During discussions about the Holocaust, a frequently asked question, particularly by those learning about this dark period for the first time, is, “Why didn’t the Jews just leave?” It seems like a straightforward question, posed with an assumption of a simple solution to escape the Nazi horrors. However, as someone who has spent years educating about the Holocaust, I’ve learned that the answer is far from simple. My usual response, “Some did, others couldn’t, many wouldn’t,” while concise, barely scratches the surface of the intricate realities that prevented Jewish emigration.
While it’s true that between 1933 and 1937, over 130,000 Jews did manage to leave Germany as the Nazi regime solidified its power, the path to emigration was fraught with obstacles. Both German policies and international restrictions played a significant role in trapping countless individuals. In the years leading up to World War II, approximately another 120,000 Jews fled Germany. While some found refuge in places like Palestine, South Africa, and even Latin America, a significant number sought safety in Eastern Europe, unknowingly moving directly into the path of Nazi expansion and the devastating Lebensraum policy, which aimed to create “living space” for Germans in the East.
By the end of 1941, a crucial turning point arrived when Germany systematically stripped citizenship rights from Jews both within the country and those who had already fled. This act was devastating, rendering them stateless and without valid passports – essentially, they became refugees without a nation to claim them. Consequently, the world’s nations became increasingly hesitant, and often outright refused, to accept these desperate refugees. While instances of compassionate diplomats issuing emergency passports and approving visas did occur, these became increasingly rare. As World War II intensified and Nazi control spread across Europe, embassies and consulates began to close, leaving only a handful in Spain, Portugal, and sometimes unoccupied France as extremely limited and distant possibilities for escape.
The reality was stark and brutal: the world’s doors were effectively slamming shut for Jewish people seeking refuge. Emigration, which might seem like an obvious solution in retrospect, was systematically and tragically blocked.
For those who remained trapped within Nazi-controlled territories, survival took many forms. Some bravely chose to go into hiding, relying on the kindness and courage of strangers. Others joined partisan movements, actively resisting the Nazi regime. However, many were simply caught in a web of circumstances, believing that compliance with each new oppressive decree – from forced labor to confinement in ghettos – was their only path to survival, however precarious.
Reflecting on this historical tragedy compels me to consider: what would I have done if faced with such an impossible situation? Would I have abandoned the only home my family had known for generations? Could I have walked away from the life I had painstakingly built? Would I have accepted being told that my beloved country was suddenly no longer mine? These are not easy questions, and they underscore the immense difficulty of the choices faced by Jewish people during the Holocaust.
This contemplation took on a sharper edge during a recent conversation with a fellow docent at the Tucson Jewish Museum & Holocaust Center (TJMHC). She recounted being surprised and somewhat unsettled when a group of friends shared their detailed “exit strategies.” These weren’t casual “what-ifs” but carefully considered plans for relocating their families should life in the United States become untenable or unsafe for them.
To my own dismay, I realized I wasn’t shocked by this revelation. While disheartened, I understood. The hypothetical question of “what would I do?” that we often pose to museum visitors and ourselves has, in many ways, transitioned from a theoretical exercise to a more practical consideration of preparedness in our current climate.
The deepening political polarization and societal divisions in recent years, coupled with events like the violent attempt to overturn the peaceful transfer of power, have undeniably shaken the sense of security and stability for many. These events force us to confront uncomfortable questions about the future and personal safety.
Admittedly, after that conversation, I too spent more time contemplating my own family’s potential plans. If fundamental rights were threatened, where would we go? If my child faced danger simply for being who they are, what would our course of action be?
However, these personal reflections must be balanced with action and purpose. The next day at TJMHC brought a reminder of the vital work still to be done. We hosted “What You Do Matters,” a museum tour and conversation with a Holocaust survivor for the latest Tucson Police Academy graduating class. Teachers were already booking tours for the upcoming academic year. The finishing touches were being applied to the new Contemporary Human Rights Exhibit.
At the Tucson Jewish Museum & Holocaust Center, we are acutely aware that the question, “Why didn’t they just leave?” demands a nuanced and complex understanding. There are no easy answers, and confronting this history is crucial. By learning from the past and applying those lessons to our present, we strive to fulfill our mission: to build a more just and peaceful future. We hold onto the hope that through education and remembrance, those “exit strategies” will ultimately remain unnecessary thought exercises.
