The Nuremberg Trials were a series of military tribunals held by the Allied powers after World War II to prosecute senior Nazi leaders for horrific crimes committed during the war. They kicked off 80 years ago today. In the wake of the war’s staggering examples of man’s inhumanity to man, the trials were a desperately needed and morally honorable exercise of justice.
In several regards, the trials broke new ground. The first international military tribunal in which judges and prosecutors from allied nations—here the United States, Great Britain, France, and the Soviet Union—jointly tried a defeated aggressor’s war criminals, the trials established the principle that individuals—including, or especially, high-ranking officials, can be held accountable for violating not just international law, but human dignity as well. To ground the latter, new legal concepts like “crimes against peace” and “crimes against humanity” formally codified basic moral sense. The excuse that “I was just following orders” would no longer fly. Ultimately, twenty-two were tried, one in absentia. Another two were charged, but before proceedings could begin one committed suicide and the other was deemed medically unfit to stand trial. In addition to the evident restraint in the numbers charged, other elements make clear these trials were no sham. This was not a victor’s parody of justice. Each of the defendants was given due process and legal counsel. The prosecution used the Nazis’ own records as evidence—including legal documents, reports, orders, diaries, transcriptions, bookkeeping, published material, and film and photographic footage.
Each of the accused was arraigned on one or a combination of four primary charges: criminal conspiracy, crimes against peace—planning and waging a war of aggression; war crimes—violations of the laws of war, including mistreatment of civilians or prisoners of war; and crimes against humanity—inhumane acts against civilians, including persecution, murder, extermination, and genocide. It seems clear that this latter charge—aimed at things that shocked the conscience—were a primary focus. Only those whose charges included crimes against humanity were executed, and of the seventeen who were so-charged, only five were spared death. Three of these were ultimately to be little more than petty subordinates whose crimes didn’t warrant a capital sentence. A fourth, Albert Speer was the only one to have shown—at least seemingly—genuine contrition. His remorse likely saved his life. The last, Hans Fritzsche, was acquitted entirely.
In sum, three defendants were acquitted, four were given limited prison sentences of from fifteen to twenty years, three were handed life sentences, and twelve were condemned to death by hanging (although Herman Goring—may his name be blotted from the book of life—somehow managed to acquire cyanide salt and off himself before he could be strung up). Beyond those mentioned above, none of the condemned, save one, were repentant. Hans Frank, the Governor-General of Poland whose actions earned him the moniker the “Butcher of Poland” is the only one to have showed any remorse during his trial. In the midst of it, he converted to Catholicism and offered his personal diaries as evidence against himself. In his final statement he said: “I am thankful for the kind treatment during my captivity, and I ask God to accept me with mercy.” He admitted on the witness stand that a “thousand years would not suffice to erase the shame” of Germany’s actions. He hoped his execution would be sufficient atonement and that God would grant him forgiveness.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, one defendant, Julius Streicher was—somehow—a particularly repugnant case. Streicher was one of only two arraigned on a single charge—crimes against humanity. He was the Nazi party’s chief propagandist and publisher of the virulently anti-Semitic newspaper Der Stürmer—which consistently called for the extermination and annihilation of the Jewish race. He was also author of the morally abhorrent Der Giftpilz (The Poison Mushroom) a piece of propaganda containing seventeen short stories of Jewish caricatures designed to indoctrinate German youths in Jew hatred. It’s important to stress that Streicher’s charges were grounded not in his direct actions—he was never accused of directly harming even a single Jew. A vile antisemite, he was executed because of his words. Indeed, this was his defense. He insisted that he was merely a journalist and political writer and that his words carried no authority, directed no actions, issued no orders, and generated no law. In some sense, the judges seemed to largely agree. Instead, his accusation was aimed in the other direction. He was condemned, in the words of one judge, for systematically creating a climate of hate and poisoning the minds of a generation of German youths. Streicher was defiant to the end, insisting that regret “was something for little children.” He was the only defendant to salute the Fuhrer at his execution. On the gallows he shouted, “Heil Hitler!” and “Purim fest!”—a foul reference to Haman’s attempted extermination of Jews as recorded in Esther. Proving the old adage that the pen can be mightier than the sword, the moral clarity that grounded Streicher’s conviction and execution is both apt and profound.
As I see it, the Nuremberg trials played an essential role in helping—forcing even—Germany to confront itself. Having made a concerted effort to publicize the trials within Germany, the evidence presented—including concentration camp footage—made it impossible for Germans to deny the atrocities carried out by their political leaders and fellow citizens. By trying individuals—and denying claims of “just following orders”—the trials made it impossible for Germans—individually or collectively—to blame it all on Hitler and a few rogue monsters. Nuremberg provided a basis for both the present and future generations of Germans to question the silence and complicity of too many Germans in the war years who did little or nothing in the face of its nation’s crimes. While collective guilt does not exist, collective responsibility does, and Germany’s deep self-reflection following Nuremberg has made believable the intent behind its claims of “never again.”
There are lessons here, of course. I’ve argued elsewhere (including here) that decisive victories are an implication of just war doctrine. Decisive victories occur when you’ve not only knocked out your adversary’s ability to fight but their will to fight as well. This is vital. It’s really only after the fight has truly been knocked out of the enemy that they will have any real interest in redirecting their ambitions away from aggression and taking steps toward reconciliation and responsible behavior. So, one take away from Nuremberg is that fights that are right to fight are right to win—and to win decisively enough that we are granted the authority to establish the necessary conditions for a durable peace.
Another lesson is that while the trial and execution of twelve Nazis and the imprisonment of a handful of others in no way substantively retributes the annihilation of 6,000,000 Jews and the millions of other victims of Nazi aggression, it did do the critical work of declaring, however modest, that the harms the victims suffered would not go unrequited. This remains essential. The vindication of victims is a primary focus of justice. Their innocence must be declared. Also essential is giving the victimizers their due. The swinging of a dozen men who it was right to execute can only ever do so much to atone for the unspeakable crimes that some men did to their fellow men.
But twelve was better than eleven or none, and all in all it was a decent start.