Fry and Arendt: A Philosophical Debt
In a roundabout way, a resident from my hometown of Ridgewood, New Jersey, made my research possible. Varian Fry, American journalist and head of the Emergency Rescue Committee that operated out of Marseilles, France, helped save more than two thousand Jewish intellectuals looking for a visa out of Europe. One of the refugees he assisted was none other than Hannah Arendt, the subject of my Ph.D. dissertation. Without Fry’s aid, Arendt would likely have been deported from the Gurs internment camp to Auschwitz. Had Arendt not made it to New York just before U.S. borders were sealed, the world would have been deprived of some of the most brilliant philosophical and political works of the twentieth century—among them The Origins of Totalitarianism, The Human Condition, and the still-controversial Eichmann in Jerusalem.
Both Fry and Arendt have been on my mind more than usual recently because of the new Netflix limited series Transatlantic, which tells the story of Fry’s attempts to help talented men like Marc Chagall, Walter Mehring, and Max Ernst escape the continent. Fry is played by the sharp, immaculately dressed Cory Michael Smith, who steals the show as a friendly, compassionate man with an overwhelming compulsion to lend a hand to as many people as he possibly can. Meanwhile, Alexa Karolinski has a cameo as a thoughtful and chain-smoking Hannah Arendt, who gives Fry words of wisdom during a moment of crisis.
In reality, it is unlikely that such a scene ever occurred. What’s more, Hannah’s communist husband, Heinrich Blucher—the love of her life—is left out of the show. It is also suggested that Arendt got to the U.S. via Martinique, when it is known that she escaped via Spain and Portugal. Historical discrepancies aside, one thing is certainly true: the actions of Arendt’s rescuer were proof of resistance to Nazi ideology. Fry expressed his perplexity over the sordid state of affairs in Europe in a letter to his wife, Eileen. He lamented that some of the greatest living minds of his time had been reduced to such a position that they had to depend upon the help of an unimportant American in order to salvage their work and their lives. Fry, however, was the farthest thing from unimportant—considered the “American Oscar Schindler,” he was later awarded one of only five United States “Righteous Among Nations” titles from the Israeli government for his deep commitment to the Jewish cause.
In Eichmann in Jerusalem, Arendt famously describes another man—an Austrian, Anton Schmid—who posthumously received the title of “Righteous Among Nations” for his efforts in helping the Jewish resistance in Vilna. Schmid, as Arendt describes him, was the “anti-Eichmann”: he showed compassion and care for Jews (especially women and children), even to the point of death. Men like Fry and Schmid are the stars dotting the canvas of the otherwise stark history of the Holocaust.
Every time I pass by Varian Fry Way on an evening walk (Ridgewood renamed one of its streets to honor him), I think of the philosophical debt I owe Fry. In the academic world, genealogy is not always about family—it is about the strange connections made between people, the ties that bind as life is lived and work is produced. Arendt’s own academic genealogy was constituted by figures as diverse in thought and influence as Aristotle, Immanuel Kant, Martin Heidegger, Karl Jaspers, Mary McCarthy, Kurt Blumenfeld, and Hans Jonas.
Though I am not related in any way to Fry, I feel a connection to him, and think that if my academic family tree were to be mapped out, he would somehow be a part of it— having not only grown up in the same village, but also, more importantly, having given another chance at life to the woman whose work I have spent years studying.
No doubt Arendt would agree that Fry’s visa was her ticket to what she herself would call a “second birth” into the public realm. Only in the relative freedom of the United States could she, as a Jewish woman, safely speak and act in public, and therefore make her mark. Fry gave Arendt the opportunity to turn away from a life lived in the danger of the shadows, to step into the clearing, and to disclose her authentic self before an avid audience. In turn, Arendt’s work has given me many opportunities of my own. I have started to think about philosophy, politics, evil, and much more in a new light, and have formed life-giving and life-long friendships because of Arendt’s life and writings.
I met one of my dearest friends because of a mutual interest in Arendt. When we met, he lived in Saint Louis, and I in New York. Our paths would likely not have crossed if not for the fact that we both tweeted frequently about Arendt. One day, the algorithm put one of his Arendt tweets in my feed. I liked the tweet and began a conversation with him that has never fizzled out. In the early days of our friendship, we were part of a weekly Twitter reading group that discussed The Human Condition chapter by chapter. But soon our talks progressed beyond that group. We competed to see who could complete their Arendt collection first, debated passages from her work fervently, and even made a “pilgrimage” to Arendt’s old apartment on Riverside Drive in the Upper West Side. It is fitting that Arendt, as one of the few thinkers who celebrates the possibilities of natality—who salutes the joy of new beginnings and of unpredictable ripple effects—made such a long-distance friendship possible.
This is to say the least of what I consider my own friendship with Arendt. Reading her work (and specifically Eichmann in Jerusalem) revitalized my interest in philosophy at a low point in my academic career when I was unsure whether I wanted to remain in the profession. Arendt’s boldness and striking writing style inspired me to assert myself more. In addition, though Arendt did not focus much on the gendered aspect of her experience, she also resonated with me as a woman in a field that is still largely dominated by men, and as a woman from a non-Christian religious background (though arguably, both Arendt and I have our respective fascinations with the person of Jesus).
I have often thought to myself, “What would Arendt do?” when I am running through certain situations in my academic or my personal life. Though, of course, Arendt and I would probably disagree on all manners of things! As I work on my dissertation, I am committed to striking the delicate balance between being charitable to Arendt and really trying to understand her—and challenging her when I feel it is merited, just as I would with my academic colleagues.
To me, Arendt is an incredible thinker and a genealogical marvel. She has helped me to “reclaim love for the world in spite of all the evil in it,” even though, as she admits herself, this is one of the hardest tasks there is. People like Arendt and Fry, however, make it just a little bit easier.
Sanjana Rajagopal is a Ph.D. candidate and teaching fellow in philosophy at Fordham University, where she is currently working on a dissertation about the role of emotions in Arendtian politics.