IN April 1933, just over two months after Hitler had been appointed Chancellor of Germany, a prominent lawyer was forced to parade through the streets of Munich with his clothes in tatters, bearing a placard with the words “This filthy Jew shall no longer stand in judgment over us!”

A young businesswoman, “Klara” (not her real name), happened to be passing by when she witnessed this public humiliation. Hardly able to believe her eyes, she was overwhelmed by a combination of horror and compassion. Screaming loudly, she tried to push her way through the crowds in the vain hope of being able to help in some way – but to no effect. Nor was she able to gain assistance from other bystanders: neither “Aryan” nor Jewish Germans were willing to intervene.

Eventually the lawyer was taken to the public square by the railway station, where he was repeatedly kicked on the ground “for the pleasure of the gaping masses” before finally being allowed home.

Why did the mass of non-Jewish Germans not raise their voices in protest? Why did so many of them watch, whether silently or even in apparent approval? And – the question so many of us ask ourselves in the aftermath of the Holocaust and in face of continuing violence – what would we have done in these circumstances? This was still very early days, as far as Hitler’s rule was concerned.

The passivity of bystanders deeply affected Klara. So too did the wider implications of this incident for what it meant to be “German”. As she put it: “What hurts is not the fact that I witnessed this, but rather that my compatriots, whom I love so much, for whom I joyously gave all that I am, that they allowed this, that is what hurts so unspeakably!”

Mary Fulbrook

She was full of “national pride”, coming from a family that had resided in Germany for generations, able to trace ancestors back into the 17th century. The fact that her compatriots now supported a regime claiming that Jews were “parasites” on the German people was for Klara “far harder to struggle with than the humiliations and injuries that we had to take in our stride”. It was the apparently enthusiastic and supportive reactions of bystanders, the crowds who gathered to watch the humiliation of the Jewish lawyer, and the fundamental redefinition of what it meant to be German, that caused Klara, a deeply patriotic German Jew, so much distress.

On Holocaust Memorial Day, we tend to think about the possible lessons of history; and of course, central to any “lessons of the Holocaust” are questions about racism, antisemitism, and ideologies justifying violence. People are often left with a feeling of helplessness – what could one do against brutal force? – or even of hopelessness, as individuals are urged to show “moral courage”, to “stand up” to those in power rather than passively standing by, which, in the face of massive risks to themselves and others, might be simply suicidal.

So a key question we have to ask ourselves – we, who inhabit a democratic society – is about bystander passivity. Why do most members of the population choose to turn away, to “not know”, or to justify violence against minorities? Under what circumstances do bystanders actually turn into rescuers, or engage in resistance (even if only in small ways)? Why and how do so many become effectively complicit?

To be a bystander to violence is not a fixed role or identity. Rather, people inhabit this status only momentarily, through chance proximity to violence. Bystanders are on the margins of specific, violent situations at certain moments in time; close to but not immediately involved in the initial conflict. And yet: even if not directly involved in a specific incident of violence, remaining passively on the sidelines will inevitably affect the course of events, both immediately and in the longer term. “Society” is never static; people adapt and change over time, affecting what is possible for both perpetrators and the persecuted. The character of “bystander society” matters.

A system developed under Nazi rule that fostered and rewarded certain sorts of action; that encouraged racist and antisemitic discourse, justifying previously unthinkable actions, while putting sufficient pressure on those who had scruples that they felt it better to keep their doubts to themselves. And as people came to terms with living under Nazi rule, so they adjusted their views both of themselves and others, adapting their relationships and abandoning former ties.

As society changed, so too did the circumstances permitting persecution without intervention from the side-lines – resulting eventually in the facilitation of mass extermination without outcry. Many people not merely “knew about” but actively propelled and participated in these processes. The dynamic energy of the leadership, the organised participation and compliance of the many, alongside the incapacitated silence of others, was sufficient for the implementation of mass murder across Europe.

Perhaps one of the greatest “lessons of history” to ponder today is the question of how to ensure that institutions and structures are sustained such that those in power are never able to intimidate members of wider society – such that it is always possible for bystanders to stand up and speak out without fear.

• Mary Fulbrook, is Professor of German History at UCL. Her most recent book, Reckonings: Legacies of Nazi Persecution and the Quest for Justice (OUP 2018) was winner of the 2019 Wolfson History Prize. She is currently writing on bystander society in the Third Reich and the Holocaust.