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The university and the Second World War. It remains a difficult and complex subject, raising questions that are still relevant today. It is about political choices with far-reaching consequences and about human tragedies. In hindsight, you might think: they should have just shut the place down. But that would have cut all ties with the students, and no more doctors would have been trained.

Changing views on who counts as a victim

The panels by the memorial at the entrance to the aula in the ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall list 169 names of those who died in the Second World War. The original plaque bears 72 names; the 97 names on the side panels were added in 2011. That so many additional victims were identified decades later reflects changing ideas about who counts as a war victim. But it also says something about the confusion that followed immediately after the war.

There was confusion, but also a tendency to forget a painful time as quickly as possible. Not only because of the number of victims — students, assistants, professors — but because of what had happened, and how it had happened. To understand that, we need to go back to 1940.

Back to the university in 1940

There were those — even within our university — who had seen it coming, who had warned against it for years and who actively opposed the developments in Germany. But there were others who flirted with National Socialism. Just as there were anti-fascist students, there were also students who belonged to the NSB youth movement. Some joined the NSB out of resentment after being passed over for a professorship, became radicalised, and were later appointed as professors by the Nazis.

Jewish staff were forced out of their positions as part of Nazi-imposed measures.

In 1940, the university was put to the test. As early as September, the first measures were introduced: no new Jewish staff members could be hired, and existing Jewish staff could not be promoted. The dilemmas were immediately clear. The historian Pieter Geyl wanted to support a protest letter circulated in Amsterdam and sought to organise a similar petition in Utrecht. Most Utrecht professors refused to sign. Geyl also approached the rector, chemist Hugo Kruyt.

Jewish staff were forced out of their positions as part of Nazi-imposed measures

Kruyt, a leading figure in the academic community, had become rector because it was his turn. Out of a sense of duty, he did not refuse the position. But he declined to sign the protest. In his diary, Kruyt wrote that he would have signed as a professor, but could not do so as rector.

By then, the university staff had signed the required declaration of “non-Jewish status.” In late November, it became clear what this meant: Jewish staff were forced out of their positions as part of Nazi-imposed measures. This affected three assistants, a medical curator, and three professors. In Delft and Leiden, student strikes followed the infamous , after which both universities were shut down.

To go on strike would be suicide: the university would be closed

Not in Utrecht. Biologist Victor Koningsberger did address his students, expressing his “deep distress” at the German measures. Referring to the Union of Utrecht — signed in 1579 in the very same aula — he cited freedom of religion and thought as founding principles of Dutch society. But he urged students to refrain from “any action that could be considered illegal or disloyal to the occupying authorities.”

Koningsberger’s speech was published in De Geus, an underground student newspaper. Rector Kruyt posted a notice calling for calm. It included the now well-known words: “Even if one feels wounded, that is no reason to strike oneself down.” To go on strike, he warned, would be suicide — the university would be closed.

The aula in the ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall was now also used for NSB meetings.

Loyalty declaration or forced labour

In 1941 and 1942, anti-Jewish measures escalated. The repression became more brutal. Jewish lecturers were now officially dismissed and Jewish students were no longer allowed to study. Some went into hiding. The Jewish professor Ornstein was banned from his laboratory and developed heart problems. He died on 20 May 1941.

A key moment in the war — a litmus test — came in 1943, when students were required to sign a declaration of loyalty. Those who refused were to be deported to Germany for forced labour. A group of students saw this coming, locked themselves inside the ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall on 12 December 1942, and set fire to the records containing student addresses. The university advised students to sign — in the end, only twelve per cent did. This effectively marked the end of the university’s functioning.

The ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall used for NSB meetings

The final two years of the war saw attempts to Nazify the university through ideological appointments. The aula in the ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall was now also used for NSB meetings. In 1941, a new authoritarian rector took office: Louis van Vuuren. He was not a National Socialist but sought to maintain some semblance of ‘normality’. With only about ten per cent of students still enrolled after the loyalty declaration fiasco, that proved nearly impossible. Some support was still offered to students who had refused to sign.

The large grey area after liberation

After the liberation in 1945, the university, like the rest of society, had to be purged. Students turned fiercely on their professors, whom they felt had offered too little support and moral guidance. It was clear that Nazis and regime sympathisers had to be removed or at the very least officially reprimanded.

But then there are Kruyt’s words from 1940: “Even if one feels wounded, that is no reason to strike oneself down.” The wrongdoers had to be held accountable — but there was, of course, a large grey area.

The university carries on as usual

During the war, Kruyt had feared the university would be shut down. That had already happened in Delft and Leiden. For him and others, the university represented centuries of humanist values that were now at risk of being lost. But the real question is: where do you draw the line? What is still acceptable?

The war-time minutes of the national rectors’ council include this passage: the Amsterdam rector had been asked by the Germans how many Jewish students were enrolled and “how a separation of Jewish and other students might be implemented.” This was followed immediately by the line: “Elsewhere, activities in Amsterdam continue as normal.” That seems inconceivable. The university carries on as usual…

All of this could be history, but it is not. Around us, we are seeing things we thought would never happen again.

History is not over

All of this could be history, but it is not. Around us, we are seeing things we thought would never happen again. Politics has entered the university before — think of the Vietnam War. Now, it concerns our relationship to Gaza and the West Bank. We have to engage with this.

Nor can we shrug off what is happening to our colleagues across the ocean. The questions remain: what can we do, what are we willing to do, and what is wise to do? But increasingly also: what must we do?

Names we must not forget

We are fortunate that these are not questions we have to answer at the cost of our lives. That was different in the years 1940–1945. The names of the victims are on our memorial. Some are also commemorated with a ‘Stolperstein’. Four of those (with a fifth to follow) were placed last month on Domplein, next to the ľ�ϸ���Ӱ�� Hall. Five names we must not forget: Marianne Helena Blazer, Jacques Bol, Jacob van Gelderen, Cornelis van Lier and Henny Mimi de Vries. Not necessarily heroes, just people who were persecuted and crushed.