Book Briefs: April 18, 1986

An Interrupted Life: The Diaries of Etty Hillesum, 1941–1943, translated by Arno Pomerans (Pantheon, 1984, 226 pp.; $13.45, cloth; Pocket Books and Washington Square Press, 1985, $3.95, paper). Reviewed by Paul W. Nisley, chairman of the language, literature, and fine arts department, Messiah College, Grantham, Pennsylvania.

Do we need one more book about the seemingly insatiable fire Hitler ignited in his efforts to destroy European Jews? Can we even bear another book? The answer with regard to Etty Hillesum’s remarkable journals is yes.

A journal of those terrible years invites comparison with The Diary of Anne Frank. Both writers were Dutch Jews describing their personal perceptions. But the comparison is limited, for Anne was a young teenager and Etty a remarkably mature 27. Their level of insight is very different.

Etty’s journal begins on the second Sunday of March 1941; her last entry is written on October 12, 1942. She died on November 30,

1943, in Auschwitz. One can scarcely grieve for the hundreds of thousands who died there in the same way we can identify with an individual death.

In her journal, Etty is clearly writing for an audience, leading the reader on an inner journey with a person under deep stress. She wrote whenever she could find space and quiet, sometimes late at night. Why write? she asks herself. “I want every word I write to be born, truly born, none to be artificial, every one to be essential.… Every word born of an inner necessity—writing must never be anything else.”

Communicating with others is essential to Etty, because—despite all the horrors—life, she believed, is meaningful. “The main thing,” she says, “is that even as we die a terrible death we are able to feel right up to the very last moment that life has meaning and beauty, that we have realized our potential and lived a good life.”

Amazingly, Etty has given us an account not of defeat, but of victory; not of despair, but of hope; not of the absurdity of suffering, but of the triumph of the human spirit.

Source Of Strength

Where did Etty find the strength to cope in this increasingly hostile environment, as Amsterdam gradually lost its freedom and became virtually her prison? From friends, certainly, particularly one Julius Spier who became her “doctor,” mentor, friend, and—finally—lover. And from God, with whom she grew increasingly intimate during the two years reported in the journal.

Etty’s views of love both for humans and for God are not traditional. Although it sounds paradoxical, while she believed in faithfulness and loyalty in her relationships to men, she did not believe in monogamy. And while she believed in God with all the strength of her being, she was neither an orthodox Jew (she accepted much of Christ’s teaching) nor a traditional Christian (she makes no reference to Christ’s atonement). She may best be described as a mystic.

Throughout these incredibly difficult times, she refused to give up on people—even those who seemed to be bent on her destruction: “If there were only one decent German, then he should be cherished despite that whole barbaric gang, and because of that one decent German it is wrong to pour hatred over an entire people.”

She writes with clarity about the self-destructiveness of hatred: “Remember,” she tells a friend, “that every atom of hate we add to this world makes it still more inhospitable.”

Even as she refuses to be embittered, she resists blaming God for the human dilemma: “God is not accountable to us for the senseless harm we cause one another. We are accountable to him!” She did not view her faith in God as escapism; rather, she saw God as fundamental to her existence. Her commitment to God deepened as her external circumstances worsened.

Etty writes with confidence, “Many accuse me of indifference and passivity when I refuse to go into hiding; they say I have given up. They say everyone who can must try to stay out of their clutches.… I don’t feel in anybody’s clutches; I feel safe in God’s arms, to put it rhetorically.”

To read this remarkable woman’s journal is to gain renewed hope and courage. Despite the darkness in the world there is also light. And the darkness can never finally overwhelm that light.

Letters to Children, by C. S. Lewis, edited by Lyle W. Dorsett and Marjorie Lamp Mead (MacMillan, 1985, 120 pp.; $9.95, cloth). Reviewed by James L. Sauer, director of library, Eastern College, St. Davids, Pennsylvania.

When the gospels of C. S. Lewis are finally canonized, they will no doubt conclude with the apostolic parody: “And there are also many other things which Lewis did were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that could be written.

Or so one feels when every other year brings yet another addition to the Lewis corpus. Not that this is a bad book. On the contrary, it is a light, readable, selection of Lewis that contains many of the things that make him a great writer: depth of insight, humility of spirit, wry English wit, and a childlike enjoyment of life.

In fact, it is a good book: good because it is not a ponderous collection of oft-repeated essays and sycophantic criticism, but because it is so utterly mundane—like looking at family snapshots or seeing people with their pets. You learn more of a man’s heart when he stoops to talk to a child than when he argues with a peer. So it is with Lewis’s letters to children—some to his godchildren, others to young admirers.

Narnia plays a big part in these letters. It should, for the connection most children have with Lewis is his imaginary world of talking animals, wicked witches, and archetypal characters. It would be amusing to have a child’s view of Studies in Words, or to hear Lewis explain the Discarded Image to fifth-graders; but here one must be content to hear recounted to this child or that the purpose and scope of the Narnia chronicles.

These letters reveal a number of aspects of Lewis’s personality. The jovial side certainly stands out. In one instance he draws some little hippos; at another point he informs us of his method of bathing: sinking into the tub till his nostrils alone protrude “like a hippopotamus.” (Perhaps a scholar is right now working on his doctoral thesis: C. S. Lewis and the Hippopotamus: A Symbolic Correlation. I’m sure these two anecdotes bits will prove useful.)

A Sampler

Lewis has a little fun with his childish straight men:

“I am thrilled to hear that your street runs North as well as South, because in this country all streets (and even country roads) run in two directions at the same time. They are trained to change the moment you turn around. What is even cleverer of them, they turn their right side into their left side at the same time. I’ve never known it to fail.”

But the serious side is not neglected. Lewis takes the mantle of the mentor, instructing his proteges:

“A strict allegory is like a puzzle with a solution; a great romance is like a flower whose smell reminds you of something you can’t quite place.”

Nor does he hesitate to add a little philosophy to his correspondence:

“Gaiety at its highest may be an [intellectual] creature’s delighted recognition that its imperfection as a being may constitute part of its perfection as an element in the whole hierarchical order of creation.”

All in all, this is the portrayal of a good man taking time to be himself in every facet of his personality for even the youngest of his admirerers.

I love The Master’s College. Especially the way my spiritual life has grown.

Even my early morning devotions reflect a deeper maturity. I love to watch the sun’s light dawn just above the San Gabriel Mountains. What an awesome experience of the power of God!

I’m really learning that true knowledge is more than acquiring skills for my career. Because Dr. MacArthur and my professors challenge me to excel in every area. From sports and studies to my discipleship and service to Christ.

I love The Master’s College. Because everything about it is Christ-centered. And in Him are found all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. (Col. 2:3)

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