Michael: Most of us believe that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But what if, in the face of true atrocity, the opposite is true? What if survival isn't about strength, but about luck, and the real work begins after you've made it out alive? Kevin: That's a heavy but powerful starting point. It completely flips the script on our usual ideas of heroism and resilience. It suggests the scars are the real story, not the survival itself. Michael: And it’s the central, unspoken truth pulsing through the book we’re discussing today: Questions I Am Asked About the Holocaust by Hédi Fried. Kevin: An incredibly direct title. Michael: It is. And what's incredible is that Fried, who was a trained psychologist, wrote this in her 90s. It's a distillation of decades spent answering questions from schoolchildren, a final testament to ensure these lessons aren't lost. She passed away just recently in 2022, so this book is truly her legacy. Kevin: A psychologist's perspective on her own survival and trauma… that adds a whole other layer. And her book starts by tackling one of the biggest, most difficult questions: how did it even begin?

Michael: Exactly. She says the worst thing that happened to her wasn't a single event, but a gradual, creeping process. She has this powerful quote: "Just as the eye cannot observe the gradual metamorphosis of a flower from bud to rose in full bloom, we too did not notice the small, almost imperceptible steps that would lead, eventually, to the full execution of their plan." Kevin: Wow. That’s a chilling metaphor. It wasn't a sudden storm, but a slow, quiet change in the weather that you don't notice until you're freezing. Michael: Precisely. She describes her life in her hometown of Sighet. Before the war, it was peaceful. Then, the changes began. First, Jewish public servants were dismissed. Then Jewish doctors could only treat Jewish patients. Then non-Jews were forbidden from shopping at Jewish stores. Then Jewish children were barred from schools. Kevin: Each step on its own might seem… manageable. Or at least, you might tell yourself you can endure it. You hope it’s the last step. Michael: You hope. And that’s the trap. This process culminated in being forced to wear the yellow star, then being herded into a ghetto, and finally, the announcement came: "The Jews are to be moved from the ghetto. They shall pack 20 kilos each and stand in front of their gate tomorrow, ready for Abtransport, to be taken away." Kevin: That's the terrifying part, isn't it? It's not one big decision to resist; it's a thousand small moments where you might think, 'This is bad, but we can live with it.' It makes you question what you would do. Michael: And that's her core lesson for the world. She says, and this is a quote that should be taught everywhere, "never get used to injustice. An injustice is like a grain of sand in your hand; on its own, its weight may seem insignificant, but injustices have a tendency to multiply, they soon become so heavy that you can no longer bear them." Kevin: That gives me chills. It reframes resistance not as a grand, heroic act, but as a daily refusal to accept the unacceptable. So how did this mindset take hold of an entire nation? How did people get behind Hitler? Michael: Fried explains that Hitler was a master of exploiting emotions—greed, fear, and a desire for unity. But the real engine was propaganda, especially aimed at the young. She gives a horrifying example from a 1935 high school math textbook. Kevin: A math textbook? Michael: Yes. The problem read: "How many government loans would it be possible to give to newly-weds for the amount of money the government spends on taking care of the disabled, the criminals, and the insane?" Kevin: Oh, man. That’s not math; that’s indoctrination. It’s teaching children to see human beings as a cost-benefit analysis. It’s embedding the logic of extermination into the most basic parts of education. Michael: It's the normalization of the unthinkable. And this machinery of hate led directly to the camps. Once there, the question shifts from 'How did this happen?' to 'How did anyone survive?'

Kevin: Right, because the common narrative is about the strongest surviving. But your hook suggested something different. Michael: Hédi Fried is very clear on this. She says survival was overwhelmingly a matter of chance. She says, "Without chance, nothing could have helped." You could be killed for not understanding an order in German, for being in the wrong line, for a guard's random whim. Dr. Mengele might offer a child sweets one moment and send them to his labs the next. There was no logic to it. Kevin: So if it's all random, where does human will even fit in? How do you keep going? Michael: That’s the paradox. While she credits luck above all, the one element of agency she returns to again and again is human connection. She arrived at Auschwitz with her sister, Livi. After they were separated from their parents, they held hands and made a pact to never let go. Kevin: They became each other's world. Michael: Literally. She writes, "From that moment on, we were glued together... we slept side by side." She says that having someone to be responsible for gave meaning to the meaninglessness. It wasn't just about your own survival anymore; it was about keeping this other person alive. Kevin: So it's this incredible paradox. You're powerless against the massive system, but your connection to one other person can be the one thing that keeps you going. It wasn't about being the strongest, but about having a reason to live for someone else. Michael: Precisely. She quotes other long-term prisoners who observed that those who were alone in the camps were the first to lose their will to live. But then, in her typically honest way, she complicates this beautiful idea. She has a chapter titled, "Was there solidarity in the camp?" And her answer is… not really. Kevin: Wait, how does that square with the story of her sister? Michael: Because while she and her sister had an unbreakable bond, the broader camp environment was designed to destroy solidarity. She describes the soup line, where the block elder, a fellow prisoner, would stir the watery soup so the vegetables stayed at the bottom. But when someone from her own "pack" or hometown came up, she'd dip the ladle deep. Kevin: A tiny act of favoritism that could mean the difference between life and death. Michael: Exactly. And she tells another story where she was made a 'kapo,' a prisoner in charge of a work group. She tried to sabotage the work to let the other girls rest. But after two days, another prisoner, a Polish girl, reported her to the SS. Why? For an extra bowl of soup. Kevin: That's a brutal but honest take. It avoids a simple, heroic narrative and shows the messy, human reality. People were forced into impossible choices. It’s not a story of saints and sinners; it's a story of human beings pushed to their absolute limit. Michael: And that brutal honesty is what makes her testimony so powerful. It’s what allows her to tackle the questions that come after liberation, which are in many ways even more complex.

Kevin: Which brings us to what happens after. Surviving is one thing, but living with it is another. How did she deal with the trauma? Michael: Her journey is fascinating, especially because she was a psychologist. She says that in the 1940s, the word 'trauma' was barely known. There was no framework for processing it. Her first instinct was pure hatred. She tells a story of being slapped by a Hungarian camp chief for asking for new shoes. For years, she says, she hated all Germans and all Hungarians. Kevin: A completely understandable reaction. Michael: But she realized that hatred is counterproductive. It doesn't affect the hated, she says, but it consumes the one who hates. The turning point came years later in Sweden, when she met a Hungarian immigrant who confessed he was taught to hate Jews in Sunday school as a child. It made her realize that hatred was inculcated, not inherent to a whole people. Kevin: That distinction is so important. It's not about absolving the perpetrators, but about freeing herself from the poison of hate. It's a choice she makes for her own future. Michael: And that choice led her to her purpose. She was tormented by the question, "Why did I survive?" Then one day, a teacher called and asked her to speak at a school. She writes, "I finally realised that I had survived so that someone could tell of what happened... If no one tells the story of the Holocaust, it will be forgotten, and what is forgotten may easily be repeated." Kevin: So her work became her therapy. She transformed her pain into a mission. Michael: Yes. She dedicated the rest of her life to it. When asked if she can forgive, she says something profound. She says she cannot forgive on behalf of the six million who were murdered. That right isn't hers. But, she says, you can learn to live with what has happened. You can live side by side with the former enemy, "realising that you will never know how you, yourself, would have reacted in a vulnerable situation." Kevin: That humility is staggering. After everything she went through, to still hold that space for human fallibility is… incredible. Michael: It’s the core of her wisdom. And it’s why she believes the meaning of life is, simply, life itself. Her revenge, she says, is that she and her sister lived, that they had families, and that the descendants of the Nazis now listen to their stories and work to make sure it never happens again.

Kevin: So, when you put it all together, this book isn't just a memoir of the Holocaust. It's a manual for vigilance. Michael: Exactly. Hédi Fried’s ultimate lesson is that history isn't something that just happens. It's made of individual choices, small compromises, and moments of turning away. Her final question in the book, 'Could it happen again?', is answered with a chilling 'yes'. She says, and I'm quoting directly, "What has happened once may happen again, not in the same way but with similar results." Kevin: And the only defense? Michael: Continuous remembrance and education. She says we have to pass on the stories of eyewitnesses, not just for intellectual knowledge, but for what she calls "emotional learning." Knowledge must reach the heart. Kevin: It leaves you with a profound sense of responsibility. The book is a series of questions she was asked, but the final question is the one she asks of us: What will we do to ensure it doesn't happen again? Michael: A powerful question to end on. This is Aibrary, signing off.