Hajo Holborn, a German-American historian, once said, “History only gives answers to those who know how to ask questions.” And if there was one person who knew how to ask the right questions, it was Yehuda Bauer, who passed away on October 20 at the age of 98. For seven decades, this historian relentlessly searched for answers—especially, though not exclusively, when it came to the most painful chapter in Jewish history, the Holocaust.
As a pioneer of Holocaust research, it is thanks to him that generations of scholars and students have learned to understand the annihilation of European Jews—even though the term itself feels somewhat inadequate here.
Bauer himself was born in Prague in 1926. Like many Jews in Czechoslovakia’s capital at the time, he grew up speaking both German and Czech. He was also fluent in Hebrew, English, Yiddish, and French, and could read and understand Polish effortlessly. The liberal spirit of interwar Czechoslovakia and its tragic end left an indelible mark on him—though Bauer managed to escape Europe at the last minute. Although it had been planned for some time, his flight to Palestine happened on the very day German troops invaded Czechoslovakia.
It was the influence of his history teacher in Haifa that led young Yehuda to devote his life to studying the past and become a “practitioner in the workshop of the historian,” as Marc Bloch once put it. To this end, Bauer studied history after the war at Cardiff University, having received a scholarship from the British government during the last years of the British mandate over Palestine. He would later earn his doctorate at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
It wasn’t until the early 1960s that he turned to the field where he would gain renown: Holocaust research. This shift came at the urging of the legendary partisan and poet Abba Kovner, who had been part of the Vilna Ghetto. At that time, only a handful of scholars dealt with the subject; the wound was still too fresh. Meanwhile, Yehuda had fought for Israel’s independence with the Palmach, the elite unit of the Haganah, and had co-founded Kibbutz Shoval in the Negev, which became his spiritual home. Although he later lived in Jerusalem, he was buried in Shoval next to his wife, Ilana.
Kovner could not have chosen a more capable and attentive chronicler. Bauer believed that the most exciting aspect of studying history lay in new discoveries and interpretations—especially when they led to the deconstruction of established theories. As a confident scholar, Bauer never hesitated to admit when he had been mistaken. With each new revelation, he demonstrated enthusiasm anew.
As a lecturer at the Hebrew University, Bauer saw himself primarily as a teacher. His commitment to his students was considered unparalleled. Yet even more important was his role as chief historian at Yad Vashem. Dani Dayan, the long-time chairman, rightly noted that without Bauer’s contributions, the memorial would not hold the leading position in Holocaust research that it unquestionably does today.
Bauer’s knowledge and his curiosity about past and present events were simply astonishing. He had an incredible ability to bring together ideas and facts from various continents and epochs, transforming them into powerful, thought-provoking prose.
He was also a captivating speaker. Whenever he began a lecture—almost always without a manuscript—you could hear a pin drop in the audience. At a symposium on the Allies’ response to the Holocaust in 2015, he delivered one of his most famous speeches, again without notes. He spoke about how to understand the actions and omissions of the Western Allies and questioned whether the Americans and British could have saved millions of Jews if they had only wanted to. An hour later, as he concluded, the applause was deafening.
A student in the audience, then an intern at a think tank, approached me afterward and enthusiastically said, “That was the best lecture I’ve ever heard. I hope I can still do that at 85.”
I replied, “Young man, I’m only 52 and nowhere near capable of giving a comparable presentation, nor will I ever be. This is one of the great thinkers of our time. But unfortunately, they stopped making and selling this model a long time ago.” It wasn’t only Bauer’s brilliance that set him apart from other scholars but also his humility and humor.
We co-authored several articles. When it came time to submit the first one, I asked him what titles and accolades I should include under the text. He said, “Just write, ‘The authors are historians.’ Nothing more is needed.”
In the last decade of his life, the Israel Journal of Foreign Affairs, where I had the honor of serving as editor-in-chief, became one of his favorite platforms. We published nearly 15 of his pieces, covering topics ranging from antisemitism and democracy to Holocaust remembrance and even the Russian invasion of Ukraine.
Once, while editing his text on illiberalism, in which he sharply criticized the Israeli government, I laughed and said, “I don’t think Mrs. Netanyahu will be inviting you for Shabbat dinner after this.” His response: “That’s one of the great advantages of reaching my age. You can write whatever you want and let things take their course.” Sometimes, he jokingly signed his letters as “Bauerus Tyrannus Nebbichus Rex” or “Iscariot.”
In emails, he would occasionally sign off with “Thus Spoke Zarabauer,” a play on Nietzsche, and he called his apartment in a Jerusalem assisted-living facility the “High Bauer Castle.”
Yehuda Bauer was a humanist and a courageous, though not uncritical, Zionist. He had no tolerance for nationalistic boasting, especially when it was linked to the memory of the Holocaust. He was firmly opposed to politicizing the past or using it as a tool for other purposes.
“To bolster national consciousness and political leadership, one must find a past that can be used for education—or rather, indoctrination—of the nation, young and old,” he once wrote. “If such an inspiring past is not available, it must be invented.” At the same time, he cautioned against creating an “exaggerated” or glorified image of historical events.
Bauer was a steadfast believer in the concept of Tikkun Olam—a term that, nowadays, has been diminished and distorted beyond recognition. He was particularly interested in the phenomenon of genocide and the possibilities for its prevention—and, of course, in the question of whether the Holocaust should be considered a “unique” event in history. To this end, he founded the Genocide Prevention Advisory Network, which unfortunately did not garner the anticipated response. The International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA), however, which he helped establish, was more successful.
Shortly before his death, Bauer was asked on Israeli radio what his plans for the future were. His reply was, “To die.” He had written his own eulogy, which was read by one of his daughters. With great humor, he sketched his life, making many at the graveside smile and even laugh.
Bauer also emphasized his love for Israel and the Jewish people, saying, “Ejn li eretz acheret”—”I have no other country.” Toward the end, he apologized for the length of the eulogy, promising it wouldn’t happen again. No government representatives were present at the funeral, despite his achievements, including being awarded the Israel Prize. This likely wouldn’t have surprised or disappointed the deceased; he probably wouldn’t have cared.
Sadly, this intellectual’s voice is now silenced. Yet his vast body of scholarly work will endure far longer than the sturdiest marble monument that could be built for him. His memory will remain both a blessing and an inexhaustible source of inspiration for years to come.
This editorial was originally written in German in Jüdische Allgemeine.
