How Two and Two Made Four

Magda Trocmé and the Conditions and Phronesis of Hospitality

Jeffrey Metcalfe

In reality, it was no great merit on the part of those who dedicated themselves to the health teams, because they knew that it was the only thing to be done and not doing it would have been incredible at the time. […] Moreover, the narrator is well aware of the objection that you might make to him, namely that those men were risking their lives. But there always comes a time in history when the person who dares say that two and two make four is punished by death. […] And the question is not what reward or punishment awaits the demonstration; it is knowing whether or not two and two do make four. For those of the townspeople who risked their lives, they had to decide whether or not they were in a state of plague and whether or not they should try to overcome it. […] There was only one way to do this, which was to fight the plague. There was nothing admirable about this truth, it simply followed as a logical consequence.

–                Albert Camus, The Plague[1]

How does helping the other, especially at great personal risk to oneself, become simply a logical consequence of a non-admirable truth? Said differently, how can we affirm that two and two make four?

In his most famous work, The Plague, Albert Camus explores these questions as he follows the outbreak of a deadly pandemic in a small costal town in Algeria. Within this setting three figures emerge, each characterizing a different response to the crisis: those who collaborate with the plague, those who standby and watch it take its toll, and those who fight against it.

What separates these three different responses from each other? Here Camus posits an answer that would strike most of us as counterintuitive. It is not heroism or courage that separates the rescuers from the collaborators and the bystanders, it is simply common sense, or, in philosophical terms, phronesis: the ability to perceive reality accurately and to respond to its demands accordingly. Phronesis made the rescuers competent judges of reality. They were able to perceive that there was indeed a plague, and that it was necessary to try to overcome it, and their attempts to do so logically followed from those facts. In contrast, for the collaborators there was no plague, and for the bystanders there was little reason to overcome it.

Yet as Camus realized, the failure of the bystanders and the collaborators to exercise phronesis should not result in our mistaking the rescuers for courageous heros, for by doing so, we make common sense exceptional. That is to say, insofar as we elevate the rescuers’ actions above the expected norms of human response, we entrench irresponsibility and incompetence into the human condition, whereas the rescuers should be our median: not agents of the extraordinary, but a plumb line of competent perception and responsible action. Indeed, to do otherwise would undermine the truly exceptional nature of the rescuer’s actions: the banality of their goodness, to turn Arendt’s phrase.

Of course, it is well known that Camus wrote The Plague as an allegory of French collaboration with the Nazi’s under the Vichy government during the Second World War. What is less known, is that he began writing this most famous work in 1942, in a small – still largely unheard of – French village nestled in a mountain plateau. The village was called Le Chambon-sur-Lignon.

 If The Plague is an allegory for collaboration and rescue within Vichy France, it could also be a documentary about the village of Le Chambon. During the height of the Holocaust, when France participated in the deportation of 93,000 Jews to Auschwitz and other death camps,[2] the village of Le Chambon sheltered and saved some 5000 Jewish refugees.[3] This accounts for approximately 1.4 percent of the total Jew’s in France by 1941—a high percentage, given that Le Chambon had only around 5000 residents, almost none of them Jewish or connected to a Jewish community. Indeed, in almost every case, the rescuers of Le Chambon risked their lives for complete strangers.

Was Camus aware of the events in Le Chambon when he penned those lines in The Plague? Might it have motivated his own reflections on the radically ordinary work of rescuers amidst the complicity of collaborators and bystanders? While no link can be proven, there is an unmistakable affinity between the common sense logic of Camus, and that of the villagers of Le Chambon: for both, the rescuers were not good, they were only doing what had to be done within the reality in which they lived. In fact, Magda Trocmé, one of the first people in Le Chambon to welcome in a Jewish refugee, received any descriptions of heroism ascribed to the villagers of Le Chambon as an accusation:

“How can you call us ‘good’?”, she responded to one interviewer, “We were doing what had to be done. Who else could help them? And what has this to do with goodness? Things had to be done, that’s all. And we happened to be there to do them. You must understand that it was the most natural thing in the world to help these people.”[4]

This is no false humility, it is phronesis: the ability of a woman to perceive reality accurately and to respond to its demands accordingly. Yet the question remains, how did helping those people become the most natural thing in the world to do—as natural as two and two make four? What makes responding to a stranger’s knock at your door with the words “Eh bien, naturellement, entrez, entrez,”[5] possible?

In what follows, I shall argue that Magda Trocmé’s[6] encounter with the first Jewish refugee reveals both the conditions that make hospitality possible, and the phronesis required for its actualization. I shall begin by providing a phenomenological account of that initial encounter, drawing on both sociology and continental philosophy to show how her offer of hospitality was conditional upon the stranger’s call at a threshold, the host’s place, and the boundaries and sovereignty that maintained that place. However, while being necessary these conditions were in-of-themselves insufficient, they had to be actualized by phronesis. In the second part of this essay, I shall examine the foundation of Magda’s phronesis using the face-to-face ethics of Emmanuel Levinas, which help to illuminate how a stranger came to be included in the universe of obligation as a logical consequence.

It should be noted that this analysis – even if successful – is not intended to provide a comprehensive answer to the question of what made the Righteous Gentiles possible, nor will it even fully explain what separated the rescuers in Le Chambon from the collaborators and bystanders of Vichy. What it will do however is make clearer what one woman needed to perceive reality accurately and to respond to its demands accordingly. In a world still plagued by its troubles with mathematics, this simple truth may be enough.

The Conditions of Hospitality

It began with a knock. Although Magda’s husband, Andre, had previously spoken of sheltering refugee children, it was not until a refugee came knocking at the door seeking shelter that this plan was put into action. As in the case of the majority of rescuers, the first responder in this instance was the woman of the household, Magda. She described her encounter thus:

A German woman knocked at my door. It was in the evening, and she said she was a German Jew, coming from Northern France, that she was in danger, and that she heard that in Le Chambon somebody could help her. Could she come into my house?  I said ‘well, naturally, come in, come in.’”[7]

As the phenomenologists Richard Kearney and Kascha Semonovitch argue, “the place we encounter the Stranger is a threshold”[8]: an equivocal space that lies between the boundaries of the self’s place, and the non-place of the Stranger. “At such thresholds of experience, we stand in an event: an opening onto hospitality.”[9] It is at such openings that we have the capacity to be hospitable and invite the stranger in, or to be hostile and turn the stranger away. Magda’s initial encounter with the first refugee was such an event – an opening onto hospitality – and the brief description she provides of her encounter is revealing.

Perhaps the most overlooked aspect of this encounter is the knock itself, for it is the knock that initiates the encounter on the threshold. Prior to the knock, Magda was occupied in the kitchen, measuring out small pieces of wood and other burnable objects to keep the fire going as long and as efficiently as possible.[10] That winter had been a particularly harsh one – occupation aside – and supplies were running low for the entire village; even firewood was a luxury. Although we cannot know the precise thoughts coursing through Magda’s mind at the time, it is safe to assume she was likely taken up by the task: the maintenance of her place, that is, the home in which she dwelt. As the phenomenologist John Russon argues, following both Heidegger and Hegel, this unreflective maintenance of the comfortable place that the self occupies is the basic activity of human beings. Indeed, “to be human most fundamentally means being-at-home-in-the-world.”[11] That is to say, human life is founded upon a state of being that lacks self-conscious activity, a pre-cognitive taken-for-granted-ness upon which any self-conscious reflection and action subsequently takes place.

This is what made the knock such a critical condition of hospitality, for had that knock not occurred, it is likely Magda would have continued with the task at hand – maintaining the comfort of her place – with little thought given about the state of Jewish refugees in Vichy. However, by knocking on the door, the first Jewish refugee disrupted that taken-for-granted-ness. At the moment she heard the knock, Magda became aware that she was no longer completely alone in the comfort of her place, but that another was just outside the boundaries, calling her from without, demanding a response. This caused Magda to abandon her task and to respond to the knock by opening the door and entering the threshold in which the encounter took place. Yet, even if Magda had refused to answer the knock and had continued in her task, she would not have been able to simply continue being-at-home-in-the-world. From the moment the stranger knocked-on, she became irrevocably aware of the presence of the other, and thus, self-conscious of her own situation in a way she was not before, irrespective of how she decided to respond to that event.

Moreover, as the sociologists Federico Varese and Meir Yaish argue, “being asked,” of which knocking is one form, “is a significant predictor of helping behavior.”[12] After surveying both rescuers and bystanders across Europe, their research concluded, “very few (4%) of those asked to help did not help.”[13] In the case of strangers seeking refugee, asking was particularly important to being offered hospitality, “respondents who were asked to help were more than 17 times more likely to help than respondents not asked.”[14] As Varese and Yaish conclude, this is because “the request for help provides individuals with the opportunity to act according to their motivations.”[15] Said differently, asking – whether in the form of a knock, a glance, a note, or a spoken request – interrupts the potential host’s being-at-home-in-the-world such that a new and previously unperceived reality and choice becomes possible: either to welcome the stranger in, or to turn the stranger away. That is to say, the opportunity raised by asking is the threshold initiated by knocking: a call leading to an encounter with the other that demands a response. Thus, we can see that the knock plays a fundamental role in the provision of hospitality, for it is the other’s call into the place of the self that removes the self from its unreflective being-at-home-in-the-world, bringing the threshold of encounter into being.

But what happens when Magda actually crosses over onto that threshold? What takes place when she chooses to open the door at the stranger’s knock? As she recalled to one interviewer, upon opening the door the needs of the stranger became immediately apparent to her: “it was the middle of winter, and all [the stranger] wore were flimsy shoes that were soaked through. She was panic-stricken. I [invited her in and] warmed her as best I could near the wood fire, and reassured her.”[16] Again, as with the knock, this might seem like an obvious gesture, and for Magda it was. In her own words, “It had to be done, that’s all.”[17] Yet, in order for it to be done, other conditions had to be present to make her offer of hospitality substantial, and indeed, her short description of that encounter reveals those conditions.

According to Jacque Derrida, one of the conditions of hospitality most commonly overlooked is one’s “own home [which] makes hospitality possible.”[18] This is a finding also supported by Varese and Yaish’s study, which suggests that the state of one’s home can be indicative of rescuing behavior. Those whose homes contained empty space were much more likely to take in Jews then those who did not.[19] Likewise, those who were neither rich nor poor but maintained a modest income, or the capacity of subsistence farming, took in Jews more often then the very poor and the very rich, whose own survival or lifestyle was at risk.[20] This is because a home is not just the physical walls and rooms of a house, it is the self’s place, where one is able to maintain a certain level of comfort through the attainment of food, water, shelter, and security, facilitating one’s being-at-home-in-the-world. As we have already seen, maintaining this place was precisely the task that Magda was engaged in prior to hearing a knock at her door. In fact, it was the unconscious act of tending the fire in the stove prior to being called to the threshold that would later give her the ability to welcome the stranger in to warm herself. To provide hospitality in this case was then to invite the stranger to move from the cold insecurity of her non-place on the threshold to Magda’s place: a shelter from the cold and the danger of deportation posed by Vichy police. Thus, without a place into which an outsider can be invited, and without the amenities that make that place habitable, no hospitality can be given.

However for such a place to exist, it must be circumscribed, for it is the boundaries of a place that make welcoming the stranger possible. These boundaries are physical and social; they function by marking off a space in which the other, a priori, does not belong, but through which she can be invited in. Their necessity is made particularly visible in the case of the stranger at Magda’s door, who was fleeing deportation to a death camp. For if Magda’s place was a public space, visible and indiscriminately permeable by all passersby, then it would fail to offer any meaningful security for the stranger seeking refuge; Vichy police and officials could quickly perceive and apprehend the stranger. By having boundaries that excluded all others, forcing both the officials of Vichy and the stranger to stop just outside the bounds and knock, Magda’s place could become a refuge for those particular knockers that she decided to let in. Thus, these boundaries are not merely exclusive; their purpose is to enable a greater inclusion. Indeed, as Derrida notes, “in order to constitute the space of a habitable house and home, you [….] need an opening, a door and windows, you have to give up a passage to the outside world [l’étranger].”[21] In other words, a home is itself constituted by its ability to grant hospitality, requiring boundaries that are at once fixed and yet permeable.

Yet for the boundaries to be maintained this permeation must be controlled, and so hospitality is equally founded upon the notion of the host’s sovereignty: the ability to extend or withhold an invitation for the other to come in. Had, for instance, Magda not had control over the place at which the Jewish refugee knocked, had it not been her place, she may not have been able to invite the stranger in. As Derrida argues, the host’s identity qua host is based in her sovereign power to act as the mediator, the gatekeeper between the status of inclusion and exclusion. The host is “the one who receives, […] choosing, electing, filtering, selecting their invitees, visitors, or guests, those who they decide to grant asylum, the right of visiting, or hospitality.”[22] Any form of welcoming requires this discriminating reception, and as we have already seen, this is precisely what Magda did. Upon hearing the knock and entering the threshold she saw that the stranger was cold, hungry, and frightened, which met her own conditions for entry: the other’s need. In her own words, “There was a Jew at your door. If you opened the door you realized that the Jew was hungry, and after a few words you realized also that he needed clothes and shelter.”[23] For Magda it was that simple. She did not deny her sovereignty, her ability to control who was able to cross the threshold into her place, she simply used that sovereignty to welcome those she perceived as in need.

Thus far we have noted several of the conditions that made Magda’s offer of hospitality to that first Jewish refugee possible. It began with a knock from the outside, initiating an encounter with the stranger on the threshold of her door. Yet in order to respond to this knock with an invitation, Magda needed to have a habitable place in which she could welcome the other. This necessitated the existence of boundaries, which through exclusion maintained the security of Magda’s place providing a meaningful welcome to a stranger seeking refuge. Finally, this in turn required the existence of Madga’s sovereignty—her ability to control the permeation of the boundaries such that she could let the stranger in. While each of these conditions was necessary to make Magda’s invitation possible, they were in-of-themselves insufficient, providing only an opportunity – a choice – that had to be taken up. I shall now turn to that choice, examining how it was a logical conclusion of a phronesis founded upon an ethics of the face-to-face.

The Phronesis of the Face-to-Face

In her acclaimed work, Accounting for Genocide: National Responses and Jewish Victimization during the Holocaust, sociologist Helen Fein notes four preconditions that lead toward genocide. The first and perhaps the most important of these conditions is that “the victims have previously been defined outside the universe of obligation of the dominant group.”[24] The universe of obligation being “that circle of people with reciprocal obligations to protect each other whose bonds arose from their relation to a deity or sacred source of authority.”[25] This condition is the most important because according to Fein, insofar as a people such as the Jews is included within the universe of obligation of the dominant national group, committing genocide against them would be unthinkable and unsupported by the majority within that dominant group. Thus, a prerequisite to any genocide is the removal of the target group from the universe of obligation—a condition met in the case of Vichy France by hundreds of years of Christian anti-Semitism.

Yet this was not true in case of Magda and the vast majority of those living in Le Chambon. For Magda, while the person knocking at her door might have been a Jew, this was of no particular consequence. Indeed, the stranger knocking on her door was included in the universe of obligation simply because no one who knocked on her door was excluded from that universe. As she confessed to Philip Hallie, an ethicist who documented the events in Le Chambon, “I never close my door, never refuse to help somebody who comes to me and asks for something. This I think is my kind of religion.”[26] This confession is significant, as it points to the foundation of Magda’s phronesis, the basic drive of her common sense: a responsibility for meeting the other’s needs arising from a face-to-face encounter with the other.

This is the very same description of ethics proposed by Emmanuel Levinas, a Lithuanian Jewish philosopher and Talmudic commentator who wrote in the aftermath of the Holocaust.[27] According to Levinas, in the majority of philosophical and theological ethics, the responsibility we bear for others is derived from a prior concept of duty, virtue, conscience, universal law, or authenticity. Yet this creates a serious ethical hazard, for insofar as our responsibility for the other is subordinated to and mediated by those terms, our response to the other’s need will depend upon the content of those terms. However, that content is itself formed by a multiplicity of other ideological influences, and so, by removing direct responsibility for the other from the self, and mediating it through those terms, there remains an ever-present possibility that the welfare of the other will be subordinated to those influences.  This is precisely the ethical flaw that allowed France, the Republic of Rousseau’s “liberté, égalité, fraternité,” the nation that first granted emancipation and equal citizenship to the Jews, to later revoke that equal citizenship under the auspices of national duty. By subordinating the self’s responsibility to the other through the concept of duty to the nation, the influences of anti-Semitism corrupted that duty by a priori excluding Jews from the universe of obligation, and thus the nation: an exclusion which resulted in the death of 93,000 Jews.

In contrast, Levinas suggests true and uncorrupted ethical responsibility arises from a face-to-face encounter with the other, and not through any mediating terms.[28] If the face-to-face encounter is the genesis of ethical responsibility, then this responsibility exists prior to any possible ideological formulation: political, religious, economic, or philosophical. In fact, ethical formulation itself is called into question, for the self is called to respond not to a set of duties, principals, systems, virtues, or even conscience, but to the face of the other. As William Smith writes, commenting on Levinas,

“To recognize the stranger is to recognize this claim of the face. […] Whatever my response may be, I cannot explain away the prior claim of the face; I cannot go on just as before after being claimed by it: whatever I do will either be moral or immoral, seen in light of the ethical demand of the face.”[29]

Indeed, this is the very ethic that we have seen Magda claim as her own kind of religion, and it is the foundation of her phronesis: the practical wisdom of the face-to-face. Rather then subscribing to any particular theory of the good and how to derive it, she eschewed such theories, believing they obscured the common sense required to respond according to the demands of the moment. “When we started the work of saving the Jews in occupied France,” she claimed, “we had no time to sit down and discuss ethical problems.”[30] Instead, Magda simply responded to the needs of the person who came knocking at her door.

In fact, when Hallie suggested a connection between this response and the moral goodness of the village’s later act of providing hospitality to Jewish children, she retorted, “I’m sorry, but you see, you have not understood what I have been saying. We have been talking about saving the children. We did not do what we did for goodness sake. We did it for the children. Don’t use words like ‘good’ with me. They are foolish words.”[31] For Magda language, like moral goodness, universal law, conscience, duty, or virtue, needlessly and foolishly complicated the issue of hospitality by providing a system of reasoning to justify and actualize it, when the only reason needed was that “there were many people in the village who needed help. How could we refuse them?”[32]

This led Magda to provide hospitality not only to Jew’s who came knocking at her door, but also the Vichy police. On the evening of February 13th, 1943, gendarmerie came to the house to arrest her husband André, the pastor of Le Chambon, for sheltering Jews and for encouraging the village to resist the Vichy government in his sermons. After quickly hiding the Jews that had been taking refuge in the house within the attic, she not only invited the Vichy police in, she invited them to stay for supper. Asked later how she could offer food to collaborators, she responded, “what are you talking about? It was dinnertime; they were standing in my way; we were all hungry. The food was ready.” To Magda, it did not matter that the face of those hungry people were clothed in the uniform of an ideology she opposed, nor did it enter the equation that those people were there to take away her husband. What mattered was common sense: they were hungry and the food was ready.  The conditions for providing hospitality were present, and the hungry face of the other demanded it be actualized.

Conclusion: How Two and Two Made Four

Throughout this essay, I have been arguing that Magda Trocmé’s encounter with the first Jewish refugee reveals both the conditions that make hospitality possible, and the phronesis required for its actualization. I began by providing a phenomenological account of that initial encounter, drawing on both sociology and continental philosophy to show how her offer of hospitality was conditional upon the stranger’s call at a threshold, the host’s place, and the boundaries and sovereignty that maintained that place. However, while being necessary these conditions were in-of-themselves insufficient, they had to be actualized by phronesis. We then examined the foundation of Magda’s phronesis using the face-to-face ethics of Emmanuel Levinas, which helped to illuminate how a stranger came to be included in the universe of obligation.

At this point, we can now understand how it came to pass that Magda welcomed, not only that first Jewish refugee, but many others besides. Prior to the strangers knock on her door, Magda fulfilled all the necessary conditions of hospitality: she maintained a hospitable place that provided food, water, shelter, and security; a place with distinct but permeable boundaries of which she was sovereign. Most importantly, she maintained a phronesis that made her responsible for every stranger that knocked on her door, to the extent that both Jews and Vichy police were a part of her universe of obligation. Possessing all the necessary conditions of hospitality and a phronesis that obligated her to actualize it, when that first refugee knocked on her door, responding with “well, naturally, come in, come in,”[33] was simply a logical consequence. In her own words, “there was no decision to make. The issue was: Do you think we are all brothers or not? Do you think it is unjust to turn in the Jews or not? Then let us try to help!”[34]

Like the health teams in Camus’ The Plague, heroism does not accurately describe the hospitality Magda provided to Jews seeking refuge in Le-Chambon-sur-Lignon. To call her actions heroic would be to make them exceptional in principal, whereas, given both her capacity to act and her perception of the other’s need, “not doing it would have been incredible at the time,[35] to borrow Camus’ phrase. Indeed, this is how she described her own actions, “that it was the most natural thing in the world to help these people.”[36] Her hospitality was thus not the extraordinary act of a herculean figure, but the radically ordinary ability to see reality accurately and to respond to its demands accordingly: the kind of courage it takes to affirm that two and two make four. In a world in which signs of plague are once again arising, it is a mathematical lesson we would do well to heed.

Jeffrey Metcalfe is a deacon in the Diocese of Quebec. While he completes his theological studies at Trinity College in Toronto, he serves as the assistant curate at the Church of the Redeemer. He is a co-editor of Catholic Commons.


[1] Albert Camus, The Plague, translated by Robin Buss (Toronto: Penguin Books, 2002), 101.

[2] Helen Fein, Accounting For Genocide: National Responses and Jewish Victimization During the Holocaust (New York: The Free Press, 1979), 113.

[3] The estimated number of Jews in Le Chambon varies between 2000-5000; as no records were kept in order to protect those in hiding it is impossible to confirm any estimation. However, testimony provided by the villager who forged the documents of almost every Jewish refugee in Le Chambon seems to support the figure of 5000. See Yves Dahan, Matthew Harrison, Betsy McCarthey, Bill D. Moyers, and Pierre Sauvage, Weapons of the Spirit (Los Angeles: Friends of Le Chambon, 1988).

[4] Magda Trocmé, quoted in Mordecai Paldiel, Churches and the Holocaust: Unholy Teachings, Good Samaritans, and Reconciliation (Jersey City: Ktav Publishing House, 2006), 113.

[5] Magda Trocmé, quoted in Philip Hallie, Tales of Good and Evil, Help and Harm (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2007), 37.

[6] Breaking with academic convention, henceforth I shall refere her as Magda, as I believe given names are more reflective of the face-to-face foundation of her phronesis.

   [7] Magda Trocmé, quoted in Phillip Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood be Shed: the Story of the Village of Le Chambon and How Goodness Happened There (New York: HarperPerennial, 1979), 120.

                      [8] Richard Kearney and Semonovitch Kascha, “At the Threshold: Foreigners, Strangers, others,” in Phenomenologies of the Stranger: Between Hostility and Hospitality, edited by Richard Kearney and Kascha Semonovitch (New York: Fordham University Press, 2011), 4.

   [9] Ibid.

[10] Trocmé, quoted in Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood be Shed, 120.

[11] John Russon, Reading Hegel’s Phenomenology (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 171.

[12] Federico Varese and Meir Yaish, “The Importance of Being Asked: The Rescue of Jews in Nazi Europe,” Rationality and Society vol. 3, no. 12,  (2000): 308.

[13] Ibid.

[14] Ibid., 322.

[15] Ibid., 328.

[16] Magda Trocmé, quoted in Deborah Fox, “Magda Trocmé: A Mother Responds, ‘Hineni!’” Shofar: An Interdisciplinary Journal of Jewish Studies, vol. 24, no. 3 (2006): 94.

[17] Hallie, Tales of Good and Evil, 43.

[18] Jacque Derrida, Of Hospitality, translated by Rachel Bowlby (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 53.

[19] Federico Varese and Meir Yaish, “The Importance of Being Asked,” 316.

[20] Ibid.

[21] Derrida, Of Hospitality, 61.

[22] Ibid., 55.

[23] Trocmé, quoted in Fox, “Magda Trocmé: A Mother Responds, ‘Hineni!’” 94.

[24] Fein, Accounting For Genocide, 9.

[25] Ibid., 4.

[26] Trocmé, quoted in Fox, “Magda Trocmé: A Mother Responds, ‘Hineni!’” 97.

[27] Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity, translated by Alphonso Lingi (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1969).

[28] Ibid., 39.

                  [29] William H. Smith, “Neither Close nor Strange: Levinas, Hospitality, and Genocide,” in Phenomenologies of the Stranger: Between Hostility and Hospitality, edited by Richard Kearney (New York: Fordham University Press, 2011), 246.

[30] Trocmé, quoted in Fox, “Magda Trocmé: A Mother Responds, ‘Hineni!’,” 95.

[31] Trocmé, quoted in Hallie, Tales of Good and Evil, 31.

[32] Magda Trocmé, Courage to Care, DVD, directed by Robert Gardner (Pennsylvania: Rittmy. Ltd., 1986).

[33] Trocmé, quoted in Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood be Shed, 120.

[34] Trocmé, Courage to Care.

[35] Camus, The Plague, 101.

[36] Trocmé, quoted in Paldiel, Churches and the Holocaust, 113.

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