Self-Sacrifice for an Act with No Outcome (Column 628)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

Some time ago I watched the film Wil, which deals with Antwerp during the Holocaust. It raises a kind of dilemma worth discussing, and I wanted to touch on it here.

The Film

The film portrays an underground of young people who oppose the Nazis and assist Jews as much as they can. It presents in very stark terms the inner struggle of some people: whether to look away and live their lives, and to what extent to risk themselves by resisting the Nazis. Some of these youths were members of the Antwerp police; as such, they were completely exposed to Nazi command, required to cooperate and take orders regarding the deportation, killing, and persecution of Jews and regime opponents. There is a character, a young woman named Yvette, who refuses to be silent or to “calculate the costs,” disregarding the prices she will pay. Her friend, Wil, by contrast, is deeply torn. Already at the beginning of the film he kills a German officer, but even that is done more to help a friend than out of moral or principled reasons. In the end he helps the underground because his conscience is in the right place, but the dilemma about the price—conscience versus survival—never leaves him throughout the film, right up to the end.

The dilemmas described in the film are varied, but some are literally a “gun to the head”: either you cooperate or you die. We’re speaking of concrete fears of terrible suffering and unbearable torture, not only of giving up one’s life—which is sometimes easier to do. It’s worth seeing in this context the sugya in Ketubot 33b. The Gemara there discusses whether death is more severe or lashes are more severe (see also my article on punishment in Halakha), and writes:

From where do we know that death is more severe? Perhaps lashes are more severe—for Rav said: Had they flogged Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, they would have served the image. Rav Sama son of Rav Asi said to Rav Ashi (and some say Rav Sama son of Rav Ashi to Rav Ashi): Do you not differentiate between striking that has a fixed measure and striking that has no fixed measure…

Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, who were prepared to give themselves over to death, would not have withstood ongoing torture by lashes and would have worshipped the image. We see that prolonged torture, even if in itself lighter than death, is far worse than death. So too in our case: sometimes a person can give himself up to die, but prolonged torture is harder.

The film presents two characters. One, Wil, is human—flesh and blood. His conscience is in the right place, but like ordinary mortals he fails and acts from mixed motives—or doesn’t act at all. Sometimes he chooses to ignore evil because it’s more comfortable and resisting it is more threatening. Opposite him stands the idealized figure of Yvette, his partner, who acts decisively and uncompromisingly, with unfathomable courage, in the right direction and against evil. Again and again you ask yourself what you would do in such situations. Do you have values you are prepared to give your life for? Would you not keep quiet? After all, that’s the most comfortable course: I am not causing the suffering and evil; I’m only silent. This, of course, forcefully returns us to the statement attributed to Einstein and many others: for evil to triumph, all that is required is for good people to remain silent. Evil usually occurs through the cooperation—or at least passive silence—of good people. Some of that is from fear and even for good reasons, and yet that is what enables evil to occur.

In the final scene, the two police officers find themselves in a situation where they must cooperate in deporting Jews to camps and death, and the protagonist breaks and cooperates. The antithesis—his partner, Yvette—maintains the purity of her actions and stands opposite him with a silent rebuke (while carrying his child), and out of despair at her partner’s moral failure she runs from him. He abandons his cooperation and chases after her, but even here that abandonment is not for moral reasons; it is because he understands where things are heading and wants to save their relationship. In the end she kills herself before him, with his child in her womb (unwilling to leave any remnant for the evil).

It is no accident that the film opens with the hero’s voice telling us that there are things that cannot be judged in hindsight but only from within the situation (“Do not judge your fellow until you have reached his place”), even though judgment is usually done in hindsight. It is very hard to judge people in such situations—certainly from the perspective of those who did not experience them. My aim here, of course, is not to judge people, and certainly not fictional people. My aim is to discuss a particular situation shown in the film and its moral implications.

The Nature of the Final Situation

In the final scene the deportation of Jews to extermination is depicted. Those who carry it out are the Belgian police, not the Nazis, but under close Nazi supervision. Wil hesitates whether to participate, but then the commander’s eye falls upon him and he realizes he could pay with torture and ultimately his life. Moreover, the deportation is being carried out by an entire group of officers, and the outcome will likely not change if Wil does not cooperate. Others will do the job in his place. They will not stop until all Jews are caught. Thus the dilemma has two sides: the death of all the Jews plus Wil being captured, tortured, and killed; or his cooperation, which will not change the outcome but will save him. Wil chooses to take part in this act. Yvette, of course, demands that he not participate. She asks how he will be able to look his children in the eyes (hers?) and tell them this is what he did.

But reflecting on this situation raises a hard question about Yvette’s claim: What exactly would be gained by non-cooperation? The Jews are going to be deported and exterminated in any case—whether he cooperates or not. So why not cooperate and at least save himself? Seen this way, Yvette’s demand looks purist and illogical. At most Wil will be able to say, “My hands did not spill this blood,” but the blood will be spilled with or without him.

Let me preface by saying it is hard to deny that it is forbidden to participate in such deeds even if your participation does not contribute to the outcome. The fact that you with your own hands kill or send people to their death is profoundly problematic. Still, the question remains whether such a prohibition justifies or obligates self-sacrifice. Legally (halakhically) and morally it is clear that a person must give his life in order not to kill another person (“Who says your blood is redder?”), but in such a situation if he refrains, someone else will do it. The result will be the same. Must one give his life merely to avoid participating in a horrifying act of murder when his participation has no practical effect? Or is the duty to give one’s life only to save lives (i.e., only when there is a consequentialist consideration), and not merely to avoid the very act of killing by one’s own hands?

The discussion is whether, legally and/or morally, if someone threatens me to kill so-and-so or else he will kill me—but if I do not kill so-and-so, he will kill him anyway—am I required to give up my life in such a case? Here I am asked to give my life to avoid committing murder, not to save a life. Is there such a demand?

Alternatively, in halakhic terms one may wonder: in a situation where someone puts me before the choice “murder or die,” may I commit murder indirectly (grama) in order to be saved? Indirect killing is, of course, also forbidden, but it is lighter. Must I give my life to avoid a halakhic act of killing even though, in terms of outcome, that person will die in any case? Before continuing, a note on morality and psychology.

A Note on Morality and Psychology

Yvette frames the dilemma by asking what you will tell your children, or really: how you yourself will live with the fact that you took part in these atrocities. This phrasing raises the question of whether moral questions belong to the realm of psychology—as many think—or not (as I think). I have argued in several places (see Columns 253, 555, and elsewhere) that morality is a cognitive category. What is right and wrong is determined by absolute moral standards, and my feelings play no role here. I act morally not in order to quiet my conscience but in order to do what is right. Conscience and moral emotion are at most indicators of an action’s moral quality. If I have pangs of conscience, that signals that the action is not moral—but that, in itself, is not a moral consideration. Therefore, if after pangs of conscience I examine the situation and conclude there is no moral problem here, the fact that I will have to live with pangs of conscience is not, in itself, a relevant moral consideration—just as people’s guilt feelings after a loved one dies do not necessarily mean they are truly guilty.

From this perspective, whether you tell your children or how you will feel about it—these are psychological questions, not moral considerations. If I concluded that it is not right to give up my life or submit to torture merely to avoid taking part in deporting Jews when it will happen without me, that is my moral conclusion. I will cope with my psychological problems one way or another (I’ll take a pill to get through it). What I will tell my children is secondary. I may tell them or I may not, but that does not determine the morality of the act. I also don’t tell them babies come by stork. That does not mean the actions my wife and I do to bring them into the world are immoral.

Moreover, if Wil were to decide based on what he would tell his children, that would not be a moral decision. If he refrained from participation due to such a consideration, he would be acting from an egocentric motive (how he himself will feel and what he will tell the children), not from a moral motive. Despite familiar debates, it is hard to deny that motive is very important in morally judging an act—beyond results. People do not relate the same way to a poor person and a rich person who each donate 1,000 shekels to charity. Nor do they see the same way a wealthy person who does so to get a newspaper write-up and publicity for his factory versus a wealthy person who does it in secret without reaping bonuses. The result is the same in all cases, but the effort and motives are quite different. Moral avoidance of a problematic act should be based on a moral consideration and commitment to morality—not on attempting to spare myself future distress.

The Trolley Problem

In Column 555 I touched on what is called the trolley problem, presented by philosopher Philippa Foot in 1967, which has kept philosophers, psychologists, and neuroscientists busy ever since. Originally it aimed to sharpen the dispute between deontological and utilitarian moral views. Suppose I stand at a junction where the tracks split to two lines, and the switch is in my hand. I see a train speeding toward the junction, with five workers sleeping on the track ahead whom the train is about to run over. I can divert the train onto the other track, where one person is sleeping, thereby saving the five workers but causing that one person’s death.

Teleological (consequentialist) considerations lead us to divert the track, since instead of five, only one will die. But on the other hand, if I do not touch the lever, the five workers will die independent of me, while if I divert the train, one person will die because of me. In that case I am the killer. This is a deontological consideration that sees murder as a crime of action: the act of murder is a transgression—even if, consequentially, it brings about better results. In other words, deontologists maintain that moral considerations are not exhausted by minimizing harm to life (optimizing outcomes); they also include the question of what I myself did. For them, the transgression of murder is a transgression in its own right, not only because consequentially someone dies due to it.

Many people say they would prefer not to act in such a case, despite the cost in human lives. Many writers treat such a stance as a flaw—a psychological bias. In their view it is purism: a person does not want his hand to be “in the crime,” and to spare himself pangs of conscience he is ready to pay the price of four additional deaths. One can say there is a kind of ignoring by good people of what is happening around them, which enables the worst evil to occur. Note the connection to our dilemma. Here too Yvette frames the dilemma by how Wil will live with it and what he will tell his children. She ignores the outcomes, for in terms of those it is better for him to participate since at least he will be saved. So this is a dilemma of deontological morality versus teleological morality.

It is commonly thought that in religious groups one finds more “sit and do not act” responses—i.e., more deontological tendency—whereas in secular groups the tendency is more teleological. This can be explained by the religious person’s view that murder is an act evil in God’s eyes—there is something beyond the problematic outcome. It is not only a transgression between people but also between man and God. For a secular person, however, what matters is reducing harm to human life; there is no one to fault me except for the fact of the outcome that occurred and that I could have prevented.

Note that there are two distinct considerations here. Yvette presents the dilemma as psychology versus outcomes: how will you live with what you did. But in those religious groups the consideration is slightly different: how God will see it. They view the act of murder itself, apart from outcomes, as a transgression—not because of pangs of conscience, but because they have a deontological moral conception. Framing the dilemma as psychology versus outcomes is itself a teleological–secular presentation. In secular eyes, such thinking is a flaw: emotion biases you and causes you to do something immoral that has problematic results. But through deontological–religious lenses, the issue is not how I will live with myself or what I will tell my children, but what morality says: Is morality purely consequentialist, or do intentions and actions also matter?

So let us remove from the table the psychological consideration of my feelings and what I will tell my children, and leave on it the discussion of teleology versus deontology.

Consequentialism in Pikuach Nefesh

I dealt with the nature of morality—deontology versus teleology—in Columns 252–254 and elsewhere. In my article on organ donation in Halakha, I devoted Chapter 2 to discussing global considerations in Halakha (see the examples there and, in note 10, the connection to the deontology debate). My claim there was that in dilemmas of pikuach nefesh (saving life) the point of view from which actions are done does not matter. If a dangerous operation must be performed, we should not hand it over to a non-Jew. If Shabbat must be desecrated to save a patient, it does not matter whether the patient himself desecrates Shabbat or someone else. I argued that, from God’s vantage point, we are all players on the field; what matters to Him is the outcome. If He is willing for Shabbat to be desecrated, it does not matter by whom. The correct perspective is not that of a particular individual but a global perspective—so to speak, a view from the Throne of Glory down to the world below.

For this reason I also argued that a terminally ill person who is brain-dead may—and should—donate organs to save another, even if, formally in Halakha, this constitutes killing him (if we assume the moment of death is cardiac death, which comes later). What matters to Halakha is the comparison between the outcomes of the two situations. Life with brain death is worth less than the life of a whole person; therefore, even if there is killing of the brain-dead person, the benefit of saving another outweighs it. I tried there to argue against the view that an act must be viewed through the doer and not its results. I claimed that even in Halakha, what matters in matters of life and death are the outcomes.

In the case of Wil and Yvette, it seems we are in a similar position. Here too the dilemma is between deontology—judged from the perspective of the person himself (did he commit an act of murder)—and teleology, judged in terms of outcome, i.e., from the perspective of the Throne of Glory. God should not care whether I performed an act of murder if the outcome is an increase in life in the world. It would seem to follow that Wil, not Yvette, was right.

A Distinction Within Deontology

Still, even within a deontological framework there is room to distinguish between the trolley dilemma and Wil’s dilemma. In my article in Techumin on separating conjoined twins, Chapter 7, I cited the Chazon Ish (Choshen Mishpat §25 s.v. Ve-yesh la‘ayin be-echad), who discusses a person who deflects an arrow that was going to strike many people, directing it toward a single person—very much the trolley dilemma—and he leans to the view that deflecting the arrow is not an act of murder, since its goal is saving lives. It is wrong to describe it as murder. The death of the one person is not the result of a murderous act but a sad side effect of an act of rescue.

In Column 168 and elsewhere I discussed whether it is permissible to eliminate a terrorist threatening us at the cost of harming non-involved persons. Suppose a terrorist is traveling in a vehicle with several other people. May I fire a missile to destroy that vehicle? My conclusion was that this is permitted only where the other casualties belong to the same nation as his—since this is a collective pursuer (rodef). But if eliminating the terrorist entails harming entirely unrelated people, it is forbidden, for one may not save himself with another’s life (on murder one must be killed rather than transgress). I have noted elsewhere that this can be challenged: one might say I shoot at the terrorist to neutralize a pursuer, and the harm to others is a side effect of that act. Their presence cannot prevent me from defending myself against the terrorist. The act is not murdering those others but self-defense by eliminating the terrorist, with incidental harm to them. Such reasoning could permit this kind of elimination and is similar to the Chazon Ish’s logic, since here too the discussion is how to define the act I am performing—and that definition can be detached from the act’s results.

In light of the Chazon Ish’s distinction, it is fairly clear that if one diverts the track to save lives, the fact that he harms the single person sleeping on the other track is a side effect of his rescue act. It is hard to say he committed murder. He performed an act of rescue that had a painful cost. This closely resembles the deflected arrow case discussed by the Chazon Ish. By contrast, Wil, who cooperated with the Nazis, certainly performed an act of murder, not an act of rescue. True, he thereby saved himself, but the act he engaged in was an act of killing; only his motive was self-preservation, and the result was that he indeed survived.

It is important to understand that this distinction is entirely rooted within a deontological framework. The claim is that Halakha indeed views matters from a global, outcome-oriented perspective—i.e., teleologically and not deontologically—but only so long as the act being done is not, in itself, murder but an act of rescue. In such a case, the act can be permitted because of its outcomes. But if the act is, by its nature, defined as murder, then even if its outcomes would justify it, it is forbidden. Murder is murder, and in no case is it permitted to kill. Of course, the definition of when an act is murder and when it is rescue with a painful side effect is not simple. Is removing an organ from a terminally ill patient an act of rescue of the recipient, or an act of murder of the donor? But it would seem that in Wil’s case it is quite clear: this was an act of killing, not of rescue; only the outcome was saving Wil’s life.

Interim Summary

Thus, in light of the discussion so far, it is hard to conclude with certainty that Wil acted correctly merely because the outcome justifies it. If we are in the consequentialist field, then he acted correctly. But there is room to argue that where the act is one of murder, outcome considerations have no place.

For example, the halakhic decisors do not permit a person to give up his life—and certainly not to kill someone else—in order to save a third party. Moreover, the decisors do not permit this even to save several other people. True, some decisors permit self-sacrifice or killing to save the public (such as the author of Tzitz Eliezer, whom I cited in the article above on organ donation, ch. 2 n. 11), but I do not think anyone permits self-sacrifice to save a certain number of people. [1] This means that consequentialist considerations do not override the prohibition of murder. The halakhic mode of thought contains strong deontological components that set a clear boundary to consequentialist considerations.

Thus, the question regarding Wil and Yvette still stands: Is Wil obligated to give up his life in order not to commit an act of killing even if there is no consequentialist benefit? One can even wonder whether he is allowed to do so.

“Give Us One of You”

The Jerusalem Talmud, Terumot 8:4, brings the following case:

It was taught: Groups of people were walking on the road; bandits encountered them and said, “Give us one of you and we will kill him; if not, we will kill all of you.” Even if all of them will be killed, they must not hand over a single Jewish soul. If they singled out one for them—such as Sheva ben Bichri—they may hand him over and not all be killed. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish said: This is only if he is liable to death like Sheva ben Bichri; Rabbi Yochanan said: Even if he is not liable to death like Sheva ben Bichri.

If the non-Jews demand that we hand them a person and threaten that if we do not they will kill us all, we are forbidden to hand him over. One must be killed rather than transgress. But if they single out a specific person, there is a dispute: Reish Lakish says we may hand him over only if he is liable to death; Rabbi Yochanan says even if he is not. The very fact that they singled out a particular individual permits handing him over. The rationale is apparently that if it is an unspecified person, handing him over is killing one to save the others, which is forbidden; but if it is a particular person, he is already wanted and his life is in danger. In that case, refraining from handing him over is essentially giving up our own lives for him—and we are not obligated to do that.

Immediately thereafter the Gemara brings a story:

Ulla bar Koshev was wanted by the kingdom. He fled and came to Lod, to Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi. They came and surrounded the city and said to them: “If you do not give him to us, we will destroy the city.” He (RYBL) went to him, appeased him, and handed him over to them. Elijah of blessed memory stopped appearing to him. He fasted many fasts and Elijah appeared to him. He said to him: “Do I appear to informers?” He said to him: “Did I not act according to the Mishnah?” He answered: “This is the teaching of the pious.”

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi acted like Reish Lakish and handed over Ulla bar Koshev, who was liable to death. Elijah stopped appearing to him; in Elijah’s eyes he was an informer. It may be permitted halakhically, but the path of the pious is not to hand over even when the sought person is liable to death.

So rules Maimonides as well (Hilchot Yesodei HaTorah 5:5):

Similarly, if idolaters say to them: “Give us one of you and we will kill him, or else we will kill all of you,” they must all be killed and not hand over a single Jewish soul. But if they singled out a person and said: “Give us so-and-so, or we will kill all of you,” if he is liable to death like Sheva ben Bichri, they may hand him over—but we do not instruct them thus ab initio—and if he is not liable to death, they must all be killed rather than hand over a single Jewish soul.

This would seem to be precisely Wil’s situation. The Nazis asked him to hand over the Jews or they would kill him. The Jews were not liable to death (I assume Nazi laws are not legitimate in Halakha—dina de-malkhuta does not apply), and therefore, according to Halakha, one must not hand them over even at the cost of Wil’s death. Note that here this is the strict law, not a pious stringency, since the people sought were not liable to death. In any case, even where the strict law permits handing over, piety says not to do so.

In my article above on conjoined twins I cited questions raised by several later authorities on the Rambam’s ruling. For example, the Kesef Mishneh there cites the RaMaCH of Lunel, who wonders about this law:

He wrote: Although this is found in the Tosefta as he says, I do not know the reason, for the Gemara (Pesachim 25) concludes that in matters of murder we say “be killed and do not transgress” because it is logical: What did you see that your blood is redder? But here that logic does not apply, for they will kill all of them and him as well; it is better that he alone be killed and not all. And I say that this is no argument against the Tosefta, for one can say that there (in murder) the case is different, for they singled him out and said “kill so-and-so,” and were it not for the reason of “what did you see that your blood is redder,” we would not say “be killed and do not transgress.” Hence it teaches in the end: “if they singled him out.” But in the beginning, when they did not single him out and only said “give us one of you,” whichever one they want to hand over—one can say to them, “What did you see to hand over this one? Hand over one of you and save this one,” for perhaps this one’s blood is redder. On this argument they cannot hand over any one of them. But if there is a difficulty, it is against Reish Lakish, who said that even if they singled him out, if he is not liable to death he should not be handed over—for here the reason of ‘what did you see that your blood is redder’ does not apply, for he and they will be killed if they do not hand him over. Perhaps Reish Lakish holds that the reason given in the case of murder is not the principal reason, but they had a tradition that in murder one must be killed rather than transgress; they offered a logical reason where it applies, but even where that reason does not apply, the ruling is the same: be killed and do not transgress.

He wonders why it is forbidden to hand over someone who has been singled out even if he is not liable to death, since the entire prohibition of handing over to save oneself is based on the logic “who says your blood is redder,” i.e., you may not prefer your blood to that of the person handed over. But here, if I do not hand him over, both he and I will die, and by handing him over he will be sent to his death (which would have happened anyway) but I will be saved. By the usual definitions, this should be permitted. The RaMaCH argues that if no one was singled out, we can understand, because we have no way to choose one person; therefore, “push this one away” logic applies and we may not hand over anyone. I think he is incorrect, for that logic itself would suggest we hold a lottery; at least then only one will die and the rest be saved (see my article on conjoined twins). In my view the difficulty exists in all the cases in the Yerushalmi, whether or not someone was singled out.

We thus learn that, strictly speaking, in such a situation there is permission to hand over one person to be saved. The RaMaCH’s resolution is very strained and, as we shall see, unnecessary. The Lechem Mishneh there also writes that indeed if it is certain that all will be killed, it is permissible to hand over one of them—halakha le-ma‘aseh. He maintains that the case there is where it is not certain all will be killed, and only for that reason is it forbidden to hand over the wanted person. Variations of this conclusion appear in several commentaries on the Rambam. In Hilchot Rotzeach u-Shemirat ha-Nefesh it is clear that in such a case it is permitted (and perhaps required) to hand over the wanted person. So how are we to understand the Yerushalmi and Rambam who rule otherwise?

In that article I explained that this law in the Rambam is not from the laws of murder and protecting life but from the laws of sanctification of God’s name. Indeed, from the laws of murder and protecting life it is permissible to hand over the wanted person—even if he is not specific and not liable to death—just as those authorities note. It is only because handing him over entails capitulation to the demand of non-Jews, which is an act of hillul Hashem (desecration of God’s name), that we are nonetheless required not to do so. This is a special law from the laws of kiddush Hashem.

The implication is for identical situations not involving desecration of God’s name—for example, where the threat is natural rather than from terrorist non-Jews. For instance, in fetal reduction one must kill one fetus to save the others. There, the act does not entail desecration of God’s name, and the matter involves only laws of protecting life. In such cases it is certainly permissible to kill the one (who would have died anyway) to save the others. Another example comes from another film I saw a few weeks ago, Society of the Snow. It tells the true story of the Uruguayan rugby team that flew to Chile and whose plane crashed in the Andes in snowy, freezing peaks in mid-winter. They were stranded all winter with nothing to eat. They consumed the bodies of their comrades to survive (films have already been made about this story). One may ask: would it have been permissible to kill one person so the rest could eat him and live? The alternative was that all would die. In light of what we have seen, it would seem this is permitted. Note that here there is no capitulation to non-Jews but natural threats; thus, there is no desecration of God’s name. Here it is a discussion in the laws of murder and protecting life per se.

Let us return to Wil and Yvette. There was, of course, a Nazi threat. Therefore, it would seem that there it was forbidden to cooperate and all should have given up their lives. But Wil and Yvette themselves were non-Jews, and it would seem they are not obligated in sanctification/desecration of God’s name by not handing Jews over. First, because there is a halakhic question whether non-Jews are obligated in kiddush Hashem; beyond that, this discussion concerns a moral question rather than Halakha (and in this area Halakha aligns rather well with moral principles). If the problem is only kiddush Hashem, then morally it is permitted. It follows that we should evaluate Wil and Yvette under the laws of murder and protecting life alone; and as we saw, under those rules the act is permitted, since Wil hands over people who would have died anyway in order to save himself—just like the Yerushalmi in Terumot.

There is still room to argue that as a matter of piety one should refrain, as we saw in the Yerushalmi. The conclusion is that Wil likely did a permitted act, but he was not obligated to do so. Yvette’s path is also legitimate and even pious. For Jews in such a situation, however, there is an absolute prohibition against handing over fellow Jews—not from the laws of murder and protecting life but from the laws of sanctification and desecration of God’s name, as we saw.

We learn, then, that Yvette’s claim—that conscience will make it hard for Wil to live after such an act (to tell the children, or to live with himself)—is not entirely mistaken. It is not merely a psychological bias. In such a case our conscience signals that although this is permitted in law and in moral terms, there is a pious path nonetheless to refrain. Outcome-based considerations suffice to permit it, morally and halakhically, as in the Yerushalmi in Terumot, but deontology cries out to Wil that there is still a problem: “Your hands spilled this blood.”

But as we shall now see, that is not the whole story.

From the Individual to the Collective

My assumption throughout the discussion so far was that Wil’s participation has no consequentialist significance; hence, the discussion is purely deontological. But there is another argument that slightly changes the picture and brings consequences back in. The assumption that Wil’s participation makes no difference stems from the fact that the other officers will carry it out anyway, so the Jews will be sent to their deaths regardless. But the same question could be asked of each officer. One cannot ignore that if all the officers had refused to cooperate, that might have had a consequential effect. Each officer who decides to participate, taken alone, has no effect; but all the officers together are the sum of all the individuals. It is hard to say that no officer has a consequential impact. In the end it did happen—and it happened by their hands. If no one is guilty, then who did it? Clearly the Nazis who forced them are primarily guilty; but granting that there is a duty to resist and to give oneself up rather than cooperate, there is guilt upon the Belgian officers as well. Given that, the evasion “each one by himself makes no difference” does not hold water. Beyond the Nazis’ guilt, there is also guilt in the officers who cooperated.

The Gemara raises a similar idea in Eruvin 53b. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chanania recounts that a little girl bested him in an incident:

What is the story of the little girl? Once I was walking on the road and there was a path running through a field, and I walked on it. A little girl said to me, “Rabbi, is this not a field?” I said to her, “No; it is a well-trodden path.” She said to me, “Bandits like you have trodden it.”

He trespassed through a private field, and when she protested he answered that there was already a path there—many had walked it before him. The girl replied at once: “Bandits like you trod it.” In other words, each of those who walked there was an offender, and you are one of them. A transgressor cannot excuse himself by saying that everyone is a transgressor. He also cannot say his impact is negligible because the path was already formed, since each of those before him had the same excuse. The path that was formed is nothing but the sum of all those offenders’ actions—just like our case.

True, one might distinguish: in the Gemara’s case there is no compulsion to be an offender, so there is a claim against each passerby. But in Wil’s case he had severe coercion—danger to life and threat of torture—and perhaps in such a situation it makes no sense to give one’s life when the bad outcome will occur anyway. That distinction is problematic: if there is a claim against each one individually (and the danger is not a sufficient excuse where the outcomes truly depend on him), then there is also a collective claim, addressed to each, for his contribution to that outcome. From a collective perspective, the outcome does depend on them—not on him alone, but on him as part of the collective that together brought about that outcome. I discussed situations of individual contributions to collective evil in Columns 252–254 mentioned above.

In light of what I wrote in Column 122, this can also be presented via the categorical imperative. If each of the officers had acted differently, the outcome would have been different; therefore, there is a demand upon each to act differently. According to Kant’s categorical imperative, the measure of a personal act’s evil or good is what would happen were it the universal practice. If, when everyone does it, the state of affairs is bad, then each one individually is forbidden to do it—even if his personal act has no effect. I showed there that this is a deontological consideration that also translates into outcomes; in the end, the categorical imperative prevents bad results. The conclusion was that the distinction between deontology and teleology is not as sharp as people think.

Accordingly, we can see Wil as responsible for what happened—at least responsible, if not culpable—since in the collective view, his actions matter. True, he alone could do nothing, for his comrades would do it without him. But if we look at all of them together, responsibility lies upon all. From that perspective they are indeed responsible for the outcome and could have prevented it (had they not cooperated). Therefore, there is a claim against each of them individually—“bandits like you trod it.”

Between Responsibility and Guilt

One can still argue that any reasonable person would act as he did. If I were a Belgian officer, it is likely I would have done as Wil did. There is no claim against a person who acted as any reasonable person would in his situation. It is difficult, then, to speak of guilt. This brings us to the distinction between guilt and responsibility.

In Column 67 I discussed imposing guilt and responsibility upon an individual for the deeds of the collective to which he belongs. There, too, I explained that it does not depend on whether he could have done anything, for two reasons: (1) the categorical imperative says he shares in collective responsibility (as explained in the previous paragraph); (2) I distinguished between responsibility and guilt. I argued that even if guilt should not be imposed upon the individual in such a case, responsibility rests upon the public as a whole—and upon him as part of it (as upon each of the others). Thus I explained why the citizens of the USSR were responsible for Stalin’s deeds, even if they did not share his values or desire them. Ultimately, Stalin could not have done what he did without the support of the populace. The same is true regarding the people of Shechem for the deeds of Shechem ben Chamor against Dinah (see that column). By this, even if each individual could do nothing and had no effect—and even if, in such a case, I am prepared to accept there is no guilt upon him—still, the responsibility to correct the wrong lies upon him. So too the residents of Gaza for Hamas’s deeds, or the citizens of Israel for those of their government. Even if the ordinary citizen can claim no guilt and reasonable behavior, the responsibility for the collective’s actions still lies upon him.

It is important to understand the difference between the rationales. If we speak of responsibility and not guilt, there is no justification for imposing sanctions. If I had caught Wil after the fact, I could not punish him for his actions, since there is no guilt (where the first rationale—about guilt—would allow punishment). But if there were a need to injure him to correct the wrong (for instance, to pay to repair damages or compensate suffering families), then there would be room to demand it of everyone. This is responsibility that does not necessarily depend on guilt. Alternatively, if someone must be harmed to prevent the outcome and save the Jews from deportation, it would be permissible to shoot Wil as well, even though he acts under duress (similar to a minor pursuer; the Amoraim disagree, but the conclusion is that he has the status of a pursuer even though he is not guilty). This is not punishment, and therefore unrelated to guilt. Bottom line: Wil is one of those who carried out the act (together with his fellows), and thus he is responsible to rectify it. In Column 168 (mentioned above) I similarly explained the license to harm Gaza residents in the course of eliminating terrorists. Even if some of them are not guilty, do not agree with Hamas’s actions, and certainly took no part, the responsibility to prevent the harm or repair it rests upon each of them; they must bear the price for that to happen. Were they all to oppose Hamas’s acts, those acts would not occur; therefore the responsibility is also theirs (while, of course, the primary responsibility and all the guilt are Hamas’s).

Back to Wil and Yvette

Returning to Wil and Yvette: From this perspective, Wil bears at least responsibility and perhaps guilt, for had all the officers resisted, it would not have happened. It is important to realize that in the Yerushalmi’s case—even if all the Jews had refused the non-Jews’ demand and not handed over the sought person—it would still have happened: the non-Jews would kill them and everyone, including the sought person, would die. Therefore, the discussion there must stop before we move to the level of collective responsibility. There the conclusion is that there is neither guilt nor responsibility; only considerations of sanctifying/desecrating God’s name prohibit handing over. Absent that, it would be permitted. But in Wil and Yvette’s case there is also the collective dimension: without the cooperation of all the officers, the outcome would not have occurred. Therefore, here there is guilt or at least responsibility on each of them, as I explained.

[1] In the past (see, for example, here) I remarked about the act of Roi Klein, which in my opinion was absolutely forbidden from a halakhic perspective—even if worthy of admiration on the human and ethical level.