damaged bed in the ravagedward hasto standin for the greatermass devastation that Hachiya cannotfind the words to describe.

Particularlyas he recoveredand becamemore awareof his surroundings, Hachiyawitnessed great suffering amongst his fellow hibakusha.Hachiya's style of representingthe atrocity is characterisedby a continualreturn to clinical and technicalanalysis and description.As seenin Ota's testimony,the relianceon impersonal,scientific datais a commonfeature of atomic bomb testimonies.This contrastswith Holocaustsurvivors who often display a tendencyto lapseinto textual silencewhen confrontedwith memoriesof inexpressiblehorror, demonstrated througha declarationof their inability to describeevents, or throughellipses and in itself. In HiroshimaDiarv, Hachiya horror pauses the narrative - often confronts not with silencebut with carefully written, clinical discussionsof that which he witnessed.Ile respondsto horror as a physicianwhen, for example,an unnamed visitor phrasesa testimonyto what he haswitnessed as a question:

145 Doctor, do [ ]I you think a man could seewith a protrudedeyeball? ... sawa man whoseeye had beentorn out by an injury, andthere he stoodwith the eye restingin the palm of his hand.What mademy blood run cold was that it looked like the eye was staringat me. Doctor, the pupil looked right at me. Do you think the eye could see me?(101)

Hachiyais left almostspeechless in the face of this tale. "Not knowing what to answer," he writes, "I replied 'Could you seeyour facereflected from the pupil?"' (101). His reply suggestsan attemptto concealhis horrified fascinationwithin an ostensiblymedical inquiry. It is all he can manageto say,but his words are redundant,offering no real answerto the visitor who simply says"No, I didn't look that close" (101).

From a carefully detachedperspective, Hachiya repeatedly details his medical findings with meticulous precision, and tries to view his fellow survivors solely as patients. Many diary entries contain extended clinical analysis of both himself and those in his care. Whilst these extracts are not as obvious a manifestation of silence as the textual pausesand ellipses in the Holocaust narratives of Levi and Wiesel, they do indicate a similar interruption in the text. Whilst Hachiya's style may be attributed to his professional methods of recording events as a doctor, clinical discourse functions in this text to displace silence, similarly to the way in which many other survivors lapse into an account of factual data when confronted with the inexpressible.

As well as including materialsourced from his clinical notebooksin his diary, 11achiyaalso includesan accountof his experiencesthat he wrote for a journalist a month after the atomicbomb was dropped.Contemporary accounts such as this are somewhatrare, as the Occupationforces put in placea censorshipcode on their arrival to preventany unauthorisedmaterial about the atom bomb and its effects beingpublished. This accountis notable,as it offers a quite different recordof his experiencesto that which he narratesin his diary. In the newspaperaccount, he writes that his immediatethoughts after the explosionwere "I thoughtthat I would die, and decidedthat if I were to die, I wantedto be in my hospital" (179). His diary account of this time is much lessstark, and representsa far more confusedstate of mind:

146 It finally dawnedus [Hachiyaand his wife] that we could not stay therein the street,so we turnedour stepstoward the hospital.Our homewas gone;we were woundedand neededtreatment; and after all it was my duty to be with my staff. This latter was an irrational thought- what good could I be to anyone,hurt as I was. (3)

This irrationality of thoughtis eliminatedfrom his newspaperaccount, as his fearful wonderat the aforementioneduncanny silence that prevailed.The feeling that he was aboutto die is also absentfrom his diary account;in the latter, moretemporally immediateaccount as woundedonly, albeit severely.According to his newspaper account,his first words on enteringthe hospitalwere "Anybody killed?" (171); in his diary it is a seeminglymore mundanerequest for pyjamas(3). The reasonfor this discrepancycan only be speculatedupon; it could be a desireto casthimself in a more noble light for the neNyspaperreport, an omissionfrom his diary account,or an error of memoryas he casthis mind back to the eventsof a month previous.A significantdeparture from his diary accountcan be found later in the newspaper report,when he claims"from that day to the presentI havebeen living in a well- ventilatedhospital" (171). This descriptionbears scant resemblance to the crumbling building that he repeatedlyrefers to in the first few diary entries.This revision of his view of his condition likely stemsfrom his first expeditionout of the hospitalon the I VhAugust. With a colleaguehe venturedinto the city to seekemergency medical suppliesthat it was rumouredhad arrived at the SanitaryOffice, abouta mile from the hospital.Whilstjoumeying there,they discoveredthat many injured peoplehad takenrefuge in the basementof Fukuya,formerly a large and prestigiousdepartment store.The conditionsthat they witnessedwere horrific and Hachiyawas left unableto describethem, writing only that "one peepinto the basementwas enough.it was so dark forbidding [ ] had and ... peoplewho oncegone there to tradewere now patients inside.I could still heartheir moansand groans"(5 1). As he was leaving the areahe met an old friend, Mrs Yanagihara,who was stayingat Fukuya."The misery in her expressionand the sadnessof her voice," he writes, "embarrassedme and left me fumbling to find a word of encouragemenf'(53). It was at this point that he cameto the painful realisationthat "our hospitalwas a paradiseby comparison.Small? Yes, but therewas light and good ventilation" (5 1). His newspaperaccount of the conditionsat the hospitalechoes directly this first understandingof his good fortune in stayingat the hospital.

147 The discrepanciesbetween the two accountsare reminiscentof those occurringbetween Wiesel's Holocausttestimony Night and his autobiographyAll RiversRun to the Sea. When experienceis revisited in memory,new facetsare revealed,and certainaspects afforded greater of lesssignificance according to the As Treat "in the [ ] from emphasisthey receive. points outs, caseof testimony ... a formal perspective,there are properly speaking,no facts at all, but insteadonly narrativeelements that appear(or are madeto appear)as suchbecause the reader acceptsthem without the resistanceof doubt" (Writing GroundZero 52). According to this formulation,the "accuracy"of any one accountcannot be prioritised over another,as the "facts" in eachare only that which the authorhas deemed to presentas facts.Once again, Treat's understandingof the placeof factuality on testimonybrings to the forefront questionsof what constitutesverifiable authenticityin life-writing. In additionto the newspaperreport and his original diary entry dealingwith his experiences,Hachiya repeats his story to two concernedfriends in his diary. From theseaccounts, we learnthat he was awakeat the time of the bombingbecause he had beenon air-raid duty the night beforeuntil 4.00am,and had found himself unableto sleepon his return home.Notably, neitherof thesetwo repetitionsof his experience say anythingof his journey to the hospital,and his encounterswith other ghost-like survivors.

Combinedwith the narrationof Hachiya'sown experiencesare the storiesof manyother survivorswho sharedtheir storieswith him. Similarly to Levi's If This is a Man. Ilachiya's Ifirsohima Pýiqrycan be readas a multi-authoredtestimony. Amongstothers, he includesthe storiesof his colleaguessuch as Dr. Akiyama, Dr Ilanaoka,Dr Tabuchi,friends suchas CaptainFujihara and patientssuch as Mrs Saeko.In contrastto Levi, however,Hachiya does not sharethe storiesof the dead but of the living. Moreover,Hachiya does not considerhis narrationof these testimoniesas part of a fulfilment of a duty to the dead,or an attemptto representan absenceat the heartof catastrophe.Rather, he is exhaustedby an onslaughtof visitors who feel compelledto tell him of their experiences:

All day I listenedto visitors telling me aboutthe destructionof Hiroshimaand the scenesof horror they had witnessed. Ihadseenmy

148 friends their families their homesdestroyed. [ ] wounded, separated, ... By degreesmy capacityto comprehendthe magnitudeof their sorrow, to sharewith them the pain, frustration,and horror becameso dulled that I found myself acceptingwhatever was told with equanimityand a detachmentI would neverhave believed possible. In two daysI had becomeat homein this environmentof chaosand despair.(24)

For Hachiya, these repeated stories produce a dehumanising effect. He loses his capacity for empathy and sympathy, and becomes emotionally detached from his fellow sufferers. He writes, "I felt lonely, but it was an animal loneliness. I became part of the darknessof the nighf' (24). Whereas Levi's accounts of others represent an attempt to retrieve the humanity, to rescue both himself and others from silence, Hachiya's representationof the stories of others bear witness to a dehumanisation. He condemnsa multitude of stories to silence, and becomes consumed by the darkness that Levi seeksto banish.

By August 2 1, Hachiyaconfesses that the storiesthat had previouslyhad the power to numbhim with their horror now generatedonly feelingsof tedium within him:

Visitors increaseddaily and all had somethingto tell of what they had seen,heard or thought.By now, I was bored listening to storiesthey insistedon telling from morning until night, but my boredomdid not [ ] In instance[they] worry my visitors. ... each tried to convinceme that their [experience]had beenunique. Somedid haveunusual stories to tell. (100)

Ile does attempt to retell many of these unusual stories, but there is a prevailing sense of exhaustion in this task. Ile recounts meeting with a friend, Mr Kobata, who had been out in the ruined city searching for his lost brother. When they met, Mr Kobata immediately began to tell him of sceneshe had witnessed on the streets, and Hachiya repeatsone of these stories in his diary. However, he concludes his account of his meeting with Mr Kobata with a single brief sentencebefore going on to discuss the rumours that were rife in post-bomb Hiroshima. "Mr Kobata," he writes, "had many such stories to tell" (69). The fact that Hachiya does not repeat them all serves as a reminder that words can never recount all of the innumerable sufferings caused by the Ota's atomic bombing. It also tacitly endorses assertion that personal testimony is incomplete, and cannot bear witness to the event as a whole.

149 Hachiyaalso addressesthe motivation behindthe repeatedtestimony. He recountsa visit by a friend, Mr Katsutani,who in commonwith all of Hachiya'sother visitors had manytales to tell, recalling that "he repeatedhimself two or threetimes as if to convincehimself that what he said was true and then continued"(15). Here, Katsutaniseems to be acting out Blanchot's understandingof the relationship betweenthe eventand the experiencingof the event.In seekingto representthe event throughlanguage, Katsutani is attemptingto move from living through the eventto experiencingthe event.He entrenchesthe truth of his experienceby repeatingit in speech,verifying it throughlanguage. He emphaticallydeclares "I reallY walked alongthe railroadtracks to get here" (15). In confirming his knowledgeof his actions, he is assertinghis experienceof the event.

When searchingfor manifestationsof silencein the diary, it seemspossible to detectmessages concealed behind the given narrative.Words and feelingsnever explicitly statedappear as shadowsover certainpassages. In his foreword to the diary, Dower identifiessuch a passagein the entry for the 13th September.Following the Japanesesurrender, rumours began to spreadabout the barbarityof the imminently arriving Americanforces. He writes:

Rumour reachedus today that the allied forces were to land in Japan. As a result, many people in Hiroshima became alarmed. The same alarm gripped our hospital and caused some patients to flee. When I in the the deserted. [ ] In made rounds afternoon, wards were almost ... general, the women were more frightened than the men because someonehad spreadthe rumour they might come to harm. (182)

Throughouthis diary, Hachiya,in commonwith Ota, displayslittle or no hostility towardsthe Allied forces,saving his bitternessand hatredfor the Japanesemilitary leaders.In responseto the rumoursabout the approachingAllies, he recordsin his diary that he felt "we had nothingto worry aboutbecause westerriers were a cultured people,not given to pilfering and marauding"(183). Indeed,he seemsto take pride in his refusalto believein the more alarmingrumours that circulatedwith great frequencyand alacrity. On the 16thSeptember, he writes of annoyinghis friend Dr Akiyama by scepticallyraising his eyebrowsas Akiyama dramaticallybegged him to join him in fleeing the city and warnedhim that "your wife is in danger,and if we

150 ever areto escape,now is the time! After the Allied Forcesland, we'll all be lost" (194). However,Hachiya was unableto remain completelyunaffected by the rumours,and in the passageidentified by Dower on the 13thSeptember he admits that:

Despite my objectivity regarding the hospital and patients, I became an ordinary husband when I thought of my wife. My one desire was to get her out of Hiroshima as soon as possible, preferably to her home [ ] But the healthy in the where our son was. ... what about young girls hospital? Would they go unharmed? I had to confess there were doubts in my mind. The more I thought, the more I worried, and I ended by smoking a lot of cigarettes. (183)

In this rare momentof agitation,Dower seesa tacit admissionof guilt over the way that the Japanesetreated those living in their occupiedterritories. The atrocities perpetratedby the Japanese,particularly in China, and also againstKorean nationals are occasionallyalluded to by Hachiya,and it is this that leadsDower to conclude that his fearsare fuelled by his awarenessof the behaviourof Japanesetroops.

Anotherpassage in the text similarly encouragesthe readerto detectimplicit commentaryon events.On the 14'hSeptember, Hachiya writes that he discovereda (188). People,he new term - "the minesof the towns" was told, were venturing out into the damagedcity, foraging in the rubble for items of value. Disgustedat first by this behaviour,eventually he decidedthat he too shouldsearch for anything salvageablein the ruins of the town. Digging throughthe collapsedbuildings, he cameacross piles of bamboobullets and spears."This is what happensto a nation that losesa war," he writes, "substitutesfor brass,wooden bullets, bamboospears. Soldiershad beentrained to usethe bamboospears in one heroic attemptto kill an enemy"(189). The imageof the bamboospears seems to rousea senseof bitterness in him towardsthe military who soughtto use suchpathetic means against the anticipatedAllied invasionof the mainland.Yet also, the imageof the bamboospears and the referenceto the heroismof the defencesoldiers implies a senseof national beatback in pride in the determinismof Japanto the enemy every possibleway. This readingof the spearsrenders his disillusionedabandonment of his mining expedition evenmore poignant. "Suffice it to say," he writes, I found nothing worth keeping" (189).

151 The attemptto rescuea senseof Japanesepride also resonatesin an account given by Hachiyaon the I Ith August. Indeed,in this entry he writes explicitly of the joy with which thosein the hospitalheard a rumour, a runiour that they were desperateto receiveas fact, that the Japanesehad droppeda similar "mysterious weapon"on Americancities. "If SanFrancisco, San Diego, and Los Angeleshad beenhit like Hiroshima," he writes, "what chaosthere must be in thosecities! At last Japanwas retaliating!The whole atmospherein the ward changed,and for the first time sinceHiroshima was bombed,everyone became cheerful and bri ght'' (49). This passageis the sole examplein the diary as a whole which expresslyshows a pride in Japanesemilitary power.Lifton recognisesin this passagea specific way of dealing with the bomb through"'identification with the aggressor'- that is, of dealingwith the power one fearsby becominglike it or part of if' (Deathin Life 89). By constructingthe Japaneseas aggressorsin this rumour, there is an attemptto rewrite their victim status,and recastthemselves as victorious. There is a further commentin Havhiya's diary entry for this day behindwhich can be detecteda similar attemptto th rewrite Japanesehonour into the atomic bomb narrative.By the 11 August,the hospitalbuilding was in an advancedstate of deterioration,and plasterwas falling from the damagedceiling on to the patientsbelow. Jokingly, Hachiya saysto his colleagueMr Mizoguchi that "it would be much pleasanterto suffocateunder a showerof cherryblossoms than underplaster from this ceiling" (47). Whilst he maintainsin his diary that this was said in jest, the historical contextof the imageof the cherryblossom adds a further dimensionto his comment.The cherry blossomis a traditional Japanesesymbol of death,and was adoptedas the motif for the kamikaze (translatedas "divine wind7) squadrons,who wreakeddestruction on enemyforces throughsuicide missions. It was primarily young, unmarriedmen who were selected for thesemissions, and to die servingJapan as a kamikazepilot was considered, particularlyprior to the surrender,to be both heroic and honourable.Hachiya's seeminglycasual employment of the imageof the cherry blossomhere recalls this senseof Japanesehonour, even in the face of a catastrophicdefeat.

Silencein the atomicbomb testimony is thus a combinationof presenceand a presentabsence. The utilisation of factual, scientific and, in the caseof Hachiya, clinical discoursemasks the silencethat emergesfrom the unrepresentabilityof the

152 atomicbombing. Silence is also manifestedas a presentabsence in thesetexts, in the form of Ota's strugglewith failed languageand useof communicativesilence, and Hachiya'sdescription of the atmosphereof silencethat prevailedin the immediate aftermath,his omittedretellings of the storiesof others,and the hiddenexpression within his text. The historical circumstancesof censorshipand hostility towardsthe kataribealso contributedto the silencingof the atomic voice. When words fail, silence,in all its aspects,reveals itself as the only solution.

153 Chapter 3

Women's Testimony

3.1 Introduction: "Masculine Genealogy" and Women's Life Writing

The placeof women's writing in the tradition of autobiographyhas long been compromisedby masculinistassumptions regarding the natureand purposeof autobiographicaldiscourse. Indeed, Linda Andersonasserts that autobiographyis the productof a "masculinegenealogy" that deniesthe prospectof a female autobiographicalvoice Womenand Autobiography12). Sheargues that traditional interpretationsand definitions of autobiography,such as thosepropounded by Gusdorfand Pascal,perpetuate a myth that autobiographyis an exclusivelymale genreand leavelittle room for a considerationof women's autobiographical narratives.Just as the emergenceof a testimonialgenre challenges traditional interpretationsof autobiographyas discussedin chapterone, so too doesthe practice of women'slife-writing call for a re-examinationof what constitutesautobiography.

identifying differencesbetween men's and women's autobiographicalwriting hastraditionally dependedupon the assumptionthat there is an autobiographical canonwhich hasestablished a set stylistic and thematicpattern that defines autobiographyas a genre.Perceived adherence to, or deviation from, this patterncan then be identified in termsof genderand biological sex, creatingdifferent traditions of men's andwomen's autobiography, a processwhich Donna Stantontranslated into a formulaic approach:"Male=X, ergoFemale=non-X + W" (11). Yet, as Stanton acknowledges,this formula actually functionsto obscurerather than to illuminate difference.Firstly, the formula restson a false suppositionthat the existenceof a largebody of autobiographicalworks throughouthistory has given rise to a stable definition of autobiographyas a genre.Without a stable'X', the notion of a 'non-X' is renderedmeaningless, and this approachto identifying differencebetween men's and women'sautobiographical narratives is thus flawed from the outset.Secondly, the very attemptto define a femalepractice of writing in this formulaic manner actually contradictsthe possibility of identifying a form of writing that is uniquely female.HdMne Cixous arguesthat "It is impossibleto definea feminine practiceof writing, and this is an impossibility that will remain,for this practicecan neverbe

154 theorised, enclosed, coded" (253). The process of defining through comparison is an act which takes place within the boundaries of the "phallocentric system" that Cixous suggestsdominates Western culture (253). For Cixous, this system is predicated upon a series of hierarchical oppositional binaries, all of which can be reduced to a fundamental binary relationship, that of Man/Woman. In such a discourse, argues Cixous, it is the male aspect of the binary that is valorised, whilst the female aspect is marginalised as passive and submissive. This is precisely the relationship that is at work in the X/non-X binary that Stanton posits as the traditional approach to determining sexual difference in autobiographical practice. Male autobiographical practice is acknowledged as the positive value in the autobiography binary, whilst female autobiographical practice achieves recognition solely through the fact that is not male - non-X. The paradox is, then, that the attempt to define a distinctive female autobiographical voice is orchestratedthrough a phallocentric system which privileges the male whilst marginalising the female.

Yet, Cixous assertsthat the existenceof this paradoxdoes not deny the possibility of writing as a woman.Indeed, she remarks that "it is through ignorance that most readers,critics and writers of both sexeshesitate to admit or deny outright the possibility or the pertinenceof a distinction betweenfeminine and masculine writing" (253). Whereand how, then, in the caseof autobiographicalwriting should the point of sexualdifference be located?Stanton identifies the most popularly cited differencebetween men's and women's autobiographicalwriting as being primarily stylistic in nature,in that: "men's narratives[are] linear, chronologicaland coherent, whereaswomen's [are] discontinuous,digressive and fragmented"(11). Yet, as Stantonacknowledges, this distinction oversimplifiesthe natureof autobiographical writing. The shift in critical attentionfrom the bios aspectof autobiographyto the autos,as discussedin chapterone hasled to the view that the self as representedin autobiographyis not singularand coherent,but rather fragmentedand split. This interpretationof the self as a divided subjectis frequentlymanifested in an approach to autobiographical,particularly testimonial, writing which favoursa fragmented style. "Discontinuity and fragmentation," arguesStanton, "constitute particularly fitting meansfor inscribingthe split subject," and thus thesestylistic characteristics shouldbe more accuratelyconsidered to be the productof genrerather than gender (11). In the specificcontext of the testimonialtrauma narratives discussed in this

155 thesis,these characteristics loosen even further from their genderedmoorings. Whilst a basicchronological framework is employedby many survivor-authors,temporal digressionand discontinuityfrequently feature in theseaccounts. The representation of a coherentself is also often dismissedin favour of a representationwhich more accuratelyreflects the fracturing of an individual as a consequenceof the experience of trauma,as discussedin chapterone. The attemptto representtrauma, the 64unrepresentable," is, then, arguablyas influential in terms of style as theoriesof genderedwriting.

This is not to suggestthat the idea that women's life-writing is a distinct subset of the autobiographicalgenre does not have currency.Indeed, Adriana Caverero arguesthat in fact autobiographicalpractice is an inherently feminine form of articulationthrough which womencome to recognisetheir selvesand their placein the world. Citing the existenceof a social order which allows men to identify themselvesas "I" in a public sphere,to recognise,and haverecognised, their own individuality, sheargues that womenare consignedto a private spherewhich doesnot allow for the possibility of individual self-recognition.By engagingin the "feminine customof self-narration7'(59), a womanhas the opportunityto recogniseherself as a uniqueindividual, or as Cavareroterms it, a "narratableself' (4 1). Crucially, this processof self-narrationis a mutual processby which women cometo identify both themselvesand othersin a reciprocalexchange of life-stories.For women,argues Cavarero,"the questions'who are youT and 'who am IT, in the absenceof a plural sceneof interaction[i. e. the public sphere]where the who can exhibit itself in broad daylight, immediatelyfind their answerin the classicrule of story telling" (58). In positingthe theory that womenare natural storytellers, Cavarero is presentingtwo aspectsof differencebetween male and femaleautobiographical practice. Firstly, self-narrationis an act which both createsand constitutesfemale identity, in that the self is only fully realisedand recognisedthrough self-narration and that this process of self-narrationis a centralcomponent of femaleidentity. The secondaspect is the emphasison the reciprocity of the processof women's self-narration.The realisation of the narratableself is the productof the exchangeof life-stories,rather than the independentarticulation of the personallife-story which characterisesthe autobiographicalpractice of men.

156 The failure of the autobiography binary to establish meaningful points of sexual difference between male and female authored autobiography is symptomatic of the flexibility of autobiography as a genre which, in the absenceof a stable definition of 'X, ' prohibits a simple classification of the 'non-X. ' Indeed, as this form of comparative approach is revealed to be theoretically flawed in accordancewith Cixous" thinking, identifying aspectsof autobiographical practice which are unique to women "s lif e-writing necessitatesa reinterpretation of the meaning of autos, bios, and graph in the specific context of women" s writing.

Womenhave long beenexcluded from the autobiographicalcanon by critics suchas Gusdorfand Pascalprimarily on the basisof bios. Indeed,Sidonie Smith points out that the early femaleadmissions to the autobiographicalcanon were grantedentry primarily on the basisof their 'exceptional' or unusuallives, noting that whilst critics "note[d] the importanceof autobiographyin gaining information about the woman's Nos" therewas little interestin searchingthe texts for "the larger and more complexissues of woman's auti, woman'sgraphia and woman's reading" (Poetics7). Critical interestlay in the experienceof the author,rather than her gender,rendering her the object,rather than the subjectof narration.Frequently, the everydaylives of 'ordinary' womenhave not beendeemed worthy of narration;few womenare consideredto havereached the heightsof "outstandingachievement" that Pascaldeems to be a prerequisiteof the autobiographicalprivilege (10). It is in this emphasison the exceptionaland outstandingNos that Gilmore locatesthe "autobiographicalparadox, " as consideredin chaptertwo, wherebythe extraordinary life comesto be representativeof an entire ageand its people. Gilmore arguesthat:

There is a long tradition in autobiography of representing the self as utterly unique and, on precisely this basis, able to stand for others [ ] In fact, having through acts of self-inspection and self-revelation. ... an unusual life better suits one to stand in for others in this tradition. The general, the president, the philosopher, and the saint are all better equipped than you and I to represent a life. Read and learn about me, they suggest,and you will learn more about history and, perhaps, yourself and what you are capable oL (19)

Gilmore describesautobiography as occupyinga social,even educative, role. By excludingthose who are not in a position to contributeto and commenton public life,

157 this tradition denies nearly all women (and indeed a large proportion of men) the privilege of self-representation.

If thereis a point at which a division betweena male and femaletradition of autobiographycan be detectedit is hereat this point of emphasison representativenessand the statusof the autobiographer.Whilst the qualification of 66outstandingachievement" may be centralto autobiographyaccording to its masculinegenealogy, the importanceof this preconditionis apparentlydiminished in women'sautobiographical text. Jacky Bratton arguesthat:

The masculinistassumption is that men chooseto publish their life storieswhen and becausethey have a unique importanceto the public life of their day. The most pervasivecharacteristic offemale autobiography,on the other hand,is arguedto be self-definition in relationto significantothers; so that ratherthan a senseof individual autonomy,a senseof identification, interdependenceand community is key in the developmentof women's identity and thereforealso centralin the storiesof themselves.(10 1- 102)

Bratton is arguingthat the interpretationof women's life writing calls for a fundamentalshift in critical perspectivefrom the bios to the autos;the sameshift that permitsa fruitful explorationof the testimonialgenre. As discussedin chapterone, studiesof Holocausttestimonies have encouraged a relocationof critical attention from the story of the bios which takesplace in the public sphereto the personaland private experiencesof the autos.If it is the casethat this shift is centralto women's writing, then it could be arguedthat womenhave a privileged relationshipto testimonialwriting. This reinforcesCaverero's argument that women arenatural storytellers.As the representationof the autosis centralto women's autobiographical practice,it is thereforenecessary to examinethe way in which the autosis defined within femaleauthored life narratives

Judith Kean Gardinershares Bratton's view that, "throughoutwomen's lives, the self is definedthrough socialrelationships" (182). This view, commonlyheld by early critics of femaleautobiography such as EstelleJelinek, reveals that the female self, as representedin autobiographicaltexts, is recognisedin termsof socially constructedgender roles, rather than biological sex.The femaleself is, then, constitutedthrough an acknowledgementof her role as mother,daughter, sister and

158 wife. Yet this definition of the female autos is dependent upon the stability and continuity of these social relationships, and is thus compromised in testimonial literature which typically deals with the destruction of social and familial relationships.

In her testimony, Landscapesof Memory Ruth Klilger recalls the devastating loss she experiencedwhen her older half brother, Schorschi, failed to return toVienna after a holiday spent with his father in Prague. His father had been granted full custody of Schorschi, following a ruling by the Czech courts which objected to the upbringing of a Czech child in German-occupied Vienna. As a child, KlOger knew little of the judicial reasonsbehind the sudden absenceof her brother, and understood only that he was lost to her. She writes that: "Schorschi was my first great loss, and every subsequentloss has seemedlike a replay of that first. I had not only lost a beloved family member but also a role: little sister" (2 1). KI11ger'ssense of loss was not only that of a sister losing a brother, but that of losing her ability to recognise herself. She understood her own identity in relation to those around her; with the loss identity of one of the defining components of her - her role as little sister - she lost a senseof herself as an individual.

This experience of familial loss and the impact that KlOger reveals it to have on the construction of identity is central to a consideration of the way in which the female self is constructed in trauma narratives. It suggests,in fact, a point of potential differentiation between women's autobiographical narratives and women's testimonial narratives. In the autobiographical narrative, the female self is constructed through social relationships; testimonial accounts of atrocity, on the other hand, such as those which narrate the experience of the Holocaust and the atomic bombings, are conspicuous by their representation of these social relationships as having been violently destroyed. Charlotte Delbo poignantly bears witness to this in the concluding line to one of her poems in None of Us Shall Return: "Here mothers are no longer mothers to their childreif ' (12). In the context of the experience of atrocity which denies the possibility of genderedsocial relationships, how is the female self to be constructed in the absenceof these social relationships? Jennifer Taylor suggests that the text itself becomesthe point of reference for the construction of the female

self-

159 KRIgerhas lost everything- family, language,status, father, mother, identity - and in trying to piecetogether a viable post-Shoahidentity, finds friends' [ ] Thus, she that shemust; make with the past ... the text becomesa mappingout of her identity as a writer, as a scholarand as a literary voice (84).

KlUger's narrative allows her to realise her own identity, not only as a writer and a scholar, but as a woman. The female author of testimony constructs her identity through her relationship with the text, and by extension, her relationship with the reader. In a review of KlUger's Landscapesof MemoKy. Elena Lappin notes that the narrative "is written like an open dialogue with the reader. KlUger doesn't just write an account of her life, she wonders about how it may be perceived from different perspectivesby those who didn't shareher experiences, and even by those who did". This dialogue with the reader is, suggestsSusan Rubin Suleiman, an essential component of autobiographical writing and reading. In reading autobiography, argues Suleiman, "we project ourselves into what we read," and doing so, enter into a relationship with the author (48). In the absenceof social and familial relationships, it is perhapsthrough these relationships with the reader and the text itself that the female auto is defined in testimonial literature.

Marlene Heinemann argues that the practice of identifying the female autos through her relationships with others impacts significantly upon the nature of women's graphe. Writing specifically in the context of Holocaust narratives, Heinemann suggestthat men's testimony is characterisedby a "self-dramatising" style which situates the experiencesof the male autos at the forefront of the narrative. In contrast, women's testimonies are characterisedby a "self-effacing" style which reveals "a tendency to hide or diminish the importance of the self' (103). Whilst Heinemann's argument offers a somewhat generalisedperspective on the difference between male and female authored texts, it is certainly the case that many male authored narratives marginalise the experiencesof significant women in their lives, such as wives or mothers. When in Maus Art Spiegelman questions his father Vladek about what happenedto his mother, Anja, during the Holocaust, he replies somewhat impatiently "I tell through the TERRIBLE! " can you ... she went same what me: (15 8).Whilst not disputing the fact that they both endured 'terrible' circumstances,

160 Vladek's reply doesmask the specificitiesof Anja's experiences.However, when readingHolocaust testimonies, it shouldbe takeninto accountthat the marginalisationof women's experiencesis not necessarilythe productof a masculine "self-dramatising"style. The separationof womenand men on arrival at the camps often meantthat men were unawareof what happenedto the women,and this separationalso meant that womenwere quite simply not a part of men's Holocaust experiences.The narrativeprocess of "self-dramatising"in men's Holocaust testimoniescan, then, be more accuratelylocated in the way in which menpresent themselves.Vladek's accountof his experiencescan be readas "self-drarnatising"in accordancewith the way in which he presentshis own survival as beingthe consequenceof his own actions.Rightly or wrongly, Vladek believesthat he had a degreeof control over his own fate throughhis ability to organisefood and clothing for himself, and learnuseful tradesand skills. In contrastto this form of self- representation,Heinemann suggests that women's narrativesare 'self-effacing' in that they do not focus on their own actions.Instead, an emphasisis placedon collective experience,where the importanceof the self is sublimatedin favour of the importanceof the group.Pam Morris suggeststhat "the most persistent,positive featureof women'swriting is its recognitionof the bondsof friendship,loyalty and love betweenwomen" (6 1). Certainly in women's Holocaustnarratives, the representationof 'camp families,' or small mutually protectivegroups of women,is common.Rachel Silberman, for example,interned with her motherand sisterat Stutthofin 1944,recalls:

We helpedeach other. I must say in the bad times, peopledidn't care, whetherit was me or anothergirl. Therewas anothermother and three daughters,and we were closetogether and if anythinghappened to anybody,we would all help eachother. (qtd. in Gurewitsch82)

Whilst Heinemannreads such accounts as this as evidenceof the "self-effacing" style of women'snarratives, I would arguethat in fact they demonstratea form of self- dramatisation.The focus is still very much on the way in which action andbehaviour affectschances of survival. The differencelies in the fact that women's narratives reveala focuson the actionsof the group ratherthan the individual. As opposedto being recognisedas a distinct narrativeform specificto women'swriting, self- effacementshould actually be consideredas a form of self-dramatisation.

161 The genderedcategorisation of "self-dramatising"and "self-effacing" narrative stylesalso fails to accountfor distinctionsbetween men's and women'sgraphe in the contextof A-bomb testimonies.The marginalisation.of the femaleexperience is apparentin male-authoredtestimonies, not throughthe omissionof women's experiences,but ratherthrough their representationas archetypalsymbols of unprecedentedsuffering. The imageof the unknownburned mother clasping her dead child to her breastin the streetsof a ruined city recursfrequently in men's narratives as a metaphorfor innocentvictimhood and the evil of war. This trope of maternal sufferingobscures the specificitiesof women's experiences.

Women'sA-bomb narrativesreveal little of the "self-effacing" style that Heinemann suggestscharacterises women's Holocaust testimonies. There is no comparable focus on a shared female community of suffering; indeed, the dominating concern is the isolation of women in aftermath of the atomic bombings. Women A- bomb authors often emphasisetheir own individual struggles in their narratives, and so appearto conform more to Heinemann's definition of a "self-dramatising" style. Evidently, this stylistic distinction between women's Holocaust testimonies and women's A-bomb testimonies needs to be interpreted in accordancewith the historical circumstancesunique to each event. The experience of incarceration and genocide is very different to that of experiencing physical, economical and psychological hardships in the aftermath of atrocity. The attempt to identify stylistic and thematic characteristics specific to women's representation of trauma must be situated, then, within their relevant historical contexts.

3.2 "Different Horrors, Same Hell: " Women's Experiences in History (Goldenberg 150)

An explorationof the differencesbetween testimonial accounts by men and womenmust be rootedin an understandingof the way in the experienceof trauma was relatedto biological sex and genderedroles in society.Historical and testimonial evidencereveals that womensuffered differently to men in the casesof both the Holocaustand the atomicbombings. The natureof this difference,however, is dependentupon the historical specificitiesof eachevent. The Nazis targetedmale and femalevictims differently in accordancewith genocidalaims, and women suffered

162 differently to men during the event,primarily on the basisof their biological sex.In comparison,the immediatetrauma of the atomic bombstargeted men and women indiscriminately.The mobilisation of civilian labour during the war meantthat both men and womenwere often working side by side in factoriesand offices, and so the peacetimegendered divisions of spacewhich commonly sited men in the workplace and womenin the homewere no longer in place.Many womenwho underpeacetime conditionswould havebeen at homein the rural villages surroundingHiroshima had beendrafted to work in the city to replacethe men who had goneto war. In termsof their spatialproximity to the bomb therewas little differencebetween men's and women'sexperiences. It is, then, primarily in the aftermathof the bomb that differencesbetween men's and women's experiencesemerged.

In 1980, Joan Ringelheim, an early pioneer of women's Holocaust studies, received a letter from Cynthia Ozick, challenging the validity of her researchinto women9sexperiences during the Holocaust. Ozick wrote:

I think you are asking the wrong question. Not simply the wrong question in the senseof not having found the right one; I think you are asking a morally wrong question that leaves us still further down the the Jews from history. [ I You insist it didn't road of eradicating ... that happen to 'just Jews.' It happenedto the women, and it is only a detail that the Jewish. It is detail. [ ] The Holocaust women were not a ... happenedto victims who were not seen as men, women, or children, but as Jews. (qtd. in Ringelheirn Thoughts about Women and the Holocaust 144)

Ozick's concernis that by focussingon the femalevictims of the Holocaustas womenrather than Jews,the true natureof the genocidewill be overlookedand incorporatedinto a historical narrativebelonging to women.She fears that suchan approachwill trivialise the Holocaustby reducingit to an abhorrentexample of sexism.Ringelheim countered Ozick's challengeby arguingthat identifying the victims solely as Jewsactually gives rise to a false impressionthat all Jewsshared the As Ringelheirn "if in [ ] Jews sameexperiences. points out, the gaschambers ... all seemedto be alike, the path to this end was not alwaysthe same"(Thoughts about Womenand the Holocaust144). Ozick is overlookingthe fact that preciselybecause the motivation behindthe Holocaustwas genocidalin nature,women were

163 necessarilytreated differently to men. In the prologueto their book Different Voices: Womenand the Holocaust,Carol Rittner and JohnRoth point out that:

Sexism,which divides roles accordingto biological functions,can exist without racism,but wheneverclaims are madethat one raceis superiorto any or all others,discrimination directed at womenis unlikely to be far behind.Because women are the oneswho bear children,they areput uniquely at risk as membersof a group targeted as racially inferior. (2)

There is little doubt that women fared differently to men during the Holocaust, and that fewer women survived than men; Ringelheim confirms that only 40% of camp survivors in the displaced persons camps in 1946 were women (Women and the Holocaust 394). To make senseof statistics such as this, it is necessaryto explore ways in which female victims were targeted both as women and as Jews. Whilst this approach does not, as Ozick supposes,deny the Jewish identity of the female victims, it does deposeJewish identity as the sole descriptive of Holocaust victims, and so createsa spacein which the experiencesof non-Jewish victims, male and female, can be recognised.

The primary aim of the Holocaust, as stated by Heinrich Himmlcr, was to make Jews and other undesirable groups, such as Gypsies, "disappear from the face of the earth" (qtd. in Ringelheim, Women and the Holocaust 392). As potential mothers of ftiture generations, women were therefore particularly targeted by the Nazi regime. The act of genocide criminalised the female body, and contributed to a lower survival rate amongst women than amongst men. The records of the Einsatzgruppen killings in Eastern Europe, although incomplete, reveal that more women were murdered than men. Ringelheim has uncovered the fact that 72% of those killed by mobile killing units between Septemberand November 1941 were women, a percentagethat Ringelheim suggestscan be considered typical across the entire period during which the Einsatzgruppen were active (Women and the Holocaust 394-395).

The first women's internmentcamp, Ravensbruck, was foundedin 1939.A smallercamp was built nearbyin 1941to housemale prisoners.Notably, few of the 106,000women who passedthrough the campwere Jewish;the majority of prisoners

164 were Gypsies (particularly Austrian Gypsies), Jehovah's Witnesses and asocials or criminals. As the momentum of the genocidal campaign gathered force, the population of the camp swelled dramatically from 11,000 in 1942 to 70,000 in 1944. This sudden expansion of the prisoner population led to high levels of overcrowding and squalor, and death rates from diseaseand starvation rocketed. A gas chamber was built in Ravensbrilck in early 1945 which was in operation until shortly before the liberation of the camp in April of the same year. Records suggestthat approximately 2,300-2,400 women were murdered in the gas chamber (qtd. in Greif 23 8).

Cynthia Haft argues that "the camp system granted complete equality between the sexes" (235). Her use of the word 'equality' is potentially misleading in this context, suggesting as it does that men and women shared the same experiences. Actually, women's experienceswere often very different to men's, although, as Rittner and Roth point out, this fact should not lead to an assumption that one gender suffered more than the other (3). Men and women were usually separatedon arrival at the camps, and had little contact with each other during the period of their imprisonment. Following this separationon the basis of gender, prisoners were subjected to a selection processwhich determined who would be murdered immediately and who would be sent to the barracks. Judith Tydor Baumel argues that women were at a greater risk during this selection process than men. Young women who were pregnant, or who arrived with children aged up to their early teens, were usually selected for immediate extermination. In contrast, young healthy men of a similar age group often stood the best chance of survival, as they were identified as a valuable labour source. The elderly of both sexeswere sent directly to their deaths. However, Baumel suggeststhat middle-aged women were often at greater risk than men of the same age group as they were wrongly identified as older than their years, due to the traditional costume of long black dressesand shawls typically adopted by women from Orthodox communities (20). This is, though, a somewhat subjective view as it could be equally argued that bearded Orthodox men who wore traditional black garb could also be perceived as being older than their years.

Insidethe camps,women suffered horrors that were either specificto their sex,or at leastintensified by their identity as women.For example,whilst both men andwomen had their hair shavedand were subjectedto nudity in front of their fellow

165 prisonersand the SSguards during delousingtreatments and selections,women's testimoniesfrequently represent these events as being far more traumaticthan men's narrativessuggest. Indeed, Baumel suggests that the experiencesof enforcednudity and hair removalwere:

the most psychologically traumatic [events] of their entire wartime experiences:the first time many of then had ever stood naked before a [ ] degradation having body member of the opposite sex; ... the of their hair removed by a male barber; the shock of losing their hair, symbol of their femininity. (22)

Both men and womenwere subjectedto experimentsinto enforcedsterilisation, and Jewishand gypsywomen were targetedfor experimentationof this sort at RavensbrOckand Auschwitz. The experimentsusually provedto be fatal for the victims. Arguably the experienceof, or fear of, sterility was againmore traumaticfor womenthan for men.As discussedin more detail later in this chapter,the fear that they would be unableto bearchildren in the future damagedwomen's hopes for survival, as evenif they lived throughthe campsthey would be unableto take up their socially definedfemale roles as women.

Many womenfeared being subjectedto sexualabuse on pain of deathat the handsof the SS guards.Indeed, Marlene Heinemann argues that:

the unique contribution of women's Holocaust literature is to examine the insidious between death [ ] between choice rape and ... the choice humiliation and death is universal in Holocaust literature by men and women, but the choice of sexual humiliation seemsmuch more available to women. (199 1)

Heinemann offers little justification as to why accounts of sexual abuserather than, for example, amenorrheaor pregnancy should represent a uniquely female contribution to Holocaust literature. The fear of sexual abusewas also present for men, although it was much less widespread. In practice, it has been argued, sexual abusewas not that common an experience for Jewish female prisoners, firstly becausethe SS guards were indoctrinated into the pseudo-philosophy of racial hygiene, and secondly becauseSS men could be punished if found guilty of having sexual relations with Jewish female prisoners. The threat was far more real for non-

166 Jewishfemale prisoners, and the experiencesof femaleprisoners who were rapedin the campsshould not be marginalised(Karay 289-291).

Additionally, it appearsthat living conditionsin women'scamps were considerablymore squalidthan thosein the men's camp.As discussedabove, the conditionsin the RavensbrUckcamp were particularly poor. A further exampleof this is the women'scamp in Auschwitz,which openedin 1942,and receivedits first transportconsisting of 999 womenfrom Slovakiain March. In all, 131,000 women prisonerswere registeredat Auschwitz, 82,000of whom were Jewish.Camp CommandantRudolf H6sscommented in his memoirsthat:

for the womeneverything was a thousandtimes harder,much more depressingand injurious becausethe living conditionsin the women's campswere incomparablyworse. The womenwere allocatedsmaller living space,the hygienic and sanitaryconditions were greatly inferior 'point ... and whenwomen reached the of no return' the end was not long in coming.(qtd. in Karay 307)

Whilst gender-specificresearch has highlighted the dangerof assuminga universalHolocaust experience shared by men and women,care must be takenthat this assumptionis not repeatedby representingthe experiencesof all womento be the same.The experiencesof eachindividual womandiffered accordingto many variables,including her religious identity, nationality, age,class, general health, marital and maternalstatus, the placeshe was imprisoned,and the time at which she was deportedor imprisoned.The study of women's narrativesis, then, essentialnot only to understandthe way in which women's experiencesdiffered to thoseof men, but alsoto uncoverthe ways in which eachwoman's experiencesdiffered to thoseof otherwomen.

The controversythat accompaniedthe developmentof women'sHolocaust studieshas not beenmatched in the field of atomic bomb research.This is due,quite simply, to the fact that little attentionhas been paid to the specificexperiences of hibakushawomen. The little that hasbeen performed tends to be primarily listings of statisticaldata regarding the effect of the bomb on menstruation,pregnancy, fertility andthe healthof childrenborn of hibakushamothers, as presentedmost fully in Hiroshimaand Nagasaki: Physical,Medical, and Social Effects of the Atomic -The

167 Bombingscompiled by the Committeefor the Compilationof Materialson Damage causedby the Atomic Bombsin Hiroshimaand Nagasaki. The lack of genderspecific researchcontributes to the impressionthat men's and women's experiencesof the atomicbomb were the same.However, women's testimonyreveals that women actually sufferedin ways that were specificboth to their biological sex and to their genderedroles in societyas mothersand wives.

Conclusivestatistics regarding the numberof womenkilled outright in the atomicattacks are not available;indeed, the overall numberof victims killed in the explosionhas never been satisfactorily agreed. Yet evenif suchstatistics were available,it would reveallittle abouta specifically femaleexperience of the atomic bombings.The significanceof sexualdifference only becomesapparent in the aftermathof the attack.

Regardingphysical injuries resultingfrom the actualexplosion, women sufferedsimilar injuries to men in termsof wounds,and bums that left disfiguring scarsor keloids. Yet just as Heinemannargues that enforcednudity andthe shaving of hair exacteda greaterpsychological trauma on womenthan men during the Holocaust,so it could be arguedthat permanentscarring was more traumaticfor womenthan men.Both men's and women'stestimonies bear witness to an enduring senseof shamebecause of their disfigurement,and a fear that they will be forever stigmatisedbecause of their visually obviousexposure to the bomb. However,for womenthese concerns are intensifiedas the disfigurementcompromises the relationshipbetween physical beauty and femininity, and so the keloids serveto underminetheir understandingof their femaleidentity. In his book Deathin Life, Lifton recountsan interview with a femalesurvivor who was left badly scarredafter the bombing,in which shetold him:

Ratherthan thejoy of having survived,my regret over having become this way was muchmore profound...And howevermuch I was encouragedby others,I could not help believing that for a womanto loseher beautyis equivalentto death.All I could do was live in a [ ]I to from if I comer ... wanted escape the world... and possible, wishedto die. (187)

168 For this unnamedfemale survivor, thereis a significant differencebetween surviving, and surviving as a woman.

As did the immediatephysical injuries causedby the explosionimpact differently on men and women,so did the longer lasting effectsof the radiation releasedby the bomb.The greaterthe proximity of the survivor to the epicentreof the explosion,the more stronglythese effects were manifestedin the body. Womenoften found their menstrualcycles were disrupted,which led to fearsthat their fertility had beenaffected by their experiences.These fears were heightenedby the significant numberof miscarriagesand still-births amongstpregnant women who had been exposedto radiation.Women feared that their fertility had beenpermanently affected, andrumours spread quickly that childrenbom of hibakushamothers would be horribly deformed.Such rumours made it difficult for womento fulfil their gendered socialroles in society,as many men refusedto marry a womanwho had been exposedto the bomb. It was difficult for womento survive financially outsideof marriage,and many were reducedto long-termpoverty.

Thosewomen left widowed with children facedparticular hardship in the post-waryears, and this is a themethat is returnedto frequentlyin women's testimonies.Men who lost their wives often simply took their childrenback to their own mother'swho broughtthem up as their own. Women,however, rarely hadthis opportunityas they left their own families when they marriedand becamepart of their husband'sfamily, often living togetherwith the husband'sparents in an extendedfamily group.This arrangementoften createda rivalry and evenhostility betweenthe wife and the mother-in-law,particularly with regardsto the upbringing of children."In Japanesetradition, " explainsLifton, "the mother-in-lawin someways hasgreater claim upon the childrenthan the wife sincethey representthe husband's family bloodline" (Deathin Life 191-192).Widowed hibakushawomen who returned homewith their childrenafter the bombingnot infrequentlyfound that traditional rivalry was intensified,and that the mother-in-lawwould demanda sole claim on the children,perceiving the hibakushamother to be unfit to carefor her children.The only alternativeto this arrangementfor many womenwas to attemptto setup home alonewith their children,acting as solebreadwinner and carer,a situationwhich was

169 not easyin post-warJapan, particularly as hibakushawere heavily discriminated againstby employers(Lifton, Deathin Life 179-182).

The arrival of the Allied Forcesin Japanwas a causefor greatconcern among the populace.Since the outbreakof war, the Japaneseauthorities had regularly issued anti-Americanpropaganda, and during the time that had elapsedsince the A-bomb had beendropped, rumours of the cruelty and barbarityof the Americansoldiers had proliferated.As discussedin Chapter2 of this thesis,Hachiya reveals in Hiroshima DiM that the predominantconcern was that womenwould be sexuallyabused by the soldiers.Hachiya is initially dismissiveof theseconcerns, firstly becausehe believes that "westerners,were a culturedpeople, " and secondlybecause he believesthat the femalevictims were so badly injured that they would be unattractiveto the soldiers (183). Later, however,he doesadmit his concernsthat the womenwho had not been badly injured or scarredmight be at risk: "how aboutthe healthyyoung girls in the hospital?Would they go unharmed?I had to confessthere were doubtsin my mind" (183). Hachiya'sunderstanding of sexualabuse is revealedhere to be flawed, as he repeatsthe popularmisconception that rapeis the productof lust, ratherthan a violent expressionof dominanceand power. Ultimately, theseconcerns about sexual abuse provedto be largely unfounded,and whilst the fear of sexualabuse is commonin women'snarrative, there is little testimonialevidence to suggestthat any attacksof this naturetook place.Whilst womenmay not havebecome the victims of sexual abuse,however, they were subjectedto punishmentfrom their fellow Japaneseif they developedwilling and consensualrelations with the occupyingtroops. Hachiya recountsoverhearing a young Japaneseman telling a friend that he had thrown a girl into the seaafter seeingher walking with an American soldier.Reflecting on this, Hachiyawrites:

The attitudethis young man expressedwas typical of many who had beentaught to hatethe enemy.He still had a feeling of hostility. I could not exactlycondone his treatmentof the girl, but I thoughtto myself that had I beenin his position and my girl had actedas this one had, I might havereacted the sameway. The bestsolution, I thought, was for girls to get out of the city so neitherthey nor the soldiers would be tempted.(207)

170 The fate of the youngwoman in the passage,and whethershe survived being flung into the sea,is unknown,and indeeddoes not seemto particularly concernHachiya. His tone is one of regretthat this happened,but acceptancethat it could not be any otherway. Aggressiontowards the enemyis in this casemisdirected towards the womanin a way which demonstratesthe vulnerability of womenin post-warJapan. Hachiyaimplies that the angerfelt by the young man is not rootedin the sight of theseyoung womanwalking with an American soldier,but ratherin the pain of defeat.In this instance,the fact that the woman is as much a victim of the war as her attackeris forgotten,and sheis constructedas the enemyrather than the American soldier.Tellingly, Hachiyasees the solutionto problemssuch as this to be not the oustingof the occupyingforces, but ratherthe exiling of womenfrom the city.

Whilst a direct comparisonof the experiencesof femalevictims of the Holocaustand the atomic bombingsis evidentlynot possibleon the groundsof historical difference,there arenevertheless certain aspects of their narrativeswhich do bearresemblance, most notably fearsabout the way in which femaleidentity and femininity are compromised(particularly in termsof infertility and physical disfigurement),and the fear of sexualabuse. It is temptingto readinto thesepoints of similarity the suggestionthat thereis a specifically femaleform of sufferingthat is trans-historicaland unitesall femalevictims of atrocity and trauma.Whilst sucha generalisedapproach to genderedexperiences of traumashould be resisted,it is the casethat womenin conditionsof extremity do sharegender-specific points of vulnerability. It is only throughexploring the testimonialaccounts of women survivorsthat a greaterunderstanding of the femaleexperience of atrocity can be reached.

3.3 Writing the Female Experience of the Holocaust

"Recipes for gerilte fish are no recipe for coping with the Holocaust": Women's Concerns in the Testimony of Ruth Klilger (KIfiger 24)

Every womenautobiographer is a daughterwho writes and establishes her identity throughher autobiographicalnarrative. Many twentieth centuryautobiographical texts by womencontain an intertext, an embeddednarrative, which is a biographyof the writer/daughter's mother.(Malin 1)

171 In keepingwith Malin's perspective,KlOger's testimonial narrative Landscapesof Memo!y: A HolocaustGirlhood Remembered(2003) shouldbe read as not only a personalaccount of her own experiences,but also a biographyof her mother,Alma, andthe fraught natureof their changingmother-daughter relationship. Thereare few accountsof the Holocaustthat depict the mother-daughtdrrelationship with suchpiercing clarity, or indeed,with sucha critical eye. So unusualis K111ger's approachthat AndreaReiter hasclaimed that "the fusion of campexperience and criticism of the mothermust be seenas the new elementin KlOger'stext, and suggeststhat it might indicatethe adventof a new canonof Holocaustliterature" (Ich wollte esware ein Roman333), WhetherLandscapes of Memo[y can be heraldedas the beginningof a new canonis debatable;although rare, the depictionof parent- child relationshipis not exceptional(Elie Wiesel's N[ightand Livia E. Bitton Jackson'sElli: Cominizof Age in the Holocaust,for example,both describesuch a relationship,although not in the samefiercely interrogativemanner that Klilger adopts),and in someways KlOger'snarrative can be consideredto be very conventionalin that it presentsan orderedlinear chronology,and offers both remembranceand reflection as part of the narrative.Nevertheless, Klager doesoffer a new and distinctivevoice to the existing Holocaustbody of Holocausttestimony, due in the most part to the way in which shecentralises an analysisof her mother'slife and in doing so engageswith an understandingof her own identity.

Not only doesthe relationshipwith her motherdominate the text thematically, it alsoplays a role in the genesisof the English version of her testimony.KlUger first recordedher Holocaustexperiences in a testimonywritten in German,entitled weiter leben:Eine Juizend.Anna K Kuhn describesweiter lebenas being very much "ein deutschesBuch, " in that "it was not only written in Germany,in German,but is also dedicated Klflger's Germanfriends [ I intendedfor German to ... and a audience" (128). KlOger'sdecision to write initially in Germanis in itself a significant act. As discussedin the previouschapter, a survivor's choiceof languagein testimonycan be interpretedas part of the act of bearingwitness. Wiesel, for example,chose to write Njght in Frenchas the languagewas relatively uncontaminatedby the barbarismof the Holocaust.Whilst KRIgerstates forcefully that "Germanproverbs nauseate me, "

172 and considersthe German language as employed in the camps to be repellent in its corruption of meaning, she does not reach the Steinerian conclusion that the German language as a whole has been damaged by the events of the Holocaust. "German, strange as it may sound," Klilger argues, "is a Jewish language. Consider that until the Holocaust, most of the world's prominent secular Jews spoke and wrote it: Kafka, Freud, Einstein, Marx, Heine, Theodor HerzI (! ), and Hannah Arendt, to name the first that come to mind" (257-258). For KlOger, the problem of contaminated language is locked into time and place. The German language of the camps is nauseating; likewise the language of her Viennese childhood, a place where the very "cobblestones scream with hate," holds the power to disturb her (25 8). '41 understandthis language," she writes of her native tongue, "'but I don't like it. I speak it but I wouldn't have chosen it" (63). The German language that she draws on is, then, the language of Kafka, of Freud rather than the language of Himmler or Streicher. Indeed, her choice to write in German is an act of defiant reclamation, rescuing the German language of Jewish intellectualism and achievement from its brutal application in the death camps.

However,KlOger's decision to write in Germanwas primarily motivatedby the desireto saveher motherfrom readingher daughter'sdamning representation of their relationship.As both KlUgerand her motherhad built their lives in America after the war, Klilger explains"I thoughtif I wrote in German,my motherwouldn't seeit, as shehad no contactwith things German,and evenconsidered my career[she is a Professorof German]an embarrassment"(264). KlOgerhad good reasonto be cautious;her testimonywas criticisedby an Americanbook revieweras being the productof a "bitter lifelong vendetta"against her mother (Dickstein 26). Yet these hopeswere dashedwhen the cousinof her mother's bridgepartner sent her a copy of weiter leben,and "even thoughshe was an impatient and infrequentreader, my motherfound easily all the passagesthat were critical of her and was badly hurt" (KhIger 264). Readingboth resentmentand bitternesstowards her in her daughter's accountof their survival, KlUger'smother was distraughtabout the way in which she was portrayed,and the opinionsthat her friends and neighbourswould form of her as a consequence."There was no point arguingthat the neighboursdidn't readGerman books," writes a frustratedKlOger (264). Her deferenceto her mother's feelings, however,explains the nine year gap betweenthe publicationof weiter leben and

173 Landscapesof Memory. "I promised myself not to publish it in English until after her death. Let it appearin French, in Czech, even in Japanese,but not in English. I owed her that much," statesKlOger, suggesting a greater allegiance to her mother than her narrative reveals (264). Her decision to write in German is, then, a reflection of KlUger's testimonial duty to the living, in contrast to other survivors such as Wiesel and Levi who reveal in their narratives a duty towards the dead.

KlOger describesher English account as "neither a translation, nor a new book: it's another version, a parallel book, if you will, for my children and my American students" (264). She began to write it as her mother was dying, completing and publishing it only after her mother's death at the age of 97 in 2000. Kuhn suggeststhat in Landscapesof Memory Klilger "mitigates and revises her criticisms" of her mother, and it is significant to note that she dedicates the book jo her mother (129). Landscapesof Memory concludes with an image of Mager's mother and her grandchild together, "a smile of total affinity on both their faces," this uninterrupted female line offering the possibility of redemption from the sufferings of the past (269).

Born in Vienna in 1931, KlOgerwas deportedto Theresienstadtwith her motherand paternal grandmother in September1942, where they remaineduntil 1944 when sheand her motherwere deportedto Auschwitz. Her grandmotherhad already perishedin the 'model ghetto' of Theresienstadt.They remainedin Auschwitz until the summerof 1944,when they were deportedtogether to Christianstadt.In February 1945,KlOger, her motherand four other prisonersescaped together from the camp andtravelled through rural Germanyeventually finding safetywith the American army in April 1945,a month beforethe end of the war in Europe.Lore Dickstein suggeststhat "it seemsevident, at leastto this reader,that shewould not have survivedhad it not beenfor her mother's pluck and resourcefulness"(26).

KlOgernegotiates the representationof her motherand the natureof their changingrelationship through the emergenceof two distinct narrativepersonas; the experientialKlOger who is the child protagonistin the memoriesshe describes, and the adult narratorialKlUger who reflectson her memoriesof her experiencesduring the war. The distinctionbetween a potentialauthorial persona and the narratorial

174 personais harderto identify in this text. Indeed,Reiter arguesthat Kloger explicitly disavows"a distancebetween herself the author,and the narratorin the text" (Lch wollte es ware ein Roman326). CarmelFinnan suggeststhat K111ger'simpulse to write her testimonywas rooted in "the needto reconcile[her] presentsel[fl with [that] of the past" (278). Whilst the relationshipbetween the experientialpast self and the narratorialpresent self doeschange as the narrativeprogresses, there is a tension betweenthe two personasthat is neversatisfactorily resolved in the text.

As with Elie Wiesel and Primo Levi, the use of different names is central to Klilger's representation of her divided self. She explains that as a child she had always been called by her middle name, Susi, rather than Ruth. Klilger describesher family as "emancipated but not assimilated," in that whilst they did not keep a kosher house or practice their faith devoutly, they did acknowledge Jewish High Holy days with fasting and visits to the synagogue(39). However, even as a child, KIdger becameincreasingly aware of the persecution meted out to her in 1930s Vienna on the basis of her Jewish identity, and "became Jewish by defence" (39). Unaware of the biblical heritage of her middle name, Susannah,KRIger insisted that she be called by her first name, Ruth. She recalls, "why do I have a first name if I can't use it? I thought, and under the circumstances,only a Jewish name would do" (40). This change in name comes to represent a rupturing in KlUger's identity between her pre- Holocaust self (Susi) and the self that experienced the Holocaust (Ruth). The only member of the family to continue calling her Susi was her grandmother, who later died in Theresienstadt. KlOger recalls the misconception held by her family in the early stagesof the war that "nobody would hurt an old woman. Or a child, like her youngest granddaughter, Susi" (40). For Kfilger then, Theresienstadtwas not only the place her grandmother died, but also the place where Susi died.

Nevertheless,in the frequentinterjections from KRIgerthe narrator,KlOger exhibits a far closeridentification with Susithan with Ruth. Sherecalls an incident whereher great-auntconfiscated her collection of streetcartickets, on the grounds that it was unhygienic.KlOger's narratorial voice intedectsparenthetically to commiserateempathetically with Susi,asserting: "(But it was mine, damnit. What right did shehave to take it? I can still feel my eight year old indignation.)" (9). KlOgerthe narratorshares with Susi an antipathytowards her mother,described as "a

175 spoiledchild of wealth" (40). Indeed,most of the passageswhich can be considered to be unmitigatedcriticism of her motherappear early in the text whereKRIger the narratorshares the petty grievancesof Susi towardsmaternal authority. The relationshipbetween both Susiand Klilger the narratorand her - or perhapsmore accurately,their - motheris representedas highly competitive:"There was nothing that shehadn't donebetter than I, and my only recoursewas to doubt her word" (57). in the early stagesof the narrative,both KlOgerand Susi sharea mutual distrustof Alma, and KlUgerreflects that "in our case,the symptomsof this flourishing mother- daughterneurosis were textbookperfect" (56).

Yet as the narrative progressesand Ruth takes over the role of protagonist, KlOger the narrator gradually begins to challenge the critical attitude that Ruth adopts towards her mother. This is revealed most significantly in a passagein which KlOger recounts her mother's suggestion that they commit suicide together when they arrived at Birkenau. She writes:

My motherexplained to me that the electric barbedwire outsidewas lethal and proposedthat sheand I shouldget up and walk into that I I hadn't heard [ ]I wire. thought correctly ... was twelve yearsold, and the thoughtof dying, now, without delay, in contortions,by running into electrically chargedmetal on the adviceof my own mother,whom God had createdto protectme, was simply beyondmy comprehension.The idea of it! I couldn't graspit. I fled into the comfort of believingthat shecouldn't havemeant it. Persuadedmyself that shewas only out to frighten me. Resentedthat shewas up to bad tricks. Hadn't sheoften scaredme for nothing?(I 11)

Unable to contextualise her mother's suggestion within the desperatecircumstances they were experiencing, Ruth is able to interpret the suicide proposal only through her understanding of their dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship. Finnan suggests that throughout the narrative, "KIdger's representationsof the maternal function overturn the historical position of persecutor and victim [to the extent that] her mother assumesthe role of persecutor" (28 1). The identification of her mother as the potential perpetrator of harm towards her offers Ruth a form of "comfort. " She is able to detach herself from the obvious and explicit danger around her, and focus instead on a perceived threat from her mother. To Ruth, the image of her mother as a threatening authoritative figure is familiar from their many clashes in her early

176 childhood, and thus Ruth's criticism of her mother in this instance actually represents an attempt to normalise the situation in which she finds herself. Her critical attitude towards her mother and their relationship can be interpreted as a coping strategy adopted to deal with the experience of trauma.

This passagedescribing Ruth's interpretation of her mother's suggestion is followed immediately by KlOger the narrator's reflections on the incident. She writes:

I knew my mother no better than most children know their parents, which isn't very well. Perhapsa certain, wild destructive pleasure was at the root of her proposal. But more probably she was quite serious and quite desperate.As I think back, I ask myself if I have ever forgiven her that worst evening of my life. Of course I have: but who in [ ] Only I had can count the sparks the ashes? ... when children of my own did I realise that one might well decide to kill them in Auschwitz rather than wait. I now believe that I would have had the samethought and perhaps carried it out more efficiently. (112)

Klilger's interpretationof her mother's actionsis revealedto be quite different to Ruth's understandingof her mother's suicideproposal. KlOger the narratoris able both to reflect on her mother's stateof mind, and to forgive her. As a motherherself by this point, Klilger is able to identify with her mother's point of view in a way that was impossiblefor Ruth. Yet despitethis reconciliationwith her mother,Ruth's voice is still apparentin the final sentenceof the passage,which standsin critical judgementnot of her mother's suggestion,but of the way in which shefailed to act upon it.

Later in the text, KlUger tries to analyse her mother's responseto the camps, and in particular her proposal of suicide. She asserts:

My motherhad reactedcorrectly to the exterminationcamp from out the outset,that is, with the sureinstinct of the paranoid.Her suicide proposalof the first night is evidenceof her understanding.[... ] Yet I still think that it was not her reasonablenessbut an old and deepseated being her lives.[ ]I senseof persecutedwhich enabled to saveour ... think that peoplesuffering from compulsivedisorders, such as paranoia,had a betterchance to pick their way out of massdestruction, becausein Auschwitzthey were finally in a placewhere the social (or had delusions.[ ] But order social chaos) caughtup with their ... isn't the price shepaid too high: this madnessthat shecarried inside

177 her, like a sleepingtomcat? The cat would occasionallystretch, yawn, archhis back, softly casethe joint, suddenlychatter with his teeth, reachwith sharpclaws for a bird, and go to sleepagain - leaving the bloody feathersfor me to cleanup. I don't want to carry sucha predatorinside of me, evenif he could savemy life in the next exterminationcamp. (121-122)

Interestingly,KlUger identifies the qualitieswithin her motherthat madetheir survival possible,which from Ruth's perspectiveidentified her as a perpetrator,to be masculine.This is in line with her perceptionof the act of persecutionand the Holocaustas being fundamentallymale in nature.Yet at the sametime, her motheris also the persecuted,and it is in recognisingthis duality of both persecutorand persecutedwithin her mother's naturethat KlOgerthe narratoris able to differ to Ruth in her understandingof her mother.Yet whilst Klilger's voice and attitudesenter into the text, shedoes not attemptto silenceRuth, and the two personaslive alongside eachother, alternately constructing the mother as both victim of her circumstances and as perpetrator.

Reiter suggeststhat the representationof the troubled mother-daughter relationshipthroughout the narrativeshould be interpretednot only as a personal accountof KlOger'sfamily history, but also within the wider contextof her feminist readingof the history of the Holocaust."Milger's criticism of her mother," argues Reiter,"[ ] is her but ... not so much a condemnationof ratherpresents a paradigmof the generalhelplessness of the Jewishwoman confronted with her family's deportationand extermination"(Ich wollte es ware ein Roman334). KlUger's criticism of her motheris thus a screenfor her feminist criticism of male oppression.

Certainly,Landscapes of Memory standsas a text that is as much influenced by KlOger'spost-war experiences as a feminist professorof Germanliterature in America as by her childhoodwartime experiencesin Europe,the landscapesof the title seeminglyechoing this geographicalshift. Sheconstructs a strongly feminist fashioningof history, curiouslyboth casuallydismissive of historical fact and at the sametime insistentupon detail. For KlOger,it is essentialthat the nameof eachof the campsshe was imprisonedin is remembered.She explains:

178 My third placeof internment,whose name nobody can remember,was Christianstadt,which was called a work campand was an extension, an Aussenlager,of anotherconcentration camp, Gross-Rosen. There weremany of thesework camps,or Arbeitslager. Hitler's Europewas dottedwith them,but there is a greatreluctance to pay attentionto [ ] Death to if their names ... campsseem easier comprehend we put them all into the basketof one vast generalisation,which the term deathcamps implies, but in the processwe mythologiseor trivialise them.(77)

In this passage,KlOger argues that historical accuracy is essential in order to prevent the history of the Holocaust from disappearing into the realm of myth. Naming anchors her experiencesin reality, and prevents the possibility that her specific experienceswill be subsumedinto a generalised shorthand of Holocaust history. In this context, the broad term 'death camps' denotes only an imaginary place; there was no place called 'death carnp.' Indeed, as she points out, "the term extermination camp didn't exist yet" (74); the implication is that by using this non-contemporaneous terminology, real places are transformed into places of myth. It is perhaps this concern that motivates her to include the contemporaneousGerman terms it A ussenlager and Arbeitslager (yet curiously not Konzentrationslager). And yet, is possible for namesthat belong to a now lost landscapeto evoke a senseof that landscapeas real? Klilger laments the inadequacy of the term 'landscape' that she adopts for the title of her testimony, stating that "I want my timescapes.Evocations of places at a time that has passed" (74). The places that she names are places that belong to a separatetimescape to the present, and therefore their usage does not necessarily resurrect them as real places. Klilger suggeststhat the names she records are like "piers of bridges that were blown up, only we can't be quite sure of what these bridges connected" (75). Yet to leave the places unnamed, to submit to a generaliseddiscourse, is, for KlOger, to participate in the process of mythologisation and trivialisation. The only response,then, however unsatisfactory is to "start with what is left: the names of the places" (75).

Yet this emphasison communicating the exact historical detail of the Holocaust that KlOger expressesin this passagecannot be considered as a prevailing attitudein the text. Indeed,she exhibits a certaindisregard for conventionalhistorical narrativein her testimony,for examplewhen relating the talestold to her in Birkenau

179 by an acquaintance,Liesel, whosefather was a memberof the Sonderkommandoand passedon all that he witnessedto his teenagedaughter:

From her I learnedthat the gold fillings of Jewishteeth weren't permittedto stayin deadJewish mouths, and much elsethat is commonknowledge today, can be researchedin many reference books,and neednot be repeatedhere. (115)

Her belief that shehas no needto repeatthe role of the Sonderkommandoin any detail as it is alreadyso well documentedin history books implies that the talesthat shedoes relate, mainly the storiesof her own experiencesand thoseof other women, arenecessary as they are outsideof the history books.This suggeststhat for Mager the history of the Holocausthas been told by men, is primarily aboutmen, and that her role is to rectify this situation.She readily encouragesthe idea that her book is both aboutwomen and for women,writing that "most of [my readersare] likely to be female,since males, on the whole, tend to prefer bookswritten by fellow males"(77). Not only doesKlOger locate in the act of readingwomen's autobiographya female tradition of readership,but, in line with Cavarero'sthinking, shealso identifies remembranceand the autobiographicalprocess as inherentlyfemale. "Remembrance," KlUger declares, "is a branchof witchcraft" (75). Bearingin mind the historicalmarginalisation of women's autobiographicaltexts, it is interestingthat sheselects witchcraft, with its associationsof femalepersecution, as a metaphorfor her act of memoryand self representation.She continues the metaphorby likening the processof sharingmemory with that of sharingrecipes in a "witches' kitchen7 (75). Sheurges:

"Use your bestwooden spoons with the longesthandles to whisk into the broth of our fathersthe herbsour daughtersgrew in their gardens.If I succeed,together with my readers- and perhapsa few men will join us in the kitchen- we could exchangemagic formulaslike favouriterecipes and seasonto tastethe marinade which the storiesand historiesoffer us. (75)

It is temptingto interpretthe imageof the father's broth and the daughter'sherbs as a symbolof the integrationof male and femaletraditions of autobiography.The stories of men and the storiesof womencome together to form our "favourite recipes." Whilst for Mager "recipesfor gefilte fish areno recipefor coping with the

180 Holocaust"they may offer a way of coping with the demands of memory and representation(24).

Whilst KRIger'somission of certainhistorical detailsthat are alreadyso often told in accountsof the Holocaustin order to allow spacefor the articulationof a specificallyfemale experience of the Holocaustis perhapsjustifiable, more concerningis her distortion of historical fact in accordancewith her politicised views on gender.At one point in Landscapesof Memory, shebelligerently assertsthat:

Femaleguards are often called 'SS women.' It's a misnomer,since therewere no womenin the SS.The SS was strictly a men's club. Everybodyknows this, and yet the term remainsin use,as if to make surethat womenget half the blame for an organisationthat was never theirs. (135)

Far from everybodyknowing that therewere no female SS guards,many survivors, including Livia E. Bitton Jackson,Charlotte Miller and CharlotteDelbo, make explicit referenceto SSwomen in Auschwitz and Ravensbrack.Daniel Goldhagen refersspecifically to 27 femaleSS guards who servedat RavensbrUckand HeImbrechts(a FlossenbUrgsatellite camp), although he notesthat they were not recruiteduntil the late stagesof the war, and that "their resemblanceto real SSmen was closeto nil. The headwoman guard [Helga Hegel] referredto them in her testimonyas 'S S' guards,with ironical quotationmarks aroundS S" Q3 7-33 8). Whilst the majority of SSmembers were certainly men, and womenprimarily acted as auxiliariesrather leading in seniorpositions, to suggestthat the SSwas an exclusivelymale organisationis to rewrite history of the period. KlUgeralso states that "no womenwere chargedin the greatpostwar trials at Nurembergor later at the Auschwitztrials in Frankfurt" (136). This commentonce again offers a misleading interpretationof historical fact. Luise Danz, for example,had servedas a guardat a numberof different camps,inclusing Plaszow, Majdanek and Auschwitz. Shewas placedon trial in Polandin 1946,and was given a life sentencefor crimesshe had committedduring the Holocaust,although was later releasedin 1956.

KlOgerdoes, however, recall that therewere femaleguards at Christianstadt, but sheis reluctantto identify them as membersof the SS. Sheargues that these

181 womenwere drawn"from families with little education,and were put into uniforms sincethey could hardly wear civilian clothesto work in the camps"(13 6). This somewhatambiguous description suggests that officially thesewomen were members of the SS,or at leastwore the uniform of the SS. Yet from KlOger'sperspective, these womenshould be recognisedas SS in nameonly; they did not embracethe ethosand ideologyof the SSorganisation in any way. Instead,the women guardscame from poor and uneducatedbackgrounds and were in no position to makean informed choiceabout the role they playedin the perpetrationof genocide.Indeed, Kfilger seemsto be positing a radical reinterpretationof the perpetrator-victimrelationship, wherebythe femaleguards are constructed as victims of the male-dominatedNazi regime.

Characteristicof many of the eye-witnessaccounts of the behaviourof female SS guardsis an accountof their unusualbrutality and cruelty. CharlotteMiller recalls an attackby a femaleSS guardon her work battalion at RavensbrOck:"the SS Weiber could really beata prisoner.She was beatingthe girls, the table knockedover, the chairskaput and everythingwhich way and didn't let anyoneget out. Shestood therein the doorway,hitting all aroundher with a club" (163). Yet it is preciselythis demonisationof womenthat KIfiger objectsto so strongly and shepresents an impassioneddefence of their actionsin her narrative.She states:

I believeon the basisof my own experienceas well as from what I haveheard and read,that in averagethey were lessbrutal than their male counterparts.It is hardly newsthat women are lessviolent than [ ] The Christianstadt in men. ... womenguards at were moderate their authoritarianism.When they were in a bad mood they took it out on [ ] But I us. ... they weren't egregariouslycruel - not that can remember.(13 7)

Whilst her view that womenwere lessbrutal than men certainly contradictsthe accountsof many other witnesses,it is interestingthat shetempers this assertionwith a referenceto the potentialfallibility of her own memory.This could be readas a tacit admissionthat her memoryof her experienceshas been influenced by her post- war political views on gender.Yet the T also remindsthe readerthat this is her personalaccount. Early on in Landscapesof Memory KlOgersuggests that: "wars, and hencethe memoriesof wars areowned by the male of the species"(7). Her

182 distinctive feminist T acts as a challenge to this male historical discourse that marginalises the experiencesof female perpetrators and victims. For KlOger, it is only by rectifying this gender imbalance in the history of the Holocaust that a better understanding of the event can be reached. She denies that her testimony is an "attempt to exoneratethe women who committed crimes;" rather, it is an attempt to situate female criminality within a more balanced historical context (13 6). From Mager's perspective, it is becausefemale criminality was the exception rather than the rule that known female perpetrators, such as Ilse Koch, are rendered infamous through accounts of their perverse brutality. KlOger points out that "it seemswe always pull the samenames out of the hat when it comes to women, while the names of the men who committed atrocities are legion" (136). KlUger disregards as irrelevant the claim that the only reason women did not commit the same number of crimes as men was becausethey did not have the opportunity to do so. "We don't condemn people for what they might do under different circumstances," she argues, "but for what they actually did" (136). Yet in light of her misleading rendering of historical facts, this apparently judicious comment is little short of disingenuous. Collectively, it may well be true that women had less opportunity to commit crimes than men as they were disproportionately representedamongst the perpetrators. However, individually, there is little to suggestthat female perpetrators committed fewer criminal acts than their male counterparts. This approach has led to some of the strongest criticism of her testimony. Lore Dickstein in particular challenges this aspect of the Landscapesof Memory arguing that "This reflexive, outdated feminism, which regards anything male as suspect and all women, even Nazi women, as essentially powerless sisters, seriously mars the book and threatens to undermine its credibility" (26).

Whilst KlOger'sbrand of feminismcertainly draws on an essentialistrhetoric often associatedwith Americanfirst-wave feminism, it is unfair to saythat this politicised approachundermines the credibility of her account.Firstly, Reiter suggestsit is in fact her highly politicised stancethat enablesher to avoid "the sentimentalrepresentation of life in the campswhich is so often apparentwhen the victims arechildren" Ich wollte es ware ein Roman332). Secondly,Dickstein's use of the word "credibility" is somewhatambiguous; historical inaccuracyis after all, relatively commonin accountsbased on memory,although admittedly, KlOger's

183 inaccuracies are rather glaring. Alternatively, Dickstein may be suggesting that her style undermines Klilger's position as a feminist and scholar by employing a feminist rhetoric which is out of keeping with early twenty-first century feminism. What Dickstein is overlooking in her criticism of the text is that whilst Klilger's account of the (non)-culpability of female perpetrators may not be in keeping with certain known historical facts, it is vital to her representation of the Holocaust as a part of the history of male oppression of women. Indeed, at one point in her narrative she describeswitnessing her mother being punished in Birkenau by being forced to kneel on bricks for an extended period of time. KlOger defines this moment as her "most vivid and lurid memory of Birkenau" (130). Yet she is swift to argue that the situation of a daughter being forced to witness the abuse of her mother is not unique to the Holocaust, and contextualises it within a longer history of female oppression: "I have described something that is in many ways a common sight to the children of wife beatersand was common to the children of slaves in the nineteenth century" (130). These parallels serve to reinforce the way in which she approachesthe history of the Holocaust. She statesquite emphatically that "fascism is a decidedly male property, whether you were for or against if' (7), and even more bluntly that "the Nazi evil was male, not female" (136). In accordancewith her politicised feminist view of history, she presentsthe Holocaust as an assault on women. Yet unlike many other testimonial accounts by women, KlUger chooses to focus not on physical bodily experiencesspecific to women, but rather on women's behaviour and coping strategiesduring the Holocaust.

A distinguishing feature of women's testimonial accounts of the Holocaust is the effect of physical trauma and deprivation on the body. Accounts of the shaving of hair, menstruation and amenorrhea,pregnancy and childbirth, the fear of infertility, enforced sterilisation, the fear of sexual abuse and gynaecological experiments are routinely included in women's narratives. In comparison with other women's testimonies, KlUger's narrative is notable for its marginalisation of these specifically female experiences.

An appropriatetestimony for comparisonis Livia E. Bitton Jackson's account,Elli: Comingof Age in the Holocaust.A similar ageto Klilger during the Holocaust,Jackson was deportedwith the rest of her family to Auschwitz from the

184 Nagymagyar ghetto in 1944. Like KlOger, Jackson too remained with her mother throughout the war and although she often writes of her mother with great love and it affection, the mother-daughter relationship is never foregrounded as is Klijger's testimony. Jackson and her mother endured frequent transports; from Auschwitz to Plasz6w, back to Auschwitz, then to Augsberg in south east Germany where they were forced to labour in a factory. As the war drew to a close, the women of Augsberg and surrounding camps were forced into wagons and moved ceaselesslyin an attempt to evade the advancing American army. As is so often the case in Holocaust testimony, the moment of liberation is recorded anticlimactically. The women in the railway wagon, including Jackson and her mother, simply awoke one morning in the wagon to find an American soldier staring in at them. "So it has come," she recalls. "We are liberated. It is all over now" (212).

Throughouther text, Jacksonrepeatedly focuses on bodily female experiencesas compoundingthe misery of the camps.One particularly notable passagedeals with her horror at witnessinga womanmenstruating during a morning roll call. Shewrites:

All at onceI notice that blood is flowing on the legs of the girl before me. A thick red streamof blood on the inner side of eachleg. Oh my God, shemust havebeen shot! What shouldI do? Then, in a flash, I realise.She is menstruating.Poor girl. Of course,we haveno the blood flows. Down her underwear... thereare no pads... simply legs.My God, but this is horrible. Why doesn't shesay something? Ask for a pad or something?But from whom? Whom can shesay anythingto? Shemight evenbe shot for reporting that sheis bleeding. Doesmenstruating constitute sabotage? (93-94)

Thejuxtaposition of the familiar - menstruation- with the unfamiliar - the camp- at first preventsJackson from understandingwhat is going on. in the camp,she has cometo associateblood only with violenceand pain. Yet when she suddenly understandsthe situation,her horror turns to a frustratedand impotentsympathy for the unnamedwoman. Just as quickly, however,she recognises that her first associationbetween blood and violencemay havebeen correct. She fears that her own body will threatenher chancesof survival, that menstruationwill be construed as a sign of rebellion,sabotage even, punishable by death.Baumel confirms that

185 Jackson'sfears were indeedjustified, as therewas a significantthreat "that any femaleinmate whose uniform would be stainedwith menstrualblood would be killed" (25). Jacksonrecognises that as a woman shemay be endangerednot only by her actions,but simply throughbeing. When menstruationabruptly ceasessome weekslater dueto the effectsof starvation,Jackson reveals that sheis "secretly [ I Avoiding the fear, is grateful ... pain and embarrassmentof menstruation worth any sacrificeto me at the moment" (103). Yet whilst Jacksonherself is grateful,she relateswith feeling the fearsof the older womenthat they arebeing secretlysterilised with bromidein their food:

Married womenkeep wondering about the bromide in their food again and again.Will they bearchildren again?What will their husbands say?Perhaps less of the food will causeless of a damage.Some try to eat lessand the conflict is painful. Rejectionof a meansof survival for the sakeof a dubiousgain. (104).

This fear of infertility appearsoften in women's narrative, and is intimately bound up with the hope of survival. Marlene Heinemann argues that amenorrhea and the accompanying fear of infertility constituted a form of "psychological assaulf' unique to women, which "threatened them with the loss of the specific biological function which society insists upon as the chief vocation for women. Thus the loss of fertility could be construed as a threat to the possibility of a worthwhile life afterwards" (67). The rumour of bromide in the food presentedmany women with an unbearable paradox. Abandoning the fear of sterility and eating the food was for many women to abandon the hope of a life after the war as a wife and mother. Yet to refuse to eat the food would mean a more certain and immediate death in the camp. Another survivor, Gerda Klein recalls "the thought of sterility did worry me. More forcefully as the long nights passed,the idea returned that someday I must have a baby of my own. I felt that I would endure anything willingly so long as that hope was not extinguished" (156).

In contrast,KlOger refers to theseissues of menstruationand the fear of infertility only briefly. Indeed,the fear of sterility shedismisses as a bourgeois concernexpressed only by thosewho had neverbefore experienced hardship and suffering.

186 Everyonewas so undernourishedthat no one menstruated.But perhaps the causewas not only hunger,but imprisonmentitself. Even well nourishedanimals seldom have a full litter in a zoo. Prisonis bad for us living things, from the lower to the highestlinks on the food chain. Somewomen thought the Nazis had put somethingin our food to preventmenstruation, which only goesto show how well off they had beenbefore, since they didn't know the effectsof starvation.(141- 142)

The anguishand horror so prevalentin Jackson'saccount of menstruationand amenorrheais utterly absentin KlOger'saccount. Writing in a more detachedfashion, sheis capableof reflecting on the reasonsfor the absenceof menstruation,and wryly referencesdehumanising Nazi rhetoric in her explanation.She is scornfulof "the presumedjustification of a woman's life, having children" (252). Perhapsit is dueto her relatively young agewhilst in the campsthat shedoes not acknowledgethese fearsfully; sheclaims that shecould not understandthe despairwomen experienced at havingtheir hair shavedoff because"she was too young to graspthe deeperand symbolicsignificance of this despoilment"(13 8). Yet for the similarly agedJackson, the experienceof having her hair shavedoff was of greatimport. Shereveals:

The haircut hasa startlingeffect on every woman's appearance. Individualsbecome bodies.[ I We become a massof ... a monolithic Inconsequential.[ ] The hair had mass. ... shavingof the a curious effect. A burdenwas lifted. The burdenof individuality. Of associations.Of identity. Of the recentpast. (78-79)

In common with KlOger, Jackson does not recognise despair in the experience of losing her hair. Instead, she describesthe loss of individual identity positively, finding comfort in the 'monolithic mass.' This echoesher previous description of her feelings on entering the Nagymagyar ghetto, where she explains: "I like it all. I am a part of every life. And every life is partly mine. I ceaseto be an individual. I am a limb of a larger body. In this I find solace" (37). This emphasis on the need for community is in itself a characteristic of many female authored texts. Many women cite in their testimonies that the reason for their survival was belonging to a mutually protective 'camp family', usually comprised of four or five women who were often unrelated. Jackson recalls forming just such a group with her mother, her aunt and two cousins whilst in Auschwitz:

187 We decide to form a family of five. Suri says it is much easier to survive in Auschwitz if you are five. [When food is distributed] every five get one portion of bread and a bowl of food and it is divided among them. If you don't know the others, you may end up without [ ] But if have family friends the line, provisions. ... you and on you share the food equally. (89)

Whether thesegroups actually did improve chancesof survival is difficult to judge; those who did not survive may well have also sought refuge in protective groups. Lawrence L. Langer suggeststhat despite the prevalenceof accountsof camp families in women's narrative, "the ftill context of thesenarratives shows us how seldom such alliances made any difference in the long-range effects of the ordeal for those who outlived it" (GenderedSuffering 351). Ringelheim was initially an advocateof the theory that these 'camp families' offered women a greaterchance of survival, but later revised her opinion, pointing out that:

The focus on friendship, affection, and so on, distorted our understandingof a larger situation in which that experiencemay have played only a small role. The bonding was limited and exclusive. It was not a bonding against the enemy in solidarity with women. Did the tcrror of isolation and deathnot affect the women becausethey bonded?(Women and the Holocaust 388)

Ringclhcim also questionswhy readersand critics are so keen to attribute such great importanceto thesegroups, suggestingthat it is more to do with a retrospective searchfor a positive image in the Holocaust than with historical accuracy(388). A further point to note is that whilst theseaccounts are significantly more common in womcnostestimonies than thoseauthored by men, this doesnot necessarilymean that it was an exclusively female mode of behaviour; merely than it has not been recountedin the majority of men's narratives.The focus on camp families in womcnvsnarratives should perhapsbe more accuratelyrecognised as style of narration, rather than a representationof historical reality.

Klagcr's narrative is no exception in noting the importanceof female relationshipsduring the I lolocauýst.Indeed, the formation ofjust such a small group is also a pivotal moment in her changing relationship with her mother. Mager writes: "now this is the best and the most unusualthing that I can say about my mother: she adoptcda child in Auschwitz. Shedecreed without any fuss that this girl belonged

188 with us, as if it was the most natural thing in the world" (146). The child in question was Susi, a teenagegirl about KlOger's age, who remained with KlOger and her mother until their liberation in 1945. The coincidence of name between Susi the surrogatesister and Susi the child protagonist in the early passagesof the text is startling, and on first reading is suggestiveof a narrative device employed by Klilger as part of her representationof her relationship with her mother. Yet Susi the sister is far more sympathetictowards Alma than KRIger describesher child protagonist to have been.

A key example of this emergesfrom an experienceKlOger recalls from her time in Christianstadt.Beaten by an SS man after asking for food leftovers, KIDger returned to the barracksand told her mother about her experience.Typically, KlOger describesher mother's responseto be unsympathetic,claiming that "if she had been there, she would have hit back" (IS 1). Her angry reaction to her mother's words is expressedin Ruth's contemporaneousvoice in a particularly coruscatingpassage:

My mother irritates me, becauseshe stylises herself at my expense: she is the potential heroine, unlikely as it may seem,and reducesme to poor-little-victim status.As if the humiliation of having been hit wasn't enough,she has to add her superior airs and her pity. (15 1)

Yet this rage towards her mother is immediately temperedby her inclusion of Susi's memories:

And yet, reading this passage,Susi reminds me of somethingI had forgotten. My mother, oddly enough,was for a short time a kind of protogee,inasmuch as she got work in the laundry, which was a privileged job. She achievedthis position in an unlikely way - she complainedto one of the guardsthat her children had beentreated unfairly. (151-152)

Thesearc the memoriesof Susi the surrogatesister, but the coincidenceof name makesit is tempting to read them as a figurative invocation of Susi the child protagonist.Could thesepositive memoriesof Alma representa rehabilitation of the neurotic mothcr-daughterrelationship betweenSusi and Alma as representedin the early stagesof the narrative?Yet this reading runs the risk of misinterpreting historical actualitiesas literary conceits,an approachwhich should be resistedwhen

189 analysing testimonial narratives. It is preferable, then, to acknowledgethe duplicated namesas a curiosity of historical happenstance,rather than as a narrative device.

Ruth andher mothermaintained a relationshipwith Susiafter the war when all threewere living separatelyin America,although Klilger's motherwould periodicallygo throughstages when she would rejectany contactat all with Susi. Mager herselfdescribes Susi still as"my sister,for thereis no otherterm to describe our relationship,which seemsabsolute, although we sharefew, if any,interests" (146).She cautiously accepts the ideathat the relationshipbetween the threewomen playeda significantrole in their survival,commenting that: "Susi alwaysthought that her life. [ II have my mothersaved ... can't tell whethershe would remainedalive without my mother.But I suspectthat all threeof us canclaim a sharein having savedeach other" (146). Whilst KI ageracknowledges that in termsof emotional supporttheir small groupwas significant, she shies away from depictingtheir relationshipas harmonious and idyllic. Sherecalls the periodwhen they wereat Christianstadtand were set to labourin a nearbyforest. At that time, Susihad contactswith the workersin the staff kitchen,and was often ableto secureextra piecesof food for their group.Whilst theseextra mtions undoubtedly contributed to the welfareof the group,Susi's actions also created tensions within the groupas KIGgcrfclt compelledto competewith her for her mother'slove andpraise. Whilst in the forest,she somewhat recklessly approached a civilian foremanto askhim for someof his food. He refusedher begging,and Mager wasfortunate not to sufferany repercussionsfrom heractions, but sherecalls that shebelieved her actionswere justified because"I wantedit notjust for myself,but to bring backto my motherand Susias a tokenof my skill, not only becauseI lovedthem, but alsobecause I wanted to say,here, look, I am goodfor something"(149).

Yet whilst shedescribes the flow andebb of the tensionsand reconciliations within the group,it seemscertain that their escapeand consequent survival would not havebeen possible without the bravadoof a groupto pushthem. As the Russianfront grewcloser, prisoners from all the campsin the surroundingareas were forced into gruellingmarches further and further west. During this period,K111ger, her mother andSusi joined togetherwith threeCzech women to planan escapeamidst the chaos of the massmarches. 111c decision to escapewas not unanimous;whilst KlOgerwas

190 desperateto take the chancewhen it arose,her mother was reluctant to attempt such a dangerousventure. Their inability to reach a mutual decision could have thwarted their escapeattempts, but KlOger was eventually able to persuadeSusi to agreewith her, and with the added impetus of the three Czech women who were keen to make an escapeattempt, the group of six eventually fled successfully into the night.

Whilst Mager doesacknowledge the importance of the group in their survival, she also explores other coping mechanismsthat women developed.A principal strategy that she explores is supportive female conversation,epitomised through the exchangeof recipes.She recollects that whilst in Christianstadt,she would constantly hear women:

cxchang[ing] recipesthe sameway I recited poems. At night a favourite gamewas to surpasseach other with the recital of generous amountsof butter, eggs, and sugar in fantasy baking competitions. I didn't even know many of the dishesthey cooked up and listened with a growling stomach,just as I listened with a hungry imagination to their tales of travel, parties, datesand university studies. (138)

Exchangingrecipes open up sharedavenues of memory for the women, and provided a link- to the world before, as well as hope for survival, of the future meals they would prepare.Remembrance and hope for the future constitutesa coping mechanism,and is expressedin the female narrative through the recreation of the pre-war domestic sphereand the exchangeof recipes.

Once again in Mager's narrative, cooking servesas a metaphorfor remembranceand continuity. Yet, whilst this sharedexperience of domesticity drew someof the womcn togcther, Mager fclt exiled from this 'witches' kitchen.' She notesthat she was too young to be able to sharein their memories,and felt little sense of community with them. The recipesrepresented connections to a world K111gerhad never known, a world that %%-asas alien to her as Auschwitz was to the older women. Ibc only life she could rememberbefore the campswas charactcrisedby the cxpcricncc of pcrsccution,and she explains that "in the few yearsthat I had lived as a consciousperson, my rights had beenremoved piece by piece, so that Auschwitz had a kind of logic to it" (109). The world of dinner parties and everyday domesticity jarrcd with hcr understandingof the world, and she doubtedthe truth of the pre-

191 Holocaust world describedby her fcIlow inmatcs. "How could the past have been so rosy," she questioned,"if it had led to Auschwitz and Christianstadt?What was really out there?" (138-13 9). Instead she relied upon the recitation and writing of poetry as her link with the world before. From an early age, Kfilger had adoptedthe recitation of poetry as a protective ritual. She recalls that as a young child: "while walking in the unsafestreets [of Vienna], I would mutter versesas if they were a magic spell" (9). Once again, Klilger is reinforcing the connection betweenwitchcraft, womanhoodand remembrancethrough her use of the magic spell simile. For KlUger, it is the escapeinto fantasy through the discourseof poetry that provides her with a form of coping mechanism;for the older women, it is the mutual retreat into the reality of the past that provides a strategy to deal with the horrors of the present.

Ecriture Feminine? Women's Writing and the Testimony of Charlotte Delbo

DiscussingDelbo's work in the context of politicised feminist literary theory posestwo initial problems. Firstly, Delbo,herself has challengedthis approachto her work, stating emphatically that I must not be discussedas a woman writer. I am not a woman in my writing" (qtd. in Rittner and Roth 99). Nevertheless,critics of her work have noted "distinctly feminine qualities" to her writing (Rittner and Roth 99). RoseYalow Kamel suggeststhat "Delbo makesuse of the traditional forms often usedby women writers to inscribe their lives as genderedbeings: the diary [and] transcription of oral testimony" (66). Yet the vague referenceto "feminine qualities" in Delbo's work fails to acknowledgethe distinctive thematic and stylistic aspectsof her writing. Similarly, diary and oral testimony are not exclusively "feminine" modes of writing, and as descriptionsof the relationship betweengender and writing do little to identify Dclbo's singular voice in the traditionally male dominatedcanon of I lolocaust literature.

The secondproblem is broaderin scopeand questionsthe relevancy of this form of analytical approach.This is not to suggestthat thesetexts cannot be analysed through an interpretativelcns of, for example,French feminist literary theory, (post)- structuralism,or postmodcrnism;rather it is the manner in which theseanalytical frameworksarc applied to the texts that needsto be questioned.Writing on KlOger's Landscgpgsof Mcmoly Rcitcr warns againstdescribing her style as feminine: "rather

192 than labelling her narrative style and mode of reasoning as particularly feminine it may be more accurateto seeit as the result of the conflation of a number of experiencesand influences during her life" (Ich wollte es ware ein Roman 336). If testimony is to be consideredas a new and distinct genre, then perhapsit is appropriateto call for a renewed form of critical discoursewith which to analysethis genre. Standardliterary theory, then, should be informed by an appreciation of the emerging critical discourseon trauma texts.

In contrast to the other Holocaust testimonies discussedin this thesis, Delbo wasa non-Jewishvictim, arrestedfor her role in the FrenchResistance movement. Shewas touring in SouthAmerica with a theatricalcompany when the German occupyingforces entered France in 1940,and against the adviceof her colleagues, shereturned to Parisin 1941after learningthat a friend of hershad been executed following a trial of communistsin occupiedFrance. Together with her husband, GeorgesDudach whom shehad married in 1934,she worked with the Resistance, producingand disseminating anti-German pamphlets. They wereboth arrested for their activitiesin 1942by the Frenchpolice, who promptlyhanded them over to the Gestapo.Dudach was executed by the Gestapoon August24 of that year,and Delbo wasdetained in SantdPrison for threemonths before being moved to Romainville.It wasat Romainvillcthat shemade contact with otherwomen who hadalso been arrestedon political grounds,fostering a senseof communitythat would continue whenthey were deported cn masseto Auschwitzin January1943. She was imprisonedin Auschwitzand a satellitecamp, Raisko, until 1944when she was deportedto Ravcnsbrack.There were two hundredand thirty womenon Delbo's convoyto Auschwitzin 1943;only forty-ninewere left alive whenthe RedCross finally liberatedthe groupfrom Ravcnsbrilckin the final daysof the war.

In common with many other survivors, Delbo reflected on her Holocaust cxpcricnccs in successive publications. Her first three books, None of Us Will Rcturn, Uscicss Knowledgc, and The Measure of Our Days were brought together in

hcr seminal trilogy Auschwitz and Afle (first published in English translation in 1995). DOW wrote None of Us Will Return immediately following her liberation in 1946, but did not have it published until 1965, later explaining to her translator Roscttc C. Lamont that, "I wanted to make sure it would withstand the test of time,

193 since it had to travel far into the future" (qtd. in Delbo, Days and Memoly x). Sectionsof UselessKnowledge were also written in 1946 and 1947, although she withheld publication of this book too, until 1970. The third book, ne Measure of Our Days was published soon after this. Whilst her reluctanceto publish immediately ,A2s in part due to her concernsabout the potential longevity of the text, almost certainly a further considerationwould have been the reception such an account would have received in the immediate post-war years. There was a certain reluctance, if not outright hostility, to"-ards hearing stories about the camps,and survivors often struggled to find a sympatheticpublisher. Primo Levi, for example, wrote If This is a Man shortly after his return to Italy in 1947, but was unable to attract significant interest from a publisher until 1958.

Dclbo's final book, Days and Memoly was published in 1985,the year of her death, and contains perhapssome of her most philosophical reflections on the I lolocaust. Towards the end of the book, Delbo interestingly begins to contextualise her own experiencesof the Holocaust within a larger framework of twentieth century atrocity, expressingcomradeship with those imprisoned in the Siberian gulags and Algerian victims of French oppression.Through her denial of the uniquenessof the I folocaustas a unique point of suffering in the twentieth century, Delbo situatesboth her her experiencesand her writing not simply within a tradition of Holocaust testimony, but within a wider tradition of twentieth century trauma. Thus, in addition to hcr claim that hcr writing should not be consideredas part of a female tradition of writing, Dclbo is also implicitly assertingthat her writing should not be consideredas part of a tradition of I Iolocaustwriting. Rather, her testimonial writing demandsa placc within a broadercanon - that of twentieth century trauma narratives.

Mager also contcxtualiscsthe memory of the Holocaust within a wider context, rcfcrring dircctly to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, an event which she intcrprcts as comparableto the Holocaust in terms of the struggle to representand commemoratethe past."T"lic Japanese," she writes, "are as frustrated in coping with past horror as we are, becausethey, too, can think only of the mantra 'Never again.' It's casy to rccogniscthe helplessnessin this strangecity [Hiroshima]" (69). Whilst she doesconsider the comparisonwith the atomic bombingsapt, Kfilger objects strongly to argumentswhich attempt to draw parallels betweenthe Holocaust and

194 other events,specifically the American genocide of the Native Americans and the ongoing hostilities between Israel and Palestine. Whilst KlOger rejects these comparisonsas too simplistic, she clearly acknowledgesa special relationship betweenthe Holocaust and the atomic bombings, a relationship which forms the central premise of this thesis. Whilst she does not elaborateon her reasonsfor acceptingthe validity of a comparison between the Holocaust and the atomic bombings, it appearsthat she identifies similarities not necessarilybetween the historical events,but certainly between the post-event attempts of survivors to deal with the experienceof unprecedentedtrauma. In this way, she locatesherself within a community of not only Holocaust survivors, but survivors of other twentieth century atrocities, an approachshe shareswith Delbo.

In a further overlap with Mager's work, Delbo also leans towards a distortion of history in order to justify her interpretation of her approachto writing. Delbo arguesthat there was no "distinctive female experienceof the Holocaust" (qtd. in Rittncr and Roth 99). Whilst this brief yet conclusive statementdoes not offer such a prolonged and radical reinterpretationof history as Klilger does in Landscapesof Memory it neverthelessobscures the fact that there were substantialhistorical differences betweenthe experiencesof men and women during the Holocaust, as discussedearlier in this chapter.Yet in making this statement,Delbo is bolstering her argumentthat her testimony should not be interpretedas women's literature. If there ,A-as no distinctive female experience,her argument suggests,then there cannot be - indeedthere is no need for -a distinctive female voice to narratethose experiences. I lowcvcr, despite Dclbo's objections, there are thematic and stylistic elementswithin her testimonial literature which appearto bear the characteristichallmarks of icriture findnine.

Cixous's conceptof Jcriturefiminine challengestraditional conceptsof women's autobiographicalwriting as first proposedin the 1980s,and thus calls for a reinterpretationof the way in which Delbo,could be consideredto be writing as a woman. Estelle C. Jelinck, for example,argued that:

irrcgularity rather than orderlinessinforins the self portraits of women. The narrativesof their lives arc often not chronological and

195 progressivebut disconnected,fragmentary or organised into self sustainedunits rather than connecting chapters.(17)

Looking initially at Delbo's "None of Us Will Return," Jelinek's defining feature of women's autobiographicalwriting certainly appearsto be helpful. Delbo does adopt a basic chronological framework in this account, beginning with her opening chapter "Arrivals, Departures," and culminating with her bleak eponymousconclusion "none of us will return. None of uswas meant to return" (Auschwitz and After 113-114). However, belying the apparentorderliness of this chronology is a seriesof disconnectedcamp life vignettes, constantly interrupted with post-war reflections on suffering. Stylistically too the text is charactcrisedby discontinuity as Delbo switches betweenprose, poetry and transcripts of conversation.Yet problematically, Jelinek's description is rooted in the autobiographybinary which defines women's writing in opposition to men's writing: Order/Disorder, Coherent/Fragmentary, Progressivc/Discontinuous.The binary permits only the possibility of observing difference, rather than analysing the nature of women's autobiographicalwriting. We can note gcncraliscdstylistic featuressuch as disorderlinessand discontinuity, but what doesthis tell us about the meaning of writing as a woman? Cixous's theory of icriturcfiminine offers the opportunity to escapefrom this binary formulation. 'Mere is then a fundamentaldifference betweenwomen's writing as it is conceivedof by the critics of fcmalc autobiographywriting in the 1980sand Cixous's ecriturefiminine. As SusanSellers notes, for Cixous "feminine writing will challengethe present modcsof pcrccption and representation,and thus herald into being a new schemato rcplacc the cxisting hegemony" (1).

"Woman must %kTitchcrscir'cxhorts Cixous in The Lauph of the Medusa (245). She assertsa fundamentalconnection between female writing and the female body. If thcrc is truth in her maxim "censor the body and you censorbreath and speechat the sametimc, '9 (250) then lifting this censorshipthrough the act of female autobiographicalnarration liberatesthe female body and allows it to take its place both in the world and on the page.In The Sex Which Is Not One, Luce Irigaray thcoriscsthat woman is inscribed on the page and in speechin a mannerwhich is imitativc of the female body. For Irigaray, the female body "is neither one nor two" (101); the plurality of the female scx organsoppose the "dominant phallic economy"

196 (100); which presupposesthe authority of singularity, of the one. In contrast to this 6one9,"a woman 'touches herself' constantly without anyone being able to forbid her to do so, for her sex is comprised of two lips which embracecontinuously. Thus within herself, she is already two -but not divisible into one -who stimulate each other" (100). For Irigaray, thenfimininiti is identified as a plurality - for it is plural, not only double, as "woman has sex organsjust about everywhere" - that is characterisednot by fragmentation but by continuity betweenthe constituent parts (103). Ile pluralistic nature offimininiti informs the way in which women come to expressthemselves in language."'She' is definitely other in herself," assertsIrigaray:

that is undoubtedly the reasonshe is called temperamental, incomprehensible,perturbed, capricious - not to mention her language in which 'she' goesoff in all directions and in which 'he' is unable to discern the coherenceof any meaning. (103)

It is, perhaps,this plurality that underlies the falsity of the autobiographybinary. The derinition of women's writing cannot be derived from a supposition that it is a deviation from men's writing practices;rather it is a form of writing in which 'he' can find no coherencebecause it originates not from points of difference to men's writing but from a wholly unique and specifically female place. Writing as'a woman is constructedas a cclcbmtory activity in which female languagebecomes ajoyful manifestationof female sexuality. In The Mechanics of Fluids, Irigaray continuesher dcrinition of women's languageas "continuous, compressible,dilatable, viscous, conductabic,diffusible"' (I 11). In this definition, Irigaray underminesthe supposition of the critics of female autobiographysuch as Jelinek who presentdivision and fragmentationas synonymouswith discontinuity. For Irigaray, it is the very fact that the female body, and soflnilniniiJ, is divided and pluralistic that permits the possibility of continuity.

If it is the characteristicsof continuity and fluidity that go someway to dcrining what it meansto write as a woman, then it appearsthat Delbo's writing does cxcmplify a style which is concomitantwith the theory of icriturefiminine. "Arrivals and Dcparturcs".the first chapterof None of Us Will Return displays precisely the conjunction of fragmentationand fluidity that Irigaray claims characteriseswomen's writing. 11c chapterdeals with the arrival of a transportat an unnamedcamp, and

197 although the context suggeststhat it is Auschwitz, the absenceof a given name suggeststhis is an 'every-camp', the single description accounting for the experiences of the many, rather than a specific few. The textual layout of multi-clausal sentences separatedprimarily by line breaks rather than punctuation leaves the impression of the words touching yet not touching, this fluidity suggestingechoes of icriture fiminine styling on the page:

This is the station they reach, from wherever they came. They get here after days and nights having crossedmany countries they reach it together with their children, even the little ones who were not to be part of this journey. (Auschwitz and After 3)

Delbo's use of poetic cnJambmentwithin a piece of prose is indicative of a style which is not confincd by the strictures of one genre. In this passage,the use of cnjambmcnt evokesa senseof relentlessmovement on the page, echoing the constant forward motion of the trainjourricys that are the subject of the passage.Delbo's style frequently echoesher subject in this manner; later in the chapter she lists without pauscthe countries from which the victims were taken:

Departurefrom Franceand Ukraine Albania Belgium Slovakia Italy I lungary PcloponnesusI lolland MacedoniaAustria Herzegovinafrom the shorcsof the Black Seathe shoresof the Mediterraneanthe banks of the Vistula. (5)

The omission of punctuationappears to crasethe borders betweenthe countries figurativcly in terms of their presentationon the page,at the sametime evoking the scnscof the Europc-widc gcnocidc which swept through national borderswithout pause.In her most sustainedpassage of cnjambmentin this chapter,Delbo describes the victims who arrived at the station:

Somc came from Warsaw wearing large shawls and with tied up bundIcs somc from Zagreb,the women their headscovered by scarves somc from the Danubewearing multicoloured woollen swcatcrsknitted through the long night hours somc from Greece,they took with them black olives and loukoums somc came from Monte Carlo

198 they were in the casino (5)

The passagecontinues without pausein this fashionfor someftu-ther eleven clauses. The fragmentationof theseclauses represents the disparateorigins of the victims in termsof nationality,class and gender, yet throughthe inclusionof all the victims in one long continuoussentence, Delbo acknowledgesthat despitetheir diversitythey arebrought together through the experienceof persecution.

Morag Shiach suggeststhat the most defining feature of icriturefiminine is "its proximity to speech" (22), and in this context, Delbo's inclusion in her testimony of a transcript of a conversationbetween two unnamedwomen assumesa renewed signiricancc. Toril Moi declaresthat "femininity in writing can be discernedin the [ ] in is privileging of the voice ... woman, other words, wholly and physical presentin her voice" (114). The body, the voice and writing are thus intimately connectedin the practice of icritureflminine. Care must be taken, however, not to interpret this relationship betweenicriturefiminine and speechtoo literally; whilst Delbo's use of a speechtranscript certainly cmphasisesthis relationship, the practice of icriture fiminine does not dependupon the inclusion of direct speechin writing. Rather, it makespossible a seamlesstransition from speechto writing in which writing should be understoodas, -no more than the extension of this self-identical prolongation of the speechact" (Moi 114).

Nicole Thatcher suggeststhat Dclbo's testimonial writing is characterisedby a use of poetic languageand form, both in her prose and, of course,most explicitly in the poemsDelbo includes intermittently throughout the text. Thatcher suggeststhat Delbo usesthis poctic language,6'in order to touch the readerby appealingto his or her sensesso that he or she becomespart of the vision presented,participates in it, is cngulfcd by it and doesnot remain an outsidee'(34). This close relationship between writer and readeris, as discussedin the introduction, symptomatic of women's writing. The female writcr exceedsthe boundariesof the text and entersinto a relationship with the reader,and as such feminine writing becomescharacterised as a mutual cndeavourshared between the author and the (female) reader.

199 Yet regarding Delbo's narratives as examples of icriturefiminine potentially posesmore problems than it solves. As a mode of discourse, icriturefiminine has been criticised for its essentialist nature and for elitist posturing which assumesa universality offimininitj which applies to all women. Ann Rosalind Jones points out that the definition of the relationship between female sexuality, fimininitJ and female literary practice is in fact restrictive rather than liberating, and fails to take into account the multiple interpretations of sexuality and female identity held by women living under different social conditions across the world. She argues:

What is the meaningof 'two lips' to heterosexualwomen who want mento recognisetheir clitoral pleasure- or to African or Middle Easternwomen who, as a result of pharaonicclitoridectornies, have lips [ ] And it is hard neither nor clitoris throughwhich tojouir? ... to seehow the situationsof old women,consigned to sexualinactivity becauseof their age,or if they are widowed, to unpaid work in others' families or to isolatedpoverty can be understoodor changedthrough a conceptofjouissance. (378)

The problematic assumption that ecriturefiminine can offer a voice to all woman is intensified in the context of women's Holocaust narratives such as Delbo's. Ecriture fiminine representsa connection to and celebration of the female body. Yet does this maintain any currency in a representation of the female body subjected to suffering and deprivation: can such a body be considered as a site for textual celebration? How can the female sexual organs and sexuality be celebrated by women who lived in fear of sexual abuseand barbaric gynaecological experimentation? For Cixous the practice of writing as a woman is bound up with the relationship with the mother. The mother figure in Cixous's writing, whilst not necessarily being a representation of a literal biological relationship, is a symbol of nurturing and nourishment that protects the women writer from separation from herself. She is integral to writing as a woman: "There is always within her [the female writer] at least a little of that good mother's milk. She writes in white ink" (Cixous 25 1). Yet what does it mean to write as a mother's daughter when the mother has been murdered in the gas chamber? The also glorification of motherhood is out of place in a context where the state of motherhood jeopardised the possibility of survival or when the fear of infertility plagued the female prisoner.

200 Delbo's writing, I would then argue, emanatesnot from a sensibility of icriturefiminine, but rather from one of trauma. Her style is influenced not so much by her experiencesas a woman as by her experiences as a victim of the Holocaust. The stylistic traits that could be identified as those belonging to icriturefiminine in fact belong to trauma narratives. It is in this reading of her work that Delbo's assertion that "I must not be considered as a woman in my writing" begins to make sense.

The combination of stylistic fluidity and fragmentation in "Arrivals, Departures" is perhapsbest understood not in the context of icriturefeminine but rather as representativeof the constant tension between the urge to 'tell the tale' which constantly pushesthe text forward, and the inability to fulfil this narrative impulse, as discussedin chapter two. The fragmentation of her testimonial account as a whole, in terms of its non-linear narrative and frequent changes in narrative form and style, is symptomatic once again not of icriturefiminine, but of the testimonial genre as described in this thesis, whereby chaotic style can function as a reflection of chaotic experience.

The most significantfailure of icriturefiminine as a descriptivefor Delbo's testimonybecomes apparent in a considerationof Delbo's representationof the self. "Woman must put herselfinto the text," declaresCixous, yet for Delbo there is no stablesense of self that can be inscribedin the text (245). In Days and Memor Delbo assertsthat "I feel that the one who was in the campis not me, is not the is here,facing [ ]I live being" personwho you today. ... within a twofold (4). Shecan locateno point of identity, no continuity betweenthe self that experienced Auschwitz,and her post-Auschwitzself, andthus her body in inhabitedby two distinct selvesthat live alongsideeach other, yet are unrecognisableto eachother. As discussedin chapterone, this representationof the self as permanentlydivided as a consequenceof experiencingtrauma is a characteristicfeature of testimonial literature.Yet in "The Measureof Our Days" written prior to Days and Mei Delbo goesfurther thanrepresenting her self as divided, and claims insteadthat "I'm not alive. I died in Auschwitz and no one knows if' (Auschwitz and After 267). Delbo is at once,then, both selvesand no-self. In the fragmentingof the self, or

201 perhapsmore precisely the absenceof a self, that is anchored to the body, the practice of ecriturefiminine is an impossibility for Delbo.

Yet making sucha distinction betweenthe sensibility of women's writing and the sensibilityof traumawriting may in itself be a false endeavour.When reading Holocausttestimonies, gender should be understoodas linked to the experienceof traumaas discussedin section3.2 of this chapter.Accordingly, Delbo is writing from a doubleperspective, as a womanand as a survivor of trauma.This suggeststhe emergenceof a new form of writing, which could be appropriatelytermed holocauste flininine. The recognitionof sucha style would makepossible the identification of women'sHolocaust narratives as distinct from men's in termsof style and content, and allows an understandingof the way in which Delbo's narrativeskilfully blendsa poeticsof genderwith a poeticsof trauma.

Yet an initial focusthrough the lens of icriturefiminine can be helpful when approaching women's testimonies. Ann Rosalind Jones suggeststhat a more helpful way of reading Cixous' icriturefeminine is "to recognise it as a conscious response to socioliterary realities" (380). In this way, it becomes possible to identify a style of writing that is specific to women, but does not attempt to universalise a relationship between body and text common to all women. Understandings of the distinctive nature of women's writing should thus be contextualised in accordancewith their provenance. Comparisons between testimonial literature by female Holocaust survivors and female hibakusha, then, should not be undertaken on the basis of a unified theory of women's writing. A focus on the experiences of the female body and the impact of trauma on femininity is shared by female writers from the Holocaust and Hiroshima, but any identification of common thematic concerns should be tempered with an acknowledgement of historical and cultural specificities unique to each event; unique indeed to each individual author.

3.4 Writing the FemaleExperience of the A-bomb

The tradition of women's literaturehas taken a very different path in Japanas comparedto Europe.Rather than being marginalisedin literary history, as the writing of womenis often perceivedto be in Europeanhistory, Japanesewomen's writing developedas a different yet arguablyequal tradition alongsidemen's writing. Joan

202 Ericson suggeststhat the emergenceof a distinct form of women's writing can be traced back to the Heian period (8th-I Othcentury), a period which witnessed a weakening of the prevailing Chinese cultural influences in Japan, and the emergence of a distinctly Japaneseculture. A significant aspect of this cultural shift was the derived introduction of two Japanesesyllabaries, from Chinese script - katakana and hiragana These were both used alongside the existing kanji which had been adopted from Chinese script. At this time, levels of literacy amongst the general population were very low, and the practice of writing was primarily if not fully confined to the Imperial court and religious authorities. Court convention dictated that men wrote formal, official and public documents in kanji and katakana, whereas women wrote more personal and impressionistic works of literature written almost exclusively in hiragana. Writing in hiragana required no knowledge of kanji, and as women did not have accessto the same level of education as men they had little choice but to write primarily in hiragana Very rapidly then, hiragana became identified specifically as women's writing (onnade, literally translated as 'woman's hand') and katakana and kanji as men's writing (onode). Although by the tenth century, hiragana had become much more widely used by men as well as women, it even now retains its onnade sensibility. Literary culture during the Heian period was dominated by women's hiragana writing, and was characterisedby an evocative and emotional style which dwelt on the details of everyday life and reflections on the nature of beauty. The intimate relationship between these thematic and stylistic characteristics and women's writing endured, and came to inform interpretations of what it means to "write as a woman" in Japaneseculture.

By the twentiethcentury the identificationbetween women's writing and a sentimentallyrical style had becomefirmly entrenched.Ericson explains that "attributespresumed to be naturalin a woman's voice - sentimentallyricism and impressionistic,non-intellectual detailed observations of daily life - were the result of a confluenceof social and literary trendsthat in the 1920scrystallised the characteristicsof a distinct 'woman's style"' (101). The early twentiethcentury witnesseda boom in both women'swriting and readershipdue to the social changes of the period which saw increasinglevels of literacy amongthe femalepopulation, and the increasedmobilisation of an urban femaleworkforce. However,the existence of sucha strongfemale literary tradition did little to offer femalewriters the

203 opportunity to develop stylistically in a period which was focussed very much on an did emerging style of literary realism. Whilst women make significant inroads into frequently the genre of the T-novel (autobiographical fiction), they struggled against be lyrical in ' a tradition that dictated female writing to and sentimental style.

The traumaof the atomic bombingsprecipitated an intensificationof this struggle.As discussedpreviously in this thesis,hibakusha seeking to recordtheir eye-witnessaccounts were hamperedby the lack of a native literary tradition that could offer a blueprint for traumanarratives. Women were arguablydoubly challenged,on accountof both genreand gender,in terms of the restrictionsimposed upon them by the onnadetradition. Yet the traditional focus on domesticityand the minutiaeof daily life actually offered a pathwayinto writing testimonialliterature. Women'sA-bomb writing is characterisedby an almost exclusiveemphasis on the domesticdetails of everydaylife in the aftermathof the bomb. Themesof illness and thwartedattempts at treatment,child-care, relationships with family and friends are common,alongside detailed descriptions of the economichardships of life after the bomb.

JohnWhittier Treat arguesthat femalehibakusha rapidly developeda distinctive testimonial voice, suggesting that women's A-bomb testimony is characterisedby a "special attention [paid] to the long term disruption of biology, and to those cultural and social values linked to biology: fertility, marriages and child- (Gender Ground Zero 279). bearing - in other words, to the survival of the race" of Treat suggeststhat these characteristics are so prevailing that they actually come to constitute a form of A-bomb icriturefiminine, a form of testimonial literature that is inextricably bound up with both social constructions of gender and biological sex, both of which are representedin the symbol of motherhood. Yet Treat's consideration is of women's A-bomb literature as ecriturefiminine not unproblematic, and actually bears little relation to the theories proposed by Cixous and Irigaray. A fundamental flaw in Treat's approach is his attempt to define an A-bomb icriturefiminine through

Whilst a full discussionof the developmentof women'sliterary culture in Japancannot be articulated detailed within the constraintsof this thesis,a more accountcan be found in The Woman'sHand: Genderand Theory in JapaneseWomen's Writing. Ed. Paul GordonSchalow and Janet A Walker. Stanford:Stanford UP, 1996.

204 the identificationof thematicconcerns in women's narratives.This is inconsistent with Cixous' understandingof icriturefiminine, firstly becausethe very act of definition contradictsthe conceptof writing as a woman,and secondlybecause it posits contentrather than an unmediatedrelationship between body and text as the dominatingcharacteristic of ecriturefiminine. Furthermore,by suggestingthat women'sA-bomb literaturecan be definedas icriturefiminine on the basisthat it recountspersonal female experience, Treat makesexplicit a link betweenthe sex of the authorand the practiceof ecriturefiminine, a connectionthat Cixous strenuously objectsto.

Yet thereare wider problemswith attachingthe appellationof ecriture fiminine to women'sA-bomb literature,many of which echothose discussed above in relationto Delbo's Holocausttestimony. For example,the experienceand narration of traumaproblematises the natureof the relationshipbetween the body and the text assumedby icriturefiminine; in this context,can the irradiatedfemale body be consideredas a site for textual celebration?A further challengeto the descriptionof women'sA-bomb testimonyas a form of icriturefiminine is the extentto which a theory bom out of a philosophyof Westernculture can be consideredrelevant to writings by womenfrom the Far East.

Preferableto Treat's attemptto define women's A-bomb literatureas a form of dcriturefiminine is an attemptto identify sharedthematic and stylistic concerns expressedby womenthrough an explorationof their testimonialnarratives.

Images of Motherhood and the Rhetoric of War and Peace

Motherhood may have been a symbol of peace in peacetime, but during the war it was mobilised as a symbol in the execution of war. (Ueno 169)

Ueno Chizuko haswritten persuasivelyon the way in which contradictory imagesof motherhoodhave been mobilised for the purposesof both war and peace. WartimeJapan venerated the position of womenas mothers,creating what Ueno refersto as a "strategyof segregation7in genderpolitics (43). Shelocates within this feminist discourse,in strategythe beginningsof Japanese that womenwere granteda

205 statusas equalyet different to men. The role of women in wartime Japanwas defined in the rhetoricof war, which termedthem as "reproductivewarriors" and "warriors in the economicwar" (44). According to theseroles, it was expectedthat women would perform a dual role as key workersin the wartime mobilisation of labour in the absenceof men,and more significantly as the bearersof children. The creationof the Ministry of Welfarein 1938led to the passingof legislation to enshrinethe position of womenas mothersin Japanesesociety. Motherhood moved from the private to the public sphere,as populationgrowth becamea political concern.1940 saw the instigationof awardsfor ExcellentFamilies with Many Children, awardedto women who had borneten or more children.In 1941,the Outline for the Establishmentof a Policy on Populationlaid out plansstating that the population should"increase by approximately27 million over the next twenty years,reaching 100 million by 1960" (qtd. in Ueno44). The developmentof Japanbecame a burdenplaced firmly on the shoulders- the wombs- of Japanesewomen.

Uenodraws parallels between this situationin Japanand the role of women in Europeanwartime totalitarian states. She argues that the strategyof segregationand the focus on motherhooddominated gender politics in both fascistItaly and Nazi Germany,constructed as an appreciationof "manly men and womanly women"(43). In the contextof Nazi Germany,she argues that the existenceof the "death factories 'inferior [ I it imagine [created]to exterminate races' ... made possibleto 6reproductivefactories' employingbirth control" (47). Certainly,Nazi ideology veneratedmotherhood and the family in a way similar to Japan,promoting it in both ideology and legislation.Abortions were illegal for Germanwomen, and contraceptionwas outlawed.Women with large families were awardedthe Mother's Crossfor servicesto the Reich at eitherbronze, silver or gold level. Bearinga large family was perceivedas an act of patriotism,as Wilhelmine Haferkamp,who was awardedthe gold Mother's Crossafter the birth of her tenth child, recalls in her testimonyof the war years:

When one had ten children,well, not ten, but a pile of them, one shouldjoin the [Nazi] party; '33 it was, nicht? I alreadyhad three fourth [ ] Ja, childrenand the on the way. ... what elsecould my husbanddo? Theyjoined the Party,nicht? Therewas nothing elsewe could do. I got thirty marksper child from the Hitler government,

206 cameevery month, and twenty marks from the city of Oberhausen. Was fifty marksper child. That was a lot of money. I sometimesgot (child [Kindergeld] than husband [ ] With more money' my earned. ... a lot of childrenyou also had a lot of ration cards,nicht? And there were cardsfor cooking,flour cards,all of that. (19)

Here,Haferkamp makes explicit a link betweenpolitical Nazism and motherhood. Yet her testimonyalso revealsa certainreluctance to join the Nazi party, and she representsher and her husband'sdecision to join more as a consequenceof the financial rewardsit broughtto motherhood,rather than becauseof any significant political leanings.This reluctanceto subscribeto Nazi ideology is bome out in the remainderof her testimonyin which shedescribes the way in which sheused her extra food rationsto feedenemies of the state,the slavelabourers working on a constructionsite nearher home.Significantly, thesewere non-Jewishenemies; to aid Jewswould havebeen a far more dangeroustask. Even so, sherecalls that shewas underthe threatof being denouncedfor her actions.%ilst Haferkamprecalls that shewas proud to receivethe Mother's Cross,she was unhappywith the burdenof motherhoodthat was placedon her:

At the time, when you were going to have a child and you didn't want to, the word alwayswas, 'Better ten on the pillow than one on your ' ] When had honoured, conscience. ... you a child you were praised, [ I did [ 1 [11 esteemed.... not want so many children ... would tremble for weeks,I hopeI get my period, I hope I get my period, I said 'I was pregnantbefore I knew it. ' That is fact. I did not want so many children.(27-28)

The propagandathat veneratedmotherhood is exposedas oppressiveand manipulativeby Haferkampin her testimony.Her professeddesire to have fewer childrenwas deniedby a societyshe understands as having valued motherhoodover womanhood.In repeatingthe watchwordthat one child was a burdenon the conscienceof a woman,Haferkamp implicitly affirms that motherhoodwas a political act in wartime,in which the individual choiceof a woman to becomea motheror not are subsumedby a greaterrhetoric of patriotism.

An explorationof Japanesewomen's testimonies of the period revealsthat similarly that whilst the conditionof motherhoodmay havebeen venerated on a public, political level, the lot of the individual womanwas very different.

207 Motherhooditself was not intrinsically valued;rather, as Ueno points out, "the family itself wasthe strongholdwhere the masculinity of the soldiersof the Imperial Army was defined" (48). According to this rhetoric of matemalism,women are takenout of the equation,and the emphasisis placedon the value of the male soldiersthat she produces.Sara Ruddick developsthis further and arguesthat "misogyny is a useful elementin the making of a soldier, as boys are goadedinto turning on and grinding down whateverin themselvesis 'womanly"' (77). To interpretthis through Cixous' theory of the binary, it can be seenthat the role of women is that of the other, against which masculinitycan be clearly defined.The role of femininity - symbolisedby motherhood- is to be the foil againstwhich masculinity can be constructed.Such an interpretationserves to marginalisethe role of women and exposesthat which Ueno refersto as the "dark side" of the maternalexperience (48).

Nishimoto Setsukodescribes the harshreality of bringing up eight children in Japanafter her marriagein 1919in her testimony"We were an odd couple,but... " Her testimonyappears in a collection entitled Widows of Hiroshima:The Life Stories of NineteenPeasant Wives. The testimoniesfeatured are transcriptsof oral interviews conductedby the editor, KandaMikio. Kanda'spresence as a mediatorbetween the body andthe text further refutesin this instanceTreat's view that women's A-bomb testimonyconstitutes a form of ecriturefiminine.

Accordingto tradition, her parentsarranged her marriageto a man shehad nevermet who was nine yearsher senior. As a young wife, her position in society was not cementeduntil shebecame a mother,and Nishimoto writes that shecannot rememberthe dateof her weddingbecause "in thosedays, they didn't put you in the family registeruntil you had a baby" (2). Sherecalls her marriageas unhappy, characterisingher husbandas a "tyrant," describinghim as:

a heavydrinker and a very hard man to live with. Even when I was sucklingthe baby,he would hurry me up and say 'Get back to work quickly! ' But howevermuch I tried to hurry, babiesdon't drink that fast. I usedto really get in a sweat.(2)

Thereis little evidencein Nishimoto's testimonyof the honour apparentlyaccorded to mothers.Whilst shenever directly refersto the politically sanctionedrelationship betweenmotherhood and the war effort, shedoes bear witness to the difficulty she

208 had reconcilingher duty as a "reproductivewarrior" and a "warrior in the economic war":

kids, it but [ ] I broughtup eight so was nothing work, work, work. ... With so manykids I had a really hard time of it. My whole life has beena penance.I had one child after another,so with the baby strappedon my back, I'd rear any numberof silkworms and do all the otherjobs. By day, I'd work my heart out in the fields and at night I'd busy [ ] There I bed be grinding grain. ... was nevera night that went to without doing somework first. (3)

Whilst her husbandwas not a soldier,he did work away from the home in a factory in Hiroshima,leaving Nishimoto to provide for the family alone.Her resentmentof him is madeclear in her testimonywhen shecomplains that whilst sheworked so hard, "all he ever did was passthe time of day with the neighboursand pop in here and thereto drink saki" (4). As sherepresents her life, it seemsthat Nishimoto personallyhad little involvementwith the larger political situationthat saw her condemnedto sucha harshway of life. Sherecalls cutting up a kimono to make monpetrousers on the order of the Women'sNational DefenceAssociation, "or whateverit was called" (4). Yet whilst shefails to acknowledgeit explicitly, by bearingchildren who were all compelledto play their part in the war effort, she fulfilled her role as a "reproductivewarrior. " Her eldestson, Shigetowas enlistedas a soldier,and was killed in battle in 1943.Her secondson, Yoshiaki, was takento work in the Clothing Depot in Kure, and her third son,Akio, worked in the Mitsubishi Shipyard.Her fourth son,Morito, was sentto Manchuriawith the Youth VolunteerCorps, and her eldestdaughter, Taeko, was sentto work in the Clothing Depot in Yoshijima whenthe high schoolpupils were mobilised.Her remaining threechildren stayedwith her, too young to be of any use in the war.

Her husbandfailed to return from work in Hiroshima after the A-bomb was dropped,and fearingthe worst sheand her sonAkio went to the city to try and recoverhis body. Within her descriptionof this journey, her otherwisecoherent narrationbegins to falter, signalledin the text by the presenceof ellipses.Of her closeneighbour whose husband was also missing,she writes "I heardlater that Mrs Nomura set off straightaway,but her husbandwas alreadydead... "(6). This form of pausein the narration,unusual in A-bomb testimoniesas discussedin the previous chapter,suggests the presenceof a commemorativesilence for Mr Nomura. She

209 follows this ellipsis with anotherin the next paragraphat a point wherelanguage falls short of the possibility of description:"We peeredinto the air-raid shelterstoo. They were full of deadbodies piled up. They were all charredyou know... " (6). They were unableto find his body, and as time progressed,she learned that at the time the bomb fell, he would havebeen at roll call on the Aioi Bridge. His survival would havebeen impossible.

In commonwith many A-bomb testimonies,Nishimoto completesher accountwith a plea for peace.She asserts her position as a storyteller,citing her fearsthat:

Youngsterstoday seemto think that if war broke out, it would be [ ] They don't know They didn't live exciting. ... what war means. throughthe hard times of the war, so it seemsto them that war is exciting and somethingflashy. I tell my children and my grandchildrenjust what it was like during the war. War musn't happen again.(10)

In statingthat shespeaks to her children andher grandchildrenabout her experiences of war, Nishimoto is unwittingly reclaimingmotherhood and the family from their wartime functions,and imbuing them with the rhetoric of peace.She is utilising family structureto communicatea messageof peace,and in doing so presentsa reversalof the relationshipbetween motherhood and war.

Yoneyama argues that the trope of motherhood was reconfigured in the post- bomb years to become representative of peace (193). Sentimental assumptions about the maternal proliferated, and the condition of motherhood became synonymous with peace, innocence, victimhood and compassion. The bond between mother and child was especially venerated, as revealed in the testimony of Ogura Toyofumi. Entitled Letters from the End of the World, Ogura,structures his testimony as a series of letters written to his wife, Fumiyo, who was killed in the attack on Hiroshima. Published in 1948, this was the first eye-witness account to emerge from the atomic bombings. In letter five, Ogura recounts seeing a desperatewoman running through the streets searching for her lost child, and reflects:

210 I was filled with a keenawareness of the intensity of the bond between a motherand her child. I beganto think that ratherthan being purely spiritual in nature,such feelings seem to havephysiological and primitive or evenanimalistic origins. (65)

Ogura'sidentification of the matemalinstinct as biological in origin capturesthe prevailing sentimentsabout motherhood in post-warJapan. The matemalinstinct is understoodto be natural,and as such,suggests Yoneyama, stands in direct oppositionto "modernity, science,and technology"(196), which subsequently becomeidentified with masculinityand malenessin an essentialistgendercd discoursewhich recalls Cixous' Culture/Nature,Male/Fcmale binary relation. At the heartof this matemally-orientedmemorial discourse is the understandingthat the fundamentalcrime of the atomicbombings was the destructionof the naturalbond betweenmother and child. Recurringfrequently throughout A-bomb testimonyby both men and womenis the tale of the motherwho was force to abandonher child in orderto saveher own life. Ogurarecounts just sucha tale in letter four of his testimony(Letters 50-5 1), as doesHiroshima survivor HiratsukaShige. In Hiratsuka'stestimony, "A Voice from the Flames," shenarrates the experienceof havingto abandonher own child. The force of the bomb blast levelledher home,and her six yearold daughter,Kazuko, became trapped under the debris.Unable to free her child, Hiratsukahad little option but to flee as flamesdrew closerand closerto them,and shewrites "I realisedI was afraid to die. I could not let myself be burned alive. Tearsstreaming from my eyes,I placedmy handstogether and askedmy daughterto forgive me" (142). It is this unbearablememory that continuesto haunt Hiratsukathroughout the rest of her life. Towardsthe end of her testimony,she writes that despiteher grief, "I want to continueliving as a memorialto my dead [ ] (145). This identification body for ... children7' of the maternal as a physical site remembranceplays a key role in A-bomb memorial discourse.Hiroshima survivor Fujioki Michiko explainsthat her decisionto havea baby someyears after the war was motivatedby her "duty to keepalive the horror of the atomic bomb" (189).

The trope of motherhoodpotentially gavewomen a privileged platform from which to speakabout the horrorsof atomicwarfare and campaignfor peace.Indeed, it could be saidthat whereas"Holocaust memory has been shaped most decisively [ ] by " the bombingshas been influenced ... men, the memoryof atomic most

211 significantly by the voices of mothers(Rittner and Roth 38). Yet this memorial discourseis not unproblematic.Whilst ostensiblycentralising motherhood and maternalsacrifice, Yoneyama suggests that it actually "erasesdisturbing knowledge aboutwomen's bodies" (197). Absent from the dominantmemorial discourse, she argues,is the representationof "abnormalitiesassociated with childbirth, including infertility, miscarriage,deformity, stillbirth, and newbornsdeveloping leukaemia and otherhealth disorders" (197). Also neglected,of course,are the experiencesof womenwho were not mothers.It would be more accurateto claim, then,that atomic bomb memoryis shapednot by women's voices,but by an idcalisedinterpretation of motherhood.Whilst it is impossibleto makegeneralisations about the role that women"sA-bomb narrativeplay in supportingor unden-niningthis cclebratory representationof the maternal,a notablefeature in many women's testimoniesis the narrativerecollection of the experienceof traurnatised,rather than idealised, motherhood.From a testimonialperspective, from the perspectiveof the actual ratherthan idealisedmother, the forced abandonmentof a child is not a symbol of the conflict betweenfeminine peaceand masculineviolence; it is the traumaof the loss of a child.

Also excisedfrom the dominantmemorial discourse are the experiencesof scarringand the disfigurementof the femalebody. Women'stestimonies frequently bearwitness to the traumaof disfigurement,and the impact it had upon their sense of femininity. The significant exceptionsto this rule arethe "Hiroshima Maidens". The HiroshimaMaidens were twenty-five young women,notably not mothers,who had beenleft with terrible keloids after being exposedto the Hiroshimabomb. In a significantdeparture from the ABCC's official non-treatmentpolicy, as outlined in chapterone, these women were selectedto be takento America for reconstructive surgery.The HiroshimaMaidens enterprise was widely publicisedboth in Japanand America,yet the spotlightwas arguablynot on the disfiguredwomen themselves, but on the symbolismof sucha gestureas a sign of reconciliationbetween the two countries.The Maidensthemselves interpreted their experiencessomewhat differently. YamaokaMichiko was one of the twenty-five, and recallsin her testimony:

212 When I went to America I had a deephatred toward America. I asked myself why they endedthe war by a meanswhich destroyedhuman beings.When I talked abouthow I suffered,I was often told, 'Well, you attackedPearl Harbour! ' I didn't understandmuch English then, and it's probablyjust as well. From the Americanpoint of view, they droppedthat bomb in orderto end the war faster,in order to create more damagefaster. But it's inexcusableto hann humanbeings in this way. (387)

Yamaoka'stestimony reveals that shefound little sympathyin America. Her interpretationof the Americanattitude suggests that just as the atomic bomb was recognisedas an effective remedyto end the war, so the HiroshimaMaidens were seenas an effectiveremedy to heal the residualwounds of war. Yet the physical woundsof the individual womenwere largely marginalisedin a celebratoryrhetoric that focussedon healingrather than acknowledgingthe traumacaused by disfigurement.

Thereis, then, a significant gapbetween women's experiencesas represented in the conventionsof atomic bomb memoryand in their own testimonialaccounts of their experiences.In order to identify the realitiesof the femaleexperience of the atomicbombings, it is necessaryto engagewith their testimonialvoices.

"Something has to be sacrificed: 11The Testimony of Tada Makiko

Yoneyama suggeststhat women's testimonial narratives are characterisedby a dominating motif of self-sacrifice in which women are primarily configured as mothers who are, "devoted, persevering women who aid in their children's recovery and who agonize over lost families" (196). This description suggeststhat women combine the representation of idealised and traumatised motherhood in their testimonial accounts. This approach is certainly apparent in the testimony of Tada Makiko, "My Husband Does Not Return." The reference to her absent husband in the title identifies her testimony as an account of loss, not only of her husband, but of the consequentloss of her own self-identity as a wife. As a single mother, she experienced significant economic hardship and was doubly stigmatised in a culture that discriminated against single mothers and hibakusha. Contrary to assumptions that may be drawn from the title of her testimony, Tada's husband did not die in the

213 atomicattack; rather, he got ajob with a travelling circus and abandonedhis family in 1951. Tadasuffered increasingly from ill healththroughout her life, and towardsthe end of her testimonyshe reveals that friends suggestedthat sheshould formally divorceher husbandand give him full custodyof their children, "but," sheexplains, "I havebrought them up until todaybecause I never felt like parting with them" (180). Whilst her reluctanceto part with her children is undoubtedlyattributable to her maternalinstincts, the surrenderingof her children would meana figurative surrenderingof her identity as a mother.If, as early critics of femaleautobiography suchas Jelinekand Bratton argue,women's identity is constructedthrough social relationshipswith others,then Tada's loss of identity as wife and motherpotentially compromisesher senseof self as a genderedindividual. Her chosentitle, then, representsnot only an indication of the contentof her testimony,but also bears witnessto the way in which the experienceof the atomic bomb has compromised- sacrificed- her senseof self The self as representedin Tada'snarrative is doubled into a distinct genderedself and sexedselL Tadareveals each of theseselves to have different concernsin the aftermath,and the representationof eachself is characterisedby the adoptionof different narrativestyles.

Tadacontributed her accountof the atomicbombing of Hiroshimato a collectedvolume of testimonies,The Atomic Bomb: Voices From Hiroshimaand Nagasakiin 1989.At the time the A-bomb was droppedTada was 39 yearsold, and living in Hiroshimawith her husbandand son,Mutsuzumi. Her husband,who remainsunnamed in her narrative,worked for the Electric Railroad Companyduring the war, and their accommodationwas providedby his employers.In 1945,both Tada and her husbandbegan working for the Ministry of Communications,winding wire on drums.As a woman,Tada was paid only half of her husband'swage and received fifteen yen a day for her work. In additionto this, Tadaalso worked for the wartime ration distribution committee,as well as taking careof their son and the home.On the morning of August 6 shewas walking to work at the warehousewith Mutsuzumi,and was outsidewhen the bomb fell. Tadarecalls, "the momentthere was the flash, it felt as if thickly mixed paint was thrown at me, and I thoughtthat heavenhad falleW' (173). Although they survived,both Tadaand her son were badly injured in the explosion,and Tadareceived severe bums to half of her body. Her husbandwas

214 alreadyat work in the warehouse,and was protectedfrom the force of the blast by the building.

Tada'stestimony is characterisedby an emphasison the effectsof traumaon the femalebody. Indeed,she explicitly describesher injuries within the contextof femalebodily experiences,writing, "my chestwas burning,my stomachached like I was in labour" (174). Her experienceof pregnancyand motherhood in the aftermath of the atomicbomb forms a key part of her narrative. Failing to havemade a good recoveryby February1946, Tada visited a doctor only to be told that unbeknownstto her shehad beenpregnant and suffereda miscarriage.She became pregnant again shortly after receivingthis news,and endureda difficult pregnancy.She gave birth to a healthydaughter, Masumi, in November1946 but immediatelyfaced further problemswith breastfeeding.She was unableto nurseher child, and eventuallywas given an operation."According to my doctor," shewrites, "when my chestwas burnt by the atomicbomb, most of my mammaryglands became plugged so that even thoughmilk was producedwhen the child was born, it had no exit and that gaveme a hard time" (177). Her simple commentthat shehad "a hard time" would seemto be a significantunderstatement of her experience,but is characteristicof the detached style Tadaadopts in this sectionof her narrativewhich marginalisesthe representationof maternaltrauma. Whilst shedescribes her medicalcondition in somedetail, Tadaoffers no accountof any personalanxieties and fearsabout her difficult pregnancyand inability to breastfeed.Indeed, the only indication that she sufferedany concernsat all comesthrough her admissionthat, "my husbandand midwife only scoldedme, saying,'How you fass,' and they didn't take me seriously" (176). Tada's concernsare thus doubly silenced;contemporaneously by her husband and midwife, and later by her own narratorialpersona, perhaps for fear that sheonce againwould not be takenseriously.

Tadasuffered a further miscarriageafter the birth of Masumi, but gavebirth to anotherdaughter, Kosumi, in 1949.Abandoned by her husbandin 1951, Tadawas left aloneto provide and carefor her threechildren. Shewrites extensivelyon the hardshipsof her situation,and representsherself in accordancewith Yoneyama's imageof the 'devotedand persevering woman. ' Despitesuffering from seriousill healthas a consequenceof her exposureto the bomb, manifestedin the form of

215 frequentheavy bleeding and pains in her chestand back,Tada was forced to undertakearduous labour in orderto supporther family. Shewas fortunateto receive minimal welfarepayments from the government,but had to supplementthis income first by collectingrubbish and later by working at the sewerageplant underthe auspicesof the unemploymentrelief bureau.Tada recounts an incident that took placewhilst shewas working there,when her supervisorbeat her violently for an imaginedinfraction of workplacesethics, claiming falsely that shehad submitteda formal letter complainingabout her low wages:

Sincehe was six feet tall andwell built, with a judo certificate,my body really felt it when I was twisted down. I had bad bleedingat the worksite,lost consciousnesswhen I camehome, and faintly cameto when my child fetcheda doctor. Becauseof this, I am still unwell. (179).

Whilst this is the only passagein Tada'stestimony which describessuch violent aggressiontowards her, her narrativeis characterisedby an essentialistdiscourse which presentsher own maternalcaring attitudein contrastto male hostility towards her andher children.Male figuresin the text almostinvariably occupypositions of authority over Tadaand hold a set of valuespolarised to her own. In the moments immediatelyfollowing the A-bomb explosion,she describes her husbandrushing not to help her and their son,but to their homein order to try and rescuetheir possessions.She writes, "my husbandsaid we would be in trouble if we didn't get our moneyout, evena little. I said, forget the money,let's go the doctor's, what good will it do if our child and I lose our lives?" (174). Following her husband'srefusal to help her, sheappealed to a soldierfor assistance,but he too refused,on the grounds that "I wasn't the only injured person.I felt sorry for my child and put him on my back as I crawledon the road" (175). Her vulnerability is emphasisedthrough her descriptionof the way in which shecrawled along the ground,and implicitly reflects the differencein social statusbetween herself and the male soldier. On reachingthe doctor,help is onceagain refused and sherecalls that she:

askedto be examined,but he flatly refused."At leasttake a look at this child. Pleaseput mercurochromeon him, leftoversfrom what you've usedfor othersis fine. It'll comfort him," I beggedfrom the bottom of my heartbut the doctor declinedeven that. (176)

216 In eachinstance, it seemsthat for Tadathe most shockingaspect of the mens' behaviouris their refusalto help her son,so at oddsis it with her own maternal instinctsas a woman.This motif of male hostility, or at leastindifference, in contrast to femalematernal compassion ties into the wider discourseof A-bomb remembrance that identifiesmothers with peaceand men with militaristic violence.

In Tada'snarrative, however, her resentmenttowards the war emergesnot from her experienceas a mother,but from the traumaof disfiguration.Physical disfigurationrepresents, for Tada,a loss of her femininity which sheunderstands to be intrinsically linked to her aestheticappearance. Tada recounts that as a young womanshe was chosento be a finalist in a Tokyo beautycontest, for which shewas awardeda ruby ring. Her obviouspride in her beauty,symbolic of her femininity, was shatteredwhen shewas left permanentlyscarred on her face and body following the bums shereceived during the atomic explosion.In a poignantpassage, Tada recallsthe first time sherealised the extentof her disfigurement:

On our way home [from the hospital], somechildren playing at the roadsideran homecrying at the sight of me and looked at me through the window, terrified. I myself felt how dreadful I lookedthen, and I resentedthe war all the more. I thoughtthat we shouldmake this the very last war, constructa peacefulera, and savechildren from going throughsuch sorrow. (176)

Here,Tada is protestingthe war not in termsof her identity as a reproductivewoman, but ratherin termsof her compromisedfemininity. Throughouther descriptionof her pregnancies,miscarriages and problemswith breastfeeding,at no point doesTada expressany resentmenttowards the war. It is only at this point, when shefully appreciatesthe loss of her beautyand femininity for the first time, that shearticulates her bitternesstowards war. In doing so, sheis reactingagainst the dominant collective discourseof A-bomb memory,as describedby Yoneyama,which roots women'sobjection to war in their experienceof motherhood.Tada's narrativeis not exceptionalin this approach;indeed, many women's A-bomb testimoniesreveal that the loss of signifiers.of femininity is centralto their anti-war sentiments.In her testimony,The Epitaphin my Heart Kubo Mitsue, a Nagasakihibakusha, recalls visiting a femalefriend, who shenames only as S-sanin order to protecther identity,

217 somemonths after the bomb was dropped.As a result of being exposedto radiation, S-sanhad lost all of her hair. Kubo writes:

I perceivedin her moumful, stem look her grief at having been deprivedentirely of her black hair, symbol of her femalebeauty. I saw in her eyesa cursingcondemnation of the inexcusablecruelty of the atomicbomb. (62)

Throughcentralising the traumaof lost femininity in their narratives,women's testimoniesfrequently undermine the dominatingmemorial discourse of the atomic bombwhich identifiesthe experienceof motherhoodas the centralfeature of women'sexperiences. Yet despiteher rejectionof the experienceof motherhoodas the primary influenceon her resentmenttowards the war, Tada still framesher call for peacewithin a rhetoric of motherhoodand maternalcompassion which calls for the protectionof children.

Tadabelieves that her disfigurementmay havebeen the reasonthat shewas abandonedby her husband,and writes:

In thosedays, things were still scarce,there was no wine to drink, few womenwere beautiful and maybebecause of that my husbandcalled me Makiko, Makiko, and caredfor me, a womanwith spotsin both eyes,worse keloid scarsthan others,skin stuckright on the raw flesh aroundthe shoulders,and only a little bit of the original skin colour left on the abdomen.(177)

Tadarecalls with affectionthe early yearsafter the bomb when her husbandcared for her, calling her by a pet name,despite her terrible appearance.Yet underlyingthese memoriesis her suretythat he remainedwith her not for love (for how could he love sucha woman,she implies), but simply becausethere was no temptationfor him to leaveher. Shesuggests that his eventualabandonment of her was inevitableonce the austerityof the post-waryears eased. Lifton definesJapanese culture as placing "great stressupon aestheticpresentation and 'appearance'in every sense," and it seemsthat thesecultural valuesinfluenced Tada's belief that the loss of her femininity devaluedher worth as a wife (Deathin Life 185).

218 In contrastto the detachedstyle of narrationshe adopts when writing abouther experiencesof pregnancy,Tada's account of her disfigurementis characterisedby a focus on her emotionalresponses. Indeed, the changein style seemsto suggestthat sheexperiences a greaterdegree of traumaat the effects of the A-bomb on her feminine genderidentity than her femalesex identity. Tadarecounts an incidentwhen shewas told not to attendher local bathhouse, as othercustomers were complainingabout her presence.The owner of the bathhousesaid to her, "if you get in the bath, evencustomers who are thinking of taking time to washtheir hair [for an extra fee] quickly leave,saying it's unpleasant,it's ugly, so I want you to refmin from coming to our batW'(179). Tada'sfeeling of painful humiliation is evokedin the text:

That time, if at no other,heartfelt tears really cameout, and it touched my nervesfor a while so I couldn't sleepnights. Had my body become that ugly? When I realisedit, I nevereven once went back to that bathhouse.(179)

The tearsand anxietiesthat are silencedin her accountof the impact of the A-bomb on her femalereproductive body are freely expressedin this passagethat focuseson her lost femininity. In Tada's narrative,tmumatised femininity is narrated sub. ectively with a full accountof her emotionalresponse to disfigurement.In contrast,the traumatisedreproductive female body appearsas the object of the narration.Tada represents herself as being disengagedfrom the experiencesof her body; shehas to be told that shehas suffereda miscarriage,she has to be told that her inability to breastfeedis due to her exposureto the bomb. Her own voice, which could speaksubjectively about her traumatisedreproductive body, is silenced.

Women'stestimonies emergent from both the atomic bombingsand the Holocaustreveal a commonfocus on experiencesspecific to the femalebody and representationsof traumatisedfemininity. As such,they challengedominant memorialdiscourses of eachevent that havefrequently marginalised, or falsely idealisedin the caseof A-bomb memory,the experiencesof women.Due to the differing literary traditionsin eachcultural context,stylistic commonalitiesbetween women'sA-bomb and Holocausttestimonies are perhapsharder to identify. As discussed,theories such as Cixous' icriturefiminine and thosesuggested by critics of femaleautobiography, such as Jelinek,are not immediatelyhelpful, and fail to

219 fully accountfor the way in which womennarrate the experienceof trauma. Nevertheless,shared narrative strategies are suggestedthrough the way in which they write their testimonialaccounts. The self, for example,is commonlyrepresented in termsof relationshipsto others,be it as a mother,daughter, sister, or, specific to Holocaustnarratives, in termsof their role in a "camp family". Ratherthan identifying women'stestimonial narrative simply as "women's writing", they canbe more appropriatelyrecognised as a form of traumanarrative. They representnot ecriturefiminine, but perhapsecriture traumatique.

220 Conclusion

In his conclusionto 'ContrastingTwo Survivial Literature:On the JewishHolocaust andthe ChineseCultural Revolution,' Sheng-Mei Ma suggeststhat the practiceof comparingtestimonial literatures "offers an insight into one catastrophein light of another"(92). The extentto which an explorationof testimonialaccounts emergent from different eventscan offer a privileged accessto understandingthe experienceof traumafor the non-survivoris debatable.As Elie Wiesel often remindsus, "he or she who did not live throughthe eventwill neverknow it" (Holocaustas Literary Inspiratio 7). More accurately,then, it could be arguedthat developinga critical comparativeapproach to testimonialliterature offers an insight into what it meansto write in a testimonialform.

Throughoutthe analysisof the texts discussedin this thesis,one of the most significantrecurrent themes has been the urge to tell the tale, and a subsequent strugglewith the demandsof representingthe experienceof trauma.It is this relationshipbetween the narrativeimpulse and the challengesof representation,I would argue,that is centralto testimonialwriting and gives rise to the set of narrative strategiesand techniques that I havecharacterised in this thesisas distinct to the testimonialgenre. A primary concernof chapterone was to identify thesestrategies as distinct from thoseemployed by authorsengaged in autobiographicalwriting throughan explorationof the autobiographicaland testimonialwork of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel.This chapterdemonstrated that one of the key aspectsof testimonial genreis the relationshipbetween the narratorialself and the experientialself, and the usually unfulfilled struggleto reconcilethese two, as evidencedin the writing of Levi, Wieseland Hara Tamiki. Testimonialliterature from both the Holocaustand the atomicbombings is characterisedby a commoncrisis in the representationof the self. As shownin the discussionof the The Witnessof ThoseTwo Days project,the crisis of self-representationin atomicbomb testimonyis also revealedthrough the struggle to representindividual experience,rather than a homogenoushibakusha experience commonto all survivors.

221 A further key aspect of testimonial writing is the employment of a fractured narrative, interrupted by unexpected deviations from a linear chronological progression. This disrupted narrative takes a number of forms in different accounts; in Hara Tamiki's testimony, for example, the text opens with an account of the explosion and ends two days before the bomb was dropped. The testimonies of Ota Yoko and Hachiya Michihiko interrupt the progression of the narrative through the inclusion of newspaperreports or scientific information. Narratives are also often interrupted by switches in genre, Charlotte Delbo's Auschwitz and After-being a key example. A fin-ther example of disruption are pausesin the chronological narrative to provide narratorial/authorial reflection and comment on past events, common to both Holocaust and A-bomb testimonies. These disruptions can be interpreted in part as an attempt to miffor the chaos of the traumatic experience in a fractured narrative. They can also be viewed as evidence of the struggle to represent experience.

This struggle is the primary concern of chapter two of this thesis which looks specifically at the use of silence as an expressive tool, a central characteristic of testimonial writing. Kali Tal has disputed this theory, arguing that it is "Wildly Orwellian7to presume that silence can be understood as a fon-n of communication. "if speaking is speaking," she argues, "and silence is speaking, then what possible way is there not to testify? "(59). The responseto Tal's somewhat simplistic assertion lies in acknowledging the context of silence, and the way in which it comes to represent an active and expressive presencein testimonial literature. Silence as it is configured in testimonial literature takes on a number of forms: failed language and a breakdown in the signifier/signified relationship, textual silence in the form of ellipses and white spaceson the page, silence as a thematic concern, silence as a spacein which the dead can be acknowledged as present rather than absent, and silence as a form of language. The analysis of A-bomb testimonies revealed that silence in these texts is often manifested through the inclusion of scientific data, for example, distance from the epicentre, temperature of the bomb etc. These statistics are not part of the individual's experience. At the time, they would have had no awarenessof their distance from the epicentre; indeed the majority had no understanding at all of what had befallen them. A common characteristic of A-bomb testimony is the falling silent of the narratorial voice, and the insertion of imported

data to mask the silence of their responseto the experience of trauma. VvUlst silence

222 takeson different forms in the narrativesdiscussed in this thesis,I would arguethat eachform stemsfrom a sharedstruggle to representthe experienceof trauma.

It is important to note that these characteristics of the testimonial genre often take different forms in Holocaust and A-Bomb narratives. There is not a simple homogeneity of generic rules which can cover all texts emergent from trauma. The specificity of each historical event and the differing literary cultures from which these accounts emerge deny this possibility. However, what should be acknowledged is that whilst the precise nature of these characteristics may differ, they are each evolved from the sharedproblem of bearing witness to the experience of trauma, and it is this that offers the strongest definition of a testimonial genre.

However,as RobertEaglestone has pointed out, "genreis not just a way of writing: it is simultaneouslya way of reading.Genres for horizonsof understanding, interpretationand readingwhere text, readershipand knowledgecome togethee, (7). The significanceof the role of the reader,or listener,has also beenacknowledged by Dori Laub.As discussedin chaptertwo of this thesis,Laub arguesthat the act of testimonycan only take placein the presenceof a secondparty, a witnessto the act of testimony.It is throughthe enablingpresence of this secondarywitness that the eye- witnessis ableto commit to the act of witnessand testimony.Testimony should, then,be consideredas a genrewhich has its roots in the mutual responsivenessof authorand reader.In this way, testimonyas a genredemands the active participation of the readerin orderto bring it into being. Kali Tal, however,has responded to this interpretationof testimonyas dialoguerather than monologuewith hostility. Tal arguesthat critics working from a postmodemperspective adopt a hubristic attitude in assumingsignificance for the readerat the expenseof marginalisingthe voice of the survivor. Tal assertsthat:

The survivor herselfhas disappeared from the picture,reappearing only as a devicefor pushingthe listenerto self-examination,to allow him to participatein the reliving and re-experiencingof the event.(57)

Her chosenpersonal pronouns in this extractanticipate the strongly feminist stanceof her critique and shepresents her argumentwithin the confinesof an essentialistand somewhatreactionary framework which presentswomen as victims/survivorsand

223 menas oppressors,both in termsof the actualevent and in termsof bearingwitness to the event.In this manner,Tal's approachis similar to that expressedby Ruth KlOgerin her testimonialnarrative, as discussedin chapter3, but like KlOger'sit shouldalso be treatedwith caution.It runs the considerablerisk of marginalising maletestimonial voices, and defining testimonyand the act of bearingwitness as feminine.Tal's criticism of the importanceof the readerin the testimonial relationshipalso lacksan understandingof the balancedrelationship which is requiredbetween author and reader.Tal presentsthe relationshipas a simple binary - it is eitherthe readeror the writer that has authority in the relationship.Eaglestone, however,clearly explainsthat sucha power struggleis antitheticalto the processof engagingwith testimonyas a reader.He assertsthat testimony"demands a way of readingwhich doesnot consume[texts] throughthe processof reading" (72). The role of the readeris to provide a spacefor the act of bearingwitness, and so make testimonypossible. In the absenceof a reader/listenera survivor cannottestify to the experiences- indeed,throughout his texts,Primo Levi repeatedlyexpresses the fear that his desireto bearwitness will be defeatedthrough the absenceof an audience.

Whilst Tal's theorisingof the relationshipbetween the readerand the authoris flawed, it is centralto her politicised readingof testimonialwriting in which she seeksto restorepower to the survivor. "Bearing witness," sheclaims:

is an aggressiveact. It is bom out of a refusal to bow to outside pressure to revise or repressexperience, a decision to embrace conflict rather than conformity, to endure a lifetime of anger and pain rather than to submit to the seductive pull of revision and repression. Its goal is change. (7)

Tal interpretstestimonial writing not as an individual responseto trauma,but rather as part of a wider political act which seeksto empowerthose who have suffered,and inducechange through bearing witness. This perspectiveis very much in line with the admonitionof "Never Again." Indeed,a plea for future peaceand the preventionof suchan eventhappening again is a commonfeature in manytestimonial writings by both Holocaustand A-bomb survivors.However, in removingtestimony from the private sphereof individual experienceand situatingit within a polemicalcontext, Tal risks encouragingexactly that which shecriticises in others- obscuringthe identity and experienceof the individual survivor. Perhapsrather than identifying

224 bearing witness as an aggressiveact, it would be more appropriate to term it an act of resistance.Levi has explicitly described his urge to bear witness as associatedwith his will to survive and tell the tale of his suffering and that of those who did not survive. Rather than being understood as a willingness to "embrace conflict, " testimonial writing is more commonly thought of by survivors as an attempt at catharsis,an attempt to purge the experience of trauma. Whilst this result appearsto be rarely achieved (as is attestedto by survivor-authors) it is neverthelessa need for peacerather than conflict that drives the testimonial impulse.

Having identified relevantfeatures which togethercan be consideredto be indicativeof a distinct testimonialgenre, it is appropriateat this point to considerthe presenceof thesenarrative characteristics in eye-witnessnarratives of traumasother thanthe Holocaustand the atomicbombings.

Extending the Genre of Testimony

In the context of Holocaust literature, James Young has argued that the struggle to represent limit events and experiences has actually had the effect of creating a testimonial template which has been adapted by survivors of subsequent traumatic events: It is ironic that oncean eventis perceivedto be without precedent, without adequateanalogy, it would in itself becomea kind of precedentfor all that follows: a new figure againstwhich subsequent experiencesare measuredand grasped.(99)

Whilst Young is specifically referring to Holocaust narratives, the atomic bomb can be regarded as equally unprecedented(as discussedin the introduction) and as such A-Bomb narratives contribute equally to the creation of a testimonial archetype. If, indeed, the idea of a testimonial archetype holds currency, then the conclusions drawn in this thesis regarding the narrative strategieswhich identify the texts discussedas belonging to the testimonial genre can be usefully applied to analysesof eye-witness accounts emergent from a broader spectrum of traumatic experiences. The narrative characteristics that I have identified as common to testimonial accounts of both the Holocaust and the atomic bombings can also be recognised in eye witness accounts of other tratimatic events. For example, the urgency of the narrative impulse by and the subsequentstruggle to fulfil it is identified Subarno Chattedi as also

225 characteristicof writing by AmericanVietnam veterans.He commentsthat their testimonialnarratives "reveal a deep,almost pathological desire to bearwitness" (I 11),but that this desireis frequentlythwarted due to the fact that languagehas been "usedand abused by war" (8 1). In his accountof the Rwandangenocide, We Wish To Inform You That TomorrowWe Will Be Killed With Our Families,,Philip Gourevitchrefers directly to both the Holocaustand the atomic bombings,using an existingtemplate in orderto communicatethe scaleof the genocide:

The deadof Rwandaaccumulated at nearlythree times the rate of Jewish deadduring the Holocaust.It was the most efficient masskilling since the bombsof Hiroshimaand Nagasaki. (3)

The testimonialgenre should not, however,be consideredas restrictedto those who haveexperienced a historical,public traumasuch as war and genocide.Authors who seekto representpersonal suffering in a private spherehave also drawn on narrativestrategies common to testimonialwriting. RachelFalconer has identified testimonialcharacteristics in contemporarymental illness narratives,noting in particularthe way in which personalexperience is often reflectedin the structureof the narrative."Memoirs aboutdepression, " sheargues, "can be 'difficult, ' 'demanding,' 'self-involved' and 'self indulgent,' all characteristicsthat are symptomaticof depressiveillness" (118). This relationshipbetween experience and narrativestructure is a featureof many Holocaustand A-bomb testimonies,where fragmentednarrative styles function to echothe chaosof the traumaticexperience. Falconeralso pays close attention to the way in which the experienceof mental illness is representedthrough frequent recourse to the imageryof hell, a common featureof A-bomb and Holocausttestimonies.

However,the ideathat the eventsof World War Il actedas a trigger for the developmentof a testimonialgenre is subjectto challenge.Whilst Eaglestonehas contendedthat "literary, historical andphilosophical writing since 1945are involved in a new genre,testimony, with its own form, its own genericrules, its own presuppositions," literary antecedentsof this genrecan be locatedin pre-1945 writing (7). DeborahPearson, for example,has noted narrative characteristics which can identified as testimonialin naturein accountsof World War 1.The struggleto representthe experienceof traumaas discussedin this thesisis also often

226 encounteredin WWI narratives.Pearson refers to the common"problem of articulation"(177) anddescribes the eye-witnessaccounts of soldiersengaged in trenchwarfare as "shell-shocked," the fragmentedstructure of the narrativereflecting preciselythe traumatisedconditions of the returningsoldiers (187). A further comparativeexample can be found at the end of Erich Maria Remarque'sclassic accountof World War I, All Quiet on the WesternFront. In commonwith many Holocaustand A-bomb survivors,he assertsthat:

And menwill not understandus-for the generationthat grew up before us, thoughit haspassed these years with us alreadyhad a homeand a calling; now it will returnto its old occupationsand the war will be has be forgotten- and the generationthat grown up after us will strangeto us andpush us aside.We will be superfluouseven to ourselves,we will grow older, a few will adaptthemselves, some otherswill merely submit,and most will be bewildered;- the yearswill passby and in the end we shall fall into ruin. (190)

This passagereveals his convictionthat despitehis testimony,those who were not therewill not understandthe truth of his experiences.His experienceof traumawill continueto haunthim as a shadowfollowing him throughthe rest of his life until it endsin ruin. This awarenessof the inability to communicatehis experiences effectively, andthe senseof a doubledtraurnatised self that lives alongsidehis post- war self is a commonmotif in the testimonialliterature emergent from the Holocaust and the atomicbombings discussed in this thesis.

These various points of commonality that exist between testimonial accounts of widely different events has led Tal to posit the existence of a community of trauma but by writers, connected not by a unity of experience rather a unified struggle to her issue representtheir experiences.Focussing argument particularly on the of language and its failure to representtraumatic reality, she suggeststhat:

The ability to 'read' words like terror may extendacross traumas, so that the combatveteran of the Vietnam War respondsviscerally to the transformedsigns used by the survivor of the concentrationcamp since they miffor his or her own traumaticexperience, while the non- traurnatisedreader will comeaway with a different meaningaltogether. (16)

Not only do Tal's commentsindicate the breadthof a potentialcanon of testimonial

227 literature, and suggestpathways for future researchinto comparativeanalysis and the testimonialgenre, they also suggesta needto considerthe placeof testimonial writing within the wider categorisationof traumaliterature.

Testimony and Trauma Narratives

GeorgeYudice arguesthat a defining featureof testimonyis that it must be written by a witnessto the event,a view sharedby Bernard-Donalsand Glejzer who definetestimony as "representationsof witnessing"(52). However,both of these definitions fail to identify that which distinguishestestimony from other witness accountsof trauma,such as autobiographyand diary. As such,these definitions threatento obscureany distinctionsbetween testimony and other forms of traumatic narrative.Even Tal, whosetheories potentially lead to a considerationof the differencesbetween testimony and trauma narratives, argues that "literature of trauma is definedby the identity of its author" (17). In making this assertion,Tal represents testimonyand trauma narrative as being synonymousterms, thereby discouraging attemptsto locatetestimony as a specific genrewithin what I would argueis a broadercanon of traumanarratives.

Eaglestonesheds light on the specificity of testimony as distinct from other by trauma narratives arguing that the characteristics of testimony are not "a simple reflection of the psychology of trauma." "Rather," he suggests,"their tropes and strategiesare empowered by their differences to other forms and genres of writing to be offer - to - testimony" (69). Testimony, then, is identified as a genre in its own right by its literary form, rather than only by its content.

By comparison,the traumanarrative appears broader in its definition. Cathy Caruthhas identified a traumanarrative as "the narrativeof a belatedexperience. " It is throughthe latent acknowledgementof traumathat the traumaticevent is finally experienced.At the heartof the story of trauma,Caruth asserts, "is the oscillation betweena crisis ofdeath and the correlativecrisis oflifie: betweenthe story of the unbearablenature of an event,and the story of the unbearablenature of its survival" (UnclaimedExperience 7). The traumanarrative is then,perhaps, more accuratelya literatureof crisis, identified by the fact that it dealswith the irreconcilablenature of

228 experiencing and witnessing. Trauma narrative is then, to borrow Eaglstone's terminology, the "reflection of the experience of trauma." The different literary forms that this reflection adopts then determine whether a text is most appropriately identified as, for example, a testimonial trauma narrative, or an autobiographical trauma narrative.

Concluding Comments

The intentionof this thesishas been to perform a comparativeanalysis of the testimonialliterature emergent from the Holocaustand atomicbombings. Through the identificationof commonalitiesand differencesbetween the two literatures,I have soughtto move closertowards a definition of testimonyas a distinct literary genre. Certainly,it hasbeen possible to establishcertain shared features, such as the urge to tell the talejuxtaposed with the inability to communicatethe experienceof trauma, the fragmentationof the experientialand narratorialselves, and the thematicand stylistic concernsdealt with in narrativeswritten by both men and women.By drawingtogether these features, it hasbeen possible to developan understandingnot only of what constitutestestimony, but crucially also how it differs from other forms of life writing andtrauma narratives.

229 Bibliography

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