It’s been 80 years since Adolf Hitler shot himself in his bunker, yet our fascination with the Nazi era seems eternal. By now I’ve read and seen so many different things that I’m always surprised when somebody offers a new angle on what the Nazis wrought.
Ian Buruma does this in Stay Alive: Berlin, 1939-1945, a new book about living in a country where you have no control over what happens. Inspired by the experience of his Dutch father, Leo, who was forced to do factory work in Berlin, Buruma uses diaries, memoirs and some personal interviews — most of the witnesses are dead, of course — to explore how it felt to be in Berlin during World War II. He weaves together a chronicle that carries Berliners from the triumphant days when Germany steamrolled Poland and daily life felt almost “normal” (unless you were Jewish, of course) through the end of the war when bombs pulverized the city, and Soviet soldiers arrived to rape and pillage.
As he writes of air raid drills, food shortages and the incessant deluge of rumors, Buruma has to deal with the difficulty that most ordinary Germans left behind very little record. They kept their heads down and tried to stay alive. And so the book moves among more interesting characters whose multiplicity gives dimension to our usual flattened sense of Nazi Germany.
We meet Coco Schumann, a young Jewish guitarist who risks his life to play the jazz music that Nazis considered degenerate. We meet 15-year-old Lilo, who starts off thinking that Nazi ideals make life beautiful, but comes to admire the greater nobility of those who tried to assassinate Hitler. There’s the dissident intelligence officer Helmuth von Moltke, a conservative who seeks to work from inside against the Nazis (he gets hanged for his trouble). And there’s Erich Alenfeld, a Jew who converted to Christianity and remained a German patriot: He sent a letter to Reichsminister Hermann Göring asking if he could serve.
We also encounter several of the usual suspects, most notably propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels who, when not coercing young actresses into sex, is busy generating false headlines, ordering movie spectacles to distract the masses (he loved Disney films), and monitoring the city’s morale. Always laying down edicts — like ordering Jews to wear the yellow star — he’s the Nazi who may have done most to affect Berlin’s daily life: He even keeps banning and reinstating dancing.
Along the way, Stay Alive is laced with nifty details. How one family trained its parrot to say “Heil, Hitler” to fool the Nazis if they came to arrest someone. How, a crew of filmmakers kept shooting a movie with no film in the camera so they wouldn’t be drafted to fight doomed last ditch battles. How Jewish villas in the posh Grunewald area were bought up or seized by Nazi bigshots, but now belong to Russian oligarchs. And how some of those trying to elude the Nazis became known as U-boats, because they dived into the city’s murky underworld, even hiding out in brothels.
As one who’s written well for decades about historical guilt and denial, Buruma is too savvy to belabor familiar Nazi horrors. That said, he offers two dark truths that strike me as being especially apt in these days when authoritarianism is making a worldwide comeback.
The first is that you can’t live in a dirty system without somehow being corrupted. Whether you were a famous symphony conductor or a cop on the beat, Nazism tainted virtually everyone, forcing people to do and say abhorrent things they often didn’t believe in, and weakening their moral compass. As von Moltke wrote his wife: “Today, I can endure the sufferings of others with an equanimity I would have found execrable a year ago.”
He wasn’t alone. The second dark truth is how easy it is to simply go along. Most Berliners — and even Buruma’s own father — did their jobs, took their pleasures and preferred not to think about the evils under their noses. This, Buruma says, “is disturbing but should not surprise anyone. Human beings adapt, carry on, turn away from things they don’t wish to see or hear.”
If the book has a hero, it’s probably Ruth Andreas-Friedrich, a journalist who didn’t turn away. Along with her partner, the conductor Leo Borchard, she ran a resistance group named Uncle Emil, risking her life to protect Jews, help them escape, and support other groups battling the Nazis. All this makes her much braver than I’ve ever been. But I equally admire her refusal to be sanctimonious about those who, fearing prison or worse, didn’t rise up against the dictatorship. She had the rare virtue of being righteous without being self-righteous.
Copyright 2026 NPR
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