by Robert Payne
The flames were coming closer.
The Fire and the Fury
Leave India to God, or in
modern parlance, to anarchy.
A Letter to Hitler
IN MATTERS which did not deeply concern him Gandhi sometimes betrayed a surprising ignorance. Concerning events which took place outside India, South Africa or England, he would often make judgments which were completely absurd. Like Kasturbhai, who would confuse the names of the rivers of India with the capitals of the provinces, he would make pronouncements which had no relation to anything that existed. There were whole regions of experience which were foreign to him. He could never understand the military mind, or modem weapons, or modem warfare. He was like those peasants who simply hide when they see the approaching armies and then go on tilling and planting their fields when the armies have departed, as though nothing had happened.
Gandhi had no conception of the menace which Hitler presented to the world. He was inclined to see Hitler as a man who had successfully confronted the Great Powers and shown that a defeated country could rise from its ashes, and he saw some parallels between his own rise to prominence as the leader of an embattled nation and the rise of Hitler. In his view Hitler could be reasoned with, and belonged among those destined leaders who arise mysteriously from time to time to assume the burdens of conquest. Writing to Rajkumari Amrit Kaur in the middle of May 1940, he said: “I do not consider Hitter to be as bad as he is depicted. He is showing an ability that is amazing and he seems to be gaining his victories without much bloodshed.”
Some months earlier, on July 23, 1939, he had addressed a strangely diffident and respectful letter to Hitler, which appears to have been written in a mood of profound hopelessness and without any hope of receiving a reply. He wrote:
Friends have been urging me to write to you for the sake of humanity. But I have resisted their request because of the feeling that any letter from me would be impertinence. Something tells me that I must not calculate and that I must make my appeal for whatever it is worth.
It is quite clear that you are today the one person in the world who can prevent a war which may reduce humanity to the savage state. Must you pay that price for an object however worthy it may appear to you to be? Will you listen to the appeal of one who has deliberately shunned the method of war not without considerable success?
Anyway, I anticipate your forgiveness, if I have erred in writing to you.
Gandhi’s attitude to the dictators was one of compassion. He expected the Jews to pray for Hitler, who was not beyond redemption. “Even if one Jew acted thus, he would save his self-respect and leave an example which, if it became infectious, would save the whole of Jewry and leave a rich heritage to mankind besides.” But such arguments belonged to the romanticism of non-violence; they had no relation to reality, for the Jews were being annihilated and any Jew who prayed for Hitler was making a mockery of prayer. Hermann Kallenbach, Gandhi’s old friend from South African days, was staying at the Sevagram ashram at the time. Questioned by Gandhi, he replied that he could not find it in his heart to pray for Hitler. “I do not quarrel with him over his anger,” Gandhi said, though he found himself wondering why the Jews so rarely loved their enemies. He was convinced that if the Jews in Germany had offered themselves to the butchers’ knives and thrown themselves into the sea from cliffs, they would have aroused the world and the people of Germany. Through Satyagraha they would have achieved a moral triumph, which would have been remembered for all the ages to come.
It was not, of course, that Gandhi lacked sympathy for the Jews; it was simply that he did not have, and could not have, any imaginative conception of their plight. In the quiet of the ashram the even greater quiet of the gas chambers was inconceivable.
Gandhi had no personal acquaintance with dictators. He had met Mussolini briefly, but it was so brief a meeting that it left scarcely any impression on him. When he spoke about Hitler, he was more indulgent, for Hitler was attacking the British Empire. Rajkumari Amrit Kaur fervently hoped that Hitler would destroy Britain; it was a hope shared by many other members of the Congress Party.
On December 24, 1941, Gandhi wrote an open letter to Hitler, urging him to consider the advantages of non-violence and castigating him for actions which were “monstrous and unbecoming of human dignity.” It was a long letter, but it should be quoted at some length because it shows Gandhi wrestling earnestly, if ineffectively, with a dictator whose savagery was beyond his comprehension and who was then at the height of his power, with all Europe under his domination and his armies deep in Russia. He wrote:
DEAR FRIEND,
That I address you as a friend is no formality. I own no foes. My business in life for the past thirty-three years has been to enlist the friendship of the whole of humanity by befriending mankind, irrespective of race, colour or creed.
I hope you will have the time and desire to know how a good portion of humanity who have been living under the influence of that doctrine of universal friendship, view your actions. We have no doubt about your bravery or devotion to your fatherland, nor do we believe that you are the monster described by your opponents. But your writings and pronouncements and those of your friends and admirers leave no room for doubt that many of your acts are monstrous and unbecoming of human dignity especially in the estimation of men like me who believe in universal friendliness. Such are your humiliation of Czechoslovakia, the rape of Poland and the swallowing of Denmark. I am aware that your view of life regards such spoliations as virtuous acts. But we have been taught from childhood to regard them as acts degrading to humanity. Hence we cannot possibly wish success to your arms.
But ours is a unique position. We resist the British imperialism no less than Nazism. If there is a difference, it is in degree. One-fifth of the human race has been brought under the British heel by means that will not bear scrutiny. Our resistance to it does not mean harm to the British people. We seek to convert them, not to defeat them on the battlefield. Ours is an unarmed revolt against British rule. But whether we convert them or not, we are determined to make their rule impossible by non-violent non-cooperation. It is a method in its nature undefeatable. It is based upon the knowledge that no spoliator can compass his end without a certain degree of cooperation, willing or compulsory, from the victim. Our rulers may have our land and bodies but not our souls. They can have the former only by complete destruction of every Indian— man, woman or child. That all may not rise to that degree of heroism and that a fair amount of frightfulness can bend the back of revolt is true; but the argument would be beside the point. For, if a fair number of men and women can be found in India who would be prepared, without any ill-will against the spoliators, to lay down their lives rather than bend the knee to them, they will have shown the way to freedom from the tyranny of violence. I ask you to believe me when I say that you will find an unexpected number of such men and women in India. They have been having that training for the past twenty years. . . .
In non-violent technique, as I have said, there is no such thing as defeat. It is all “do or die,’’ without killing or hurting. It can be used practically without money and obviously without the aid of the science of destruction which you have brought to such perfection. It is a marvel to me that you do not see that it is nobody’s monopoly. If not the British, then some other power will certainly improve upon your method and beat you with your own weapon. You are leaving no legacy to your people of which they would feel proud. They cannot take pride in a recital of cruel deeds, however skilfully planned. I therefore appeal to you in the name of humanity to stop the war. . . .
During this season when the hearts of the peoples of Europe yearn for peace, we have suspended even our own peaceful struggle. Is it not too much to ask you to make an effort for peace during a time which may mean nothing to you personally, but which must mean much to the millions of Europeans whose dumb cry for peace I hear, for my ears are attuned to hearing the dumb millions.
I had i
ntended to address a joint appeal to you and Signor Mussolini, whom I had the privilege of meeting when I was in Rome during my visit to England as a delegate to the Round Table Conference. I hope that he will take this as addressed to him also with the necessary changes.
Of all Gandhi’s surviving letters addressed to great personages, this is the most disturbing. The mind fails to grip, and the sentences follow one another without urgency. Violence was on the march; whole cities were being destroyed, whole peoples were being enslaved; and as a man of nonviolence, he could only despair.
In June 1940, when Belgium had been knocked out of the war, when France was falling, and British ships were filling the straits of Dover in an effort to rescue their army from Dunkirk, Gandhi completely lost hope. The end was near; Britain was about to perish; and was it to be expected that the defeated Raj would continue to rule over three hundred and fifty million Indians? In a fury of despair Gandhi wrote to the Viceroy, Lord Linlithgow, announcing that the war was lost and offering his services as a mediator with Hitler. He wrote:
This manslaughter must be stopped. You are losing; if you persist, it will only result in greater bloodshed. Hitler is not a bad man. If you call it off today, he will follow suit. If you want to send me to Germany or anywhere else, I am at your disposal. You can also inform the Cabinet about this.
Lord Linlithgow, who was not given to fantasies, replied promptly: “We are engaged in a struggle. As long as we do not achieve our aim, we are not going to budge.” He added: “Everything is going to be all right.”
Gandhi was not convinced. The strain of the war, and the knowledge of his own impotence, brought him to the verge of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly quite small things assumed immense importance. A letter written to him by a girl vanished, and he was beside himself with anxiety. A pen had been lying beside the letter, and this too had vanished. Some time later the letter was found tom into pieces. Gandhi said: “The culprit is hidden among us. If no one comes forward with a confession by Friday, then I shall go on a fast from Saturday.” Mahadev Desai did everything possible to find the culprit, and wondered why Gandhi was so determined to punish himself for a crime that was scarcely a crime, for there were any number of reasons why a pen should be mislaid or a letter torn into fragments.
Mahadev Desai was one of those calm, sensitive, superbly cultivated people who become desperate when confronted with anarchy. There had been many moments when the ashram reminded him of a madhouse because Gandhi had successfully communicated his despairs to everyone in it. He pleaded, cajoled, invented twenty reasons why the pen was thrown away and the letter tom, but Gandhi would have none of them. Suddenly he turned upon one of the young women in the ashram, a Muslim, and said: “I suspect you. Why not make a confession?” The woman replied: “I am innocent. Allah is my witness!” She went on a fast. Mahadev Desai went to Gandhi, and said that in accusing her he was acting with the same kind of precipitancy with which he announced his intention to fast, and when he realized that he had acted unjustly to her, he would overwhelm her with attentions and make amends a hundred times over; and this too would be an act of injustice. Gandhi remained unmoved. He intended to go on a fast, and nothing would dissuade him. It was as though the letter had acquired the dimensions of a living person, and when it was torn, a person had died.
There had been many similar incidents, and Mahadev Desai had learned how to deal with them. He assumed the role of public defender and keeper of the public conscience. He wrote a long letter to Gandhi, asking him to reconsider. “If we claim to know or try to know everything,” he wrote, “it would be assuming the attributes of God and an expression of pride.” Gandhi read the letter, and wrote back: “I have your viewpoint before me.” He had not changed his opinion. He announced that he would begin his fast, as promised Once more there came a letter from the harassed secretary full of strenuous objections. Gandhi had already begun the fast when he read the letter. Two hours later the fast was abruptly abandoned; it was the shortest of all the fasts undertaken by him.
The mystery of the torn letter was never solved. For four days Gandhi had brooded about it, whipping himself into a fury of remorse and penitence, determined at all costs to discover the sinner. In Gandhi’s mind the letter had become the symbol of all the destruction existing in the world, the lost illusions, the shattered hopes. It is possible that Gandhi himself had destroyed the letter, tearing it up in a sudden rage or in a fit of absentmindedness.
The desperate times made him desperate to a degree which sometimes surprised Mahadev Desai, who had somehow to bring sanity into the affairs of the ashram. But even Mahadev Desai could not prevent him from writing and publishing opinions which exasperated many of his followers. Gandhi wrote an urgent appeal “To Every Briton,” in which he called upon them to abandon the struggle, lay down their arms, and quietly accept whatever fate Hitler had reserved for them. “You will invite Herr Hitler and Signor Mussolini to take what they want of the countries you call your possessions. Let them take possession of your beautiful island with your many beautiful buildings. You will give all these, but neither your souls, nor your minds.” At such moments he seemed to have lost all sense of reality, to be drowned in visions. A bomb had fallen on St. Paul’s Cathedral; the Palace of Westminster was in flames; England was about to go down in defeat; the whole world filled him with agony. His mind was dulled by the shock of war.
According to the original Satyagraha theory, if only one man resisted non-violently, with perfect composure and perfect faith, then the government would be overthrown.
He decided to make one last effort: Vinoba Bhave was chosen as the perfect Satyagrahi, who would offer himself as a sacrifice. He would be sent out to speak against the war and all its horrors, and inevitably he would be arrested. Gandhi wrote a long account of Vinoba Bhave’s qualifications for the task, and then spoke of his own hopes:
I do not know how things will shape. I myself do not know the next step. I do not know the Government plan. I am a man of faith. My reliance is solely on God. One step is enough for me. The next He will make clear to me when the time for it comes. And who knows that I shall not be an instrument for bringing about peace not only between Britain and India but also between the warring nations of the earth?
In this way Gandhi sustained himself in his despair. He was not suffering from paranoia; instead, he was clutching at visionary straws.
Vinoba Bhave set out from Wardha, inviting arrest. For three days he made antiwar speeches in the neighboring villages, and then the police caught up with him and he was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment. The campaign of individual protest had begun. Nehru was chosen as the next victim; he announced his intention to make antiwar speeches and was arrested before he had time to make a single speech. He was sentenced to four years’ rigorous imprisonment for some speeches he had delivered earlier in the year. It was a senseless punishment, and the nation was stunned by this attempt to silence a man who had always acted with moderation. All over India there were protest meetings, the speakers denouncing the government for its irresponsibility and proclaiming the virtues of the defiant prisoner who in this way achieved the honor of martyrdom. Even Churchill was alarmed, and sent urgent instructions that Nehru should be treated with special consideration.
When Vallabhbhai Patel was arrested a few days later, the three most important members of Gandhi’s general staff disappeared behind prison bars. By the end of the year there were four hundred members of the Congress in prison, and the New Year brought no relief. India was gripped by an iron hand. As always, repression had disastrous consequences. One of these consequences was that the inevitable explosion was far more dangerous than the British could ever have imagined. Another consequence was that the Muslim League gradually flowed into the vacuum of power left by the imprisoned Congress. A third consequence was that rumors spread over India unchecked, for there were no longer any newspapers the Indians could trust; and the dissemination of false rumors was assiduously practiced by men wh
o could benefit from them. Gandhi advised his followers to become “walking newspapers” to offset the appalling spread of rumors, which were converting India into a whispering gallery. Meanwhile the remnants of the Congress Party were divided, with Subhas Chandra Bose, the leader of the Forward Bloc, calling for outright rebellion and the destruction of the British Raj by force, while Gandhi stoked the fires of non-violent resistance.
After Germany attacked Russia in June 1941, the Indian Communists proclaimed that the war, hitherto a duel between two major powers, had suddenly acquired the dimensions of a crusade; and from being enemies of the British, the Indian Communists became devout friends. After Pearl Harbor the war acquired still another dimension: India found herself at war with Japan. Soon the Bay of Bengal became a Japanese lake, and the Indians wondered how soon the Japanese would make a landing.
Shortly after the Pacific War broke out, Chiang Kai-shek flew to Calcutta from the wartime Chinese capital of Chungking. Within an hour of his arrival, he was talking to Gandhi, with Madame Chiang acting as interpreter. The Generalissimo was in India to ensure the safety of his lifeline with Britain and the United States. Above all, he wanted the assurance that India would not revolt against the British. Gandhi gave the Generalissimo some lessons in Satyagraha and invited him to stay in Sevagram to discuss the matter further. He was full of sympathy for the Chinese and was not especially disturbed by the prospect of a Japanese invasion of India. “I cannot say how exactly I will react in case of an invasion, but I know that God will give me proper guidance,” he told the Generalissimo, who was less disposed to put his trust in God alone. Gandhi charmed Madame Chiang, and there was a good deal of banter between them. From time to time the Generalissimo would explain that China could not survive unless the safety of her lifeline was guaranteed, and then once again he would be offered a lesson on the advantages of Satyagraha. To Patel Gandhi wrote a short note about his encounter with the Generalissimo: “He came and went without creating any impression, but fun was had by all. I would not say that I learnt anything, and there was nothing that we could teach him. All that he had to say was this: Be as it may, help the British. They are better than others and they will now become still better.”
