Rendez-Vous — H. Arendt

— Cornelis de Bondt

Mid-October 1964. Hannah Arendt stepped out of the Taunus Filmstudio Unter den Eichen in Wiesbaden. She had just been interviewed by Günter Gaus for the ZDF series Zur Person. She took out a cigarette and tried to light it, but her lighter refused to cooperate. I had been waiting a little further down the road, and walked toward her — this was my chance to start a conversation. I held up my own lighter, one that would spark even in a strong wind.

“Vielleicht möchten Sie meinen ‘Flammenwerfer’ benutzen,” I said in German. My German was certainly not großartig, but I had heard her say in the interview that it was the language she felt most at home in. I struck the flame; she looked at me questioningly, but needed a drag badly enough to accept the gesture. She nodded politely.

“Flammenwerfer,” she repeated with an ironic glance.

“Na ja,” I continued boldly in German, “sozusagen, nicht wahr…”

She nodded again, but said nothing else. So I tried: “I found it a very interesting, and also moving, interview.”

“Were you present? I didn’t see you. The interview wasn’t public, but of course the broadcast on the 28th is.”

“Yes, I was standing hidden in the dark, among the technicians.” I lit a cigar. “May I ask you something?”

“I’m waiting for my taxi. Until then you may ask whatever you like.”

“Thank you. You spoke about Zionism…”

“Verzeihung, there is no such thing as the Zionism,” she interrupted me, “there are many kinds.” She took a long drag from her cigarette.

“The best-known form, Herzl’s, articulates a nostalgic dream, full of Tannhäuser in large, lavishly decorated halls, with ladies in glittering gowns and gentlemen im Frack. Then there is Hess’s version, which bases itself on Garibaldi and his socialist vision. And then there are also dieser verdammte orthodox-religious variants.” She blew a perfectly jealous-making ring of smoke into the air.

“You have problems with the founding of the State of Israel — at least, in the form it took in 1948. Too much modeled on old European examples, and therefore a source of ongoing conflict and war. Or does it go further? In the interview you refer to a remark by your mother, and at one point you say: ‘We pay dearly for that freedom, and we must realize that that form of humanity doesn’t survive liberation for even five minutes.’ Because through the formation of a state, the special communal bond of living in exile is lost. At the same time, you say it cannot be undone.”

“You are repeating what I expressed quite adequately in that interview. Do you have something else to ask?” She took another drag and muttered: “Wo bleibt denn dieses verdammte Taxi!” She walked a few steps away from me, then turned back.

“I have another question, about your phrase ‘the banality of evil’. I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to make her more irritated than she already seemed. “You said it about Eichmann, but I see the term more broadly. It reminds me of what Kant calls the ‘Second Evil’, impuritas, in his late text on religion and reason.”

She studied me for a moment, then asked: “Why do you think that? I never made that connection, and as far as I know no one else has either…” — she paused briefly — “…there is something to be said for it. But also something against. Go on.”

“Some critics argue that the term diminishes the seriousness of Eichmann’s crimes. If I understand correctly, this was also a point of criticism from your friend and colleague Karl Jaspers. But I think the term applies not so much to Eichmann himself as to the entire social construction of Germany. Not only Eichmann was guilty — also all those who looked the other way, those who said Wir haben es nicht gewußt; this is exactly what Kant calls the ‘Second Evil’, looking away out of laziness, indifference, or stupidity. But apart from you, Jaspers never made that connection either.”

“I see what you mean, but my view is different. Karl would certainly reject this connection, although he might appreciate it. But — as his criticism of my use of the term ‘banality’ shows — for him evil is existential, not the result of some deficiency. As far as I’m concerned, Eichmann’s evil is a political-bureaucratic evil; Kant’s concept has more to do with thinking as such, as part of die Rede. That is the difference.”

“Then I have another question that follows from this, but it may be sensitive…”

“I am not interested in banal psychology.”

At that moment the taxi suddenly pulled up. She said: “You will perhaps want to accompany me.” She raised her arm.

“We’re going to my hotel; we can continue talking there with a good glass of wine.” I nodded obediently.

In the hotel lounge we sat at a small table, with a bottle of good white wine in the cooler and some salty snacks. I had already booked a room, so I could take all the time Hannah Arendt was willing to give me.

I began: “Returning to the concept of the ‘banality of evil’, in this broader sense: wouldn’t certain remarks Martin Heidegger made about Judaism also fall under that concept? And you understand my comment about possible sensitivity.”

“Your reference to the—long since ended—relationship between Martin and myself is irrelevant. You have no business with that. But your question contains a philosophical component; that we can discuss, assuming that Martin did indeed say or write something improper about Judaism. To my knowledge he did not — at least not on a philosophical level, and certainly not in his writings, let alone his major works. At most he may have spoken dismissively about some Jewish colleagues, but that is anecdotal.”

“Not in his primary works, true, but perhaps in his notes — I understand he kept a kind of diary. That may be anecdotal unless antisemitic remarks appear in it. Have you ever seen those notes, or did he ever speak to you about them?” It was of course a shot in the dark; she could not know what I by now did. The so-called Schwarze Hefte were published only in 2014. My question was risky, but I trusted her intellectual curiosity.

“He did keep Aufzeichnungen, Denktagebücher as he sometimes called them, but they were strictly personal. He never talked about them with me, and I never saw them. Nor would I have wanted to — that personal material doesn’t interest me; I have no patience for anecdotes.” She lit a new cigarette, and I lit a fresh cigar; I refilled our glasses. “You know,” she continued after a healthy sip of wine, “I can actually name only three facts that might point to a possible, mild form of antisemitism: first, the sometimes indeed demeaning remarks about his Jewish colleagues, such as Husserl and Jonas; second, some of Jaspers’s comments about this; and third, the crushing silence after the war about the Holocaust. But these are all indirect indications. Jaspers broke with him for that combination of reasons. Not enough for your ‘banality’.”

“In 1933 Jaspers severed ties with Heidegger because he openly aligned himself with National Socialism. Heidegger became rector of the University of Freiburg, joined the NSDAP — without being required to — and spoke in his rectoral address of Hitler’s ideal of nationale Erhebung. He publicly expressed admiration for Hitler. After the war he never distanced himself from this.”

Hannah Arendt made a disapproving sound and drew again on her cigarette. “That is not yet a form of antisemitism. You must see it in its time — for him it was about a new elan, renewing society. That was also why he accepted the rectorship. And don’t forget he resigned from that position a year later.”

She lit a new cigarette and continued her argument: “In that address he argued for more student participation; he wanted to break through the ossified academic conservatism. But he was resisted, sabotaged, and received too little support from the Party. Disillusioned, he resigned as rector; he continued to teach. It is rather easy to saddle him with the crimes of the Nazi regime. With hindsight it is all too comfortable to judge. He let himself be carried away by a naïve dream.”

“But a scholar — a philosopher above all — must surely possess a critical capacity for self-reflection?” I countered.

“Gewiss. But even philosophers are not Übermenschen.”

Touché. “Jaspers had a less forgiving view of this; he broke off their friendship.”

She stared pensively ahead for a while, sipping her wine now and then. Finally she answered: “Jaspers’s criticism concerned above all Heidegger’s moral-political stance — he found it ‘unfree’ and rigid — and also Heidegger’s incapacity for genuine dialogue. And after the war he reproached him for lacking any self-reflection. That admiration for Hitler, according to Karl, revealed an authoritarian streak.”

“I read somewhere that Jaspers once, in 1933 or ’34, asked Heidegger: ‘Wie denken Sie sich denn die Judentum-Frage?’ Heidegger reportedly replied, according to Jaspers: ‘Es gibt eine gefährliche internationale Verbundenheit der Juden.’ Jaspers was shocked, though he still thought Heidegger politically naïve rather than ideologically antisemitic. But it makes one think.”

“It is described in Karl’s Philosophische Autobiographie, published the same year as my book on Eichmann. It concerns his recollections.”

“But that does suggest an antisemitic attitude on Heidegger’s part — even if indirectly, since it comes from Jaspers.”

“I don’t know. It is certainly a reprehensible view, but it could also be interpreted as naïve. The remarks date from 1933 or ’34, so years before the Endlösung. Karl couldn’t get Martin to talk about it — he was immovable, wie Granit.” She thought for a while, then said: “Incidentally, this nicely illustrates the difference between that concept of the ‘Second Evil’ you mentioned and the ‘banality’ I wrote about. Heidegger’s morally questionable position falls under that notion of impuritas, not under the ‘banality of evil’, because the inconsistency lay in his thinking, not in his political actions.”

“You had a love affair with Heidegger, and a relationship based solely on friendship with Jaspers. You could handle the latter’s criticism because of the predominantly rational basis. But you could ignore the antisemitism that Jaspers uncovered in Heidegger because your love for Heidegger clouded your critical view of him. That is what I call the ‘banality of love’.”

She looked at me searchingly, then burst into a raspy laugh. “Das ist wirklich gut.” She chuckled a bit more and reached for the bottle. She divided the remainder between our glasses and raised hers. “An invaluable ending to an interesting conversation!” After a sip: “Where are you actually from? Your German sounds a bit peculiar. The Netherlands?” When I nodded, she said: “Ach — the country with, after Poland, the highest percentage of deported Jews, which prides itself on its ‘gezelligheid’.”

— Loosduinen, November 23, 2025