Volume 5 Issue 2 CONTENTS

pdf

Filip Tomić

The Institutionalization of Expert Systems in the Kingdom of Croatia and Slavonia

The Founding of the University of Zagreb as the Keystone of Historiographic Professionalization, 1867–1918

 

In this paper, I analyze the founding of the University of Zagreb as the “top of the pyramid” in an attempt to create a modern national educational system within the framework of the general process of building a modern social order in the Kingdom of Croatia and Slavonia in the second half of the nineteenth century. I focus in particular on the founding of the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Zagreb and its history chairs. The establishment of these chairs was crucial for the legitimate scientific grounding of Croatian national historiography. Through its sanctioned expert systems, these chairs then had the potential to exert a decisive influence on narratives of “Croatian” history and the creation and reproduction of discourse on the Croatian nation.

Keywords: University of Zagreb, nineteenth century, historiography, modernization, expert system

 

Introduction

The construction of the concept of a nation and its right to a given territory, a process which includes the general periodization of national history and the crafting of a shared interpretation of this history, the classification of groups of people into the categories “us,” “those close to us,” and “others,” or, put simply, the creation of nation-centric history, is doubtlessly linked to the fundamental transformation of the entire social order of the nineteenth century, which we usually call “modern.” The creation of an educational system with national characteristics is an exceptionally important component of the social order and forms of social organization, not only as a product of the prevailing order, but also as an important element of its (re)production and further symbolic construction, in which academia play an important role due to its halo of autonomy and claims of objectivity. In this paper, I consider the importance of the formation of modern national historical scholarship in Croatia (more precisely Croatia and Slavonia) in the second half of the nineteenth century, the creation of narratives of national history, and the emergence of a discourse on the Croatian nation as a pivotal element of the organization of life in the past, present, and visions of the future. In doing so, I try to identify both the peculiarities of above mentioned processes in the Kingdom of Croatia and Slavonia within the Habsburg realm and their congruence with general international social processes. Before undertaking the latter task, I must stress some interpretative and theoretical pillars of my inquiry.

John Burrow offers a provocative analysis of the process of the professionalization of historiography as a discipline as part of the broader process of professionalization and specialization, which is an inevitable response to the rapid growth of knowledge and which was in turn both the cause and effect of the ideal of research. The natural sciences were in the lead in this context, and other disciplines sought to follow their example. Despite being an ancient intellectual discipline, history lacked a solid foundation in university education until the beginning of the nineteenth century, when its usefulness in the education of statesmen and public officials and the promotion of patriotism, national consciousness, and national unity became apparent.1 At that time, history was adapted to the growing bureaucratization of society, which also influenced the organization of education and even research. Paid education and research professionals created, as was expected of men at their positions, a consensus on the research standards of each discipline (as a qualification for attaining academic positions) and the presentation of the findings of this research, and they also stressed that maintaining a serious and neutral tone was strictly necessary.2 Most historians considered these priorities self-evident, and it seemed that history, having received professional recognition and organization, had found its identity, which was expressed through the rhetoric of “science”: history, properly applied, was an objective and aggregate form of knowledge, the sum of the results of the work of professionals. It was reasonable to expect no further revolutions, since it is impossible to be more scientific than science, especially since history lacked an all-encompassing theory, apart from a general directive for critical rigor.3 Burrow’s understanding relates to theoretical notions of Anthony Giddens, who emphasizes the distinctive and discontinuous character of modernity, its radical historicity, and the important roles of expert systems in it. In his view, with the development of modern institutions “history,” as a systematic appropriation of the past in order to form a future, gains a fundamentally new impetus, and though it is subjected to various interpretations, through recombinations of time and space it constitutes a world-history framework for action and experience. As one type of uprooting mechanism intrinsically involved in the development of modern social institutions, “the expert system” is woven into a reflexivity characteristic of modernity. It constantly revisions social practices in light of knowledge of these same practices and continuously generates systemic self-knowledge, thus changing its subject matter.4 I believe that we can legitimately speak of the modern educational system as an expert system, with the university as its primary instance, based on the symbolic authority of science and forming “an established episteme.” We can also speak of an expert system and expert knowledge in the field of historical scholarship, based at modern universities, which participates on the one hand in the production of the distinctiveness of modernity and on the other in the representation of these distinctive social forms of modernity (e.g. the political system of a nation state, the nation) as rooted in history.

With all this in mind, one is perhaps hardly surprised by the fact that the question of institutionalizing the University of Zagreb was of the utmost importance to the group of Croatian intellectual and political elite which based its legitimacy on the goal of modernizing and uniting the Triune Kingdom, especially in view of the efforts to broaden the autonomy of Croatia and Slavonia in the 1860s. But this process was not at all straightforward, as it was situated in the complex context of the political, socio-economic, and cultural restructuring of the Habsburg space in the second half of the nineteenth century.

The Development of the Modern Universities in the Habsburg Realm

After the collapse of the 1848 revolution, the government in Vienna tried to reform the Habsburg Monarchy, which on a basic level was a monarchic community, into a modern, strictly centralized state, held together by unified legal norms, as well as culture and identity. These centralistic undertakings, which also had elements of Germanisation, were likewise apparent in the field of historical scholarship. In 1848, a “history commission” was founded at the Imperial Academy of Sciences (Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften und Künste), tasked with the systemic accumulation of sources that would serve as the basis for writing a “national Austrian history,” which would include the histories of parts of the unified Empire.5 Since the Academy, founded in 1847, was supposed to represent a central and supra-regional scholarly institution, the founding of local historical commissions on the level of the entire Monarchy was intended to complement it. However, the needs of the Monarchy’s leadership for historiographic legitimization of the political and social constitution of a modern state was not completely in line with the goals of provincial scientific societies, which were oriented towards the development of the sciences in national languages.6 For example, in the case of Transylvanian learned societies, Borbála Zsuzsanna Török explores how local scholarly life, organized principally along ethnic and political allegiances in the multicultural setting, at the same time encompassed adaptations of international trends and practices of scholarship to local conditions, as well as mutual communication, the circulation of ideas, and the transfer of knowledge. Yet, Török warns about the boundaries of knowledge circulation, particularly given the pressures of age of nation-state building (in the mid-nineteenth century), when patriotism and participation in more universal knowledge was reformulated with an emphasis on national cultural affiliations. In the scholarly sphere, this coincided with the reorganization of universities.7

It was precisely in the period of neo-absolutism that the impulse to make historical scholarship more scientific appeared, originating from the center of the Monarchy. In 1854, the Institut für österreichische Geschichtsforschung (Austrian Institute of History Research) was founded at the University of Vienna with the goal of serving as an institutional basis of the aforementioned “national Austrian history.” With its emphasis on the study of modern criticism of sources and the auxiliary sciences of history, it became the center of education for many professional historians throughout the Monarchy and an inspiration for the pursuit of research within national frameworks. The Institute is also a good indicator of the fundamental shift in higher education policy in the Habsburg Monarchy after 1848. Social, political, and technological changes demanded a reform of higher education. The Enlightenment ideals of the free-thinking, Humanist-educated individual also made an impression, so a far-reaching reorganization of the Philosophical Faculty was initiated, elevating it to the same level as the “higher” faculties (of Law, Medicine, and Theology).8 The Humboldtian model was taken as a point of departure, and the universities were reformed from functional places for training public officials, teachers, and priests to places of synergized general education and scientific research.9 Of course, these ideal goals were adapted to the needs of political and social control by the central state authorities, and this was reflected in the efforts to make the universities remain primarily Catholic, conservative, and loyal to the Monarchy. However, according to Jan Surman, it was precisely the inclusion of the faculties of philosophy into the university on equal terms that led to their cultural particularity and the intensification of national conflicts.10 Humanist disciplines were the basis for the process of cultural revival. This also changed the character of university education, which, through the implementation of an organic cultural-educational paradigm with universities as the pivotal institutions in the educational process, paved the way to cultural conflicts. A strong Humanist commitment changed the function of universities in the public sphere and they thus became the main producers of cultural norms, which potentially led to conflicts at a time when culture was becoming increasingly nationally codified.11 Universities started adopting this orientation with the fall of neo-absolutism, which did not bring an end to the efforts to transform the Monarchy into a functional modern state, but which did compel the Monarchy’s leadership to introduce some form of decentralization.

In an account of the Monarchy’s dualist conception of 1867, Robin Okey claims that the rationale on which it was founded combined dynastic loyalty with the principle of German liberal hegemony in Austria and Magyar liberal hegemony in Hungary.12 Yet, politics in the Monarchy was tied up with the nationality question in one way or another,13 and though German economic and cultural power influenced all parts of Monarchy, it proved unable to fashion a supra-national identity. So, integration failed and the history of Dualist Austria became a study in the erosion of German liberal hegemony and the emancipation of the non-German nationalities from it, which contributed significantly to the development of fully structured and culturally cohesive Slav communities increasingly resentful of their subaltern role.14 This does not mean that a series of fluid and manifold personal and collective identifications ceased to exist; various political and social conceptions of the Monarchy were an outgrowth of this phenomenon, making the distinction between monarchic and national anything but straightforward. However, a new type of politics was emerging, in which the language of national sentiment, political rights, and culture would become more and more common,15 directed (in the terms of social stratification) in the territorial units of the empire much more from “top down.”16 This process was also reflected at the universities, which acquired the dual role of educating loyal citizens and fostering their cultural identity. This often, though not necessarily, led to contradictions.17

The process of building national cultural spaces in Cisleithania was reflected at universities first through the introduction of national languages and history, followed by the introduction of “national” languages at universities. However, only those universities with the prerequisite political and institutional basis could reach this level. For example, the universities in Cracow and L’viv in Galicia were Polonised in 1869 (though L’viv was bilingual until 1879, when Polish became the sole official language there). Both of them had a tradition stretching back to the Vormärz period and now also enjoyed the support of the factually autonomous status Galicia had within the Cisleithanian half of the Empire from the 1870s. The University of Chernivtsi was founded in 1875 with German as its official language and with the ideological goal of attracting the Ruthenians to the “political Austrian nation” and influencing education in the neighboring Romanian lands. Chairs in the Ruthenian and Romanian languages were established at this university.18 The University of Prague was, after a brief bilingual period, divided into two universities in 1882, with German being the official language of one and Czech the official language of the other.

Despite the ongoing process of concentrating on linguistic and cultural affinities as the main mechanisms of self-identification at Cisleithanian universities from the 1860s, which also resulted in more employees being drawn from the respective linguistic communities, attempts were made to maintain administrative, political, and “ideological” continuity with conservatism and Catholicism as the main ideological values within academic life.19 At the Germanophone universities (Vienna, Graz, Innsbruck, Chernivtsi) this was (alongside the general emphasis placed on the importance of criticism of sources as the methodological basis of scientific historical scholarship) characteristic of the chairs in Austrian history, which were interpretatively pan-Austrian, pro-Habsburg, and pro-Catholic. Chairs in Polish history were established at Galician universities (in Cracow in 1869, in L’viv in 1881) and became rivals in their interpretations of national history. Concentrating on the neuralgic spot of Polish national history (the disintegration and division of the Polish Commonwealth in the eighteenth century), the interpretation of the “Cracow school” implied that the loyalist pro-Habsburg discourse served as a guarantee that Polish nationhood would be preserved. Thus, the Cracow school earned itself the label “clerical-conservative.” On the other hand, the “L’viv school” considered itself more “progressive,” placing a greater emphasis on the influence of imperial geopolitics on the partition of Poland and thereby implying more emphatically the need for Polish independence.20 Thus, these two “schools” expressed general uncertainty about the definition of the Polish nation and its national territory, as well as any affirmation of the possibility of building a modern Polish state. The University of Prague was also becoming the central place for the professionalization of Czech national historical scholarship, especially after 1882, developing towards rigorous critical objectivity. Yet, intra-national turmoil and discussions on the position of Czech culture and the shape of the “national idea” found expression in historiographical national narratives derived from differing interpretations of essentialities, the turning points in Czech history, and their importance for the present.21

In the other part of Dualist Monarchy, the Kingdom of Hungary, from the dominant Magyar perspective there was no denying that the nationalities were a reality or that Hungary should be a national state, not an ethnic federation.22 Eventually, successes made in the name of the unitary Hungarian “political nation” had prevented an accommodation with national minority movements, which had become more embittered. In the scholarly realm, developments after 1867 were similar, reflecting general reforms with dominant national flavor. During the period of neo-absolutism, the University of Budapest underwent reforms similar to the reforms at the Cisleithanian universities, but from 1861 Hungarian became the official language of the university (it would also become the official language of the University of Cluj/Kolozsvár, founded in 1872, and the universities in Bratislava/Pozsony and Debrecen, founded on the eve of World War I). Together with other scholarly institutions (the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, various associations of historical scholarship), they represented the pillars of the professionalization of historical science, which went from the predominantly national romantic historiographic accounts of the Vormärz period to the more specialized, scientifically elaborate and methodologically source based historical scholarship of the later nineteenth century. Nevertheless, the majority of the Hungarian historiography was anchored in a national master narrative reflecting the dominance of the Magyar conception of the Hungarian national state.23

Regarding the developments in the Transleithanian part of the Monarchy, the only exception to this general trend was the Kingdom of Croatia and Slavonia and the University of Zagreb. The development of its internal autonomy, scholarly institutions, and in particular historical scholarship is the topic of subsequent sections of this essay.

The Making of the First Institution of Historical Scholarship in Croatia

In Civil Croatia (Banska Hrvatska), the foundations for the construction of a Croatian nation as a modern political and cultural community were laid down in 1835–47. The basis of Croatian nationalism was broadened among various social groups (nobles, bourgeoisie, clergy, and military officers).24 This political movement managed to resolve (not without support from court policy in the 1840s) several decades-long disagreements and conflicts between the Hungarian and Croatian diets regarding Croatia’s municipal rights by adding considerations of cultural loyalties and inclinations and fashioning a program for the creation of an autonomous political entity (the Triune Kingdom of Dalmatia, Croatia and Slavonia) based on a liberal civil social order. The most important points of this program include demands for the introduction of the “national language” on all levels of education, freedom of the press, freedom of religion, support for education, and, specifically, the founding of the University of Zagreb.25 The effects of the turbulent events of 1848/49 and the short-lived unification of the Triune Kingdom in the person of the ban (viceroy) Josip Jelačić (1801–59),26 which was effectively nullified by the introduction of Viennese centralism and the neo-absolutist system in the early 1850s, remained a useful source for visions of the nation state and the national community in the subsequent decades.

During the neo-absolutist regime, legitimation of national individuality was constrained to the cultural sphere, which was also strictly regulated and supervised by authorities. The foundation of the Society of Yugoslav History and Antiquities in 1850 represented the first systematic push towards scientific (source collection, critical approach) historical scholarship. The Society equally emphasized the need for the “pragmatic” aspect of historical scholarship, and it saw history as an ideological and scientific legitimization of Croatian national particularity and its South Slavic frame.27 As Society sponsor ban Jelačić remarked at a Society assembly in 1852, the history of each nation was to be considered its baptismal certificate and an indicator of its place among humanity. Similarly, Ivan Kukuljević (1816–89), the Society’s chairman, reminded his audience that one of the goals of the Society’s historical research was to awaken in the people a grasp of and yearning for their national heritage and, in doing so, to help them understand themselves and thus give them pointers for the future. He placed emphasis on Croatia, Slavonia, and Dalmatia as the regions that were “closest” to the Croat nation, but he also noted the importance of the Yugoslav “homeland.”28 Therefore, the Society was forced by the authorities to make several changes to its regulations and was given final approval by the Ministry of Internal Affairs only in 1857.29

Although the conditions for professional historical scholarship in Civil Croatia began to develop in the 1850s, reflecting general trends from abroad and also impulses from within the Monarchy, it was only in the 1870s that its organizational foundations were laid through the systematic publishing of historical sources and research findings and the creation of the institutional framework necessary for the education of professional historians. The former was made possible by the foundation of the Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences, which provided firm logistical support for professional scholarship. The latter was made possible by the foundation of the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Zagreb.

The Construction of a Croatian National Historical Narrative
and the Question of the Foundation of the University

After the collapse of neo-absolutism in the Habsburg Monarchy, the Croatian Sabor (Parliament) was convened in 1861. Many contemporaries believed it to be a continuation of the Sabor of 1848, which had laid the foundations of the legal basis of the post-feudal order. At that session, the Croatian state ideology had been systematically formulated. These formulations, with certain minor modifications, remained the ideological foundation of the right of the Croatian nation to statehood, even after the Croatian-Hungarian Compromise of 1868. This ideology was based on the notion that Croatian historical state rights had survived uninterrupted over the centuries and that the “constitution” of the Triune Kingdom had a historical continuity which could be traced to the time of the “national kings”30 in the early Middle Ages.

While the main interest of historical research in the first half of the nineteenth century was the defense of the nobility’s “municipal rights” in the kingdoms of Dalmatia, Croatia, and Slavonia, historical scholarship in the second half of the nineteenth century appeared as a modern discipline one of the goals of which was to further the efforts of Croatian politics to preserve political autonomy and encourage individuals to actively affirm Croatian identity as a modern nation.31

One of the main initiators of this new direction was Franjo Rački (1828–94), a man who was also the main formulator of the basic tenets of the ideological foundation of the Croatian nation state in 1861. In his historiographic work, Rački devoted most of his energies to research on early medieval Croatian history in order to prove the historically deep-rooted nature of Croatian statehood, the distinctness of the Croatian people, and their strong connections with other South Slavs (as was typical for nineteenth-century Croatian historians). Following European role models in regard to the scientific writing of history, he nonetheless strongly linked it to national ideology. Called the first Croatian professional historian,32 this long-time president of the Yugoslav Academy and founder of several journals and editor of compilations of historical sources as important instruments of the professionalization of humanist disciplines can be placed within the main trajectory of the development of Central European national historiographies in the mid-nineteenth century. Having received an education in the auxiliary historical sciences in Rome, Rački, in addition to placing emphasis on the criticism of historical sources and unbiased writing, believed that history should construct national narratives with the goal of righting present-day injustices and accomplishing desirable political goals. As Monika Baár determined in her comparative analysis, historians belonging to that generation in East Central Europe were involved in promoting a unified national culture, ascribed an educational purpose to history, tended to depict the nation as a victim of historical injustices, and considered progress—which was usually linked to divine providence—inseparable from national freedom, which was proved through the study of history, i.e. by showing the antiquity, unity and uniqueness of the national community and the historical continuity of its culture, including its political culture.33 For example, Rački idealized the values of the old Croatian state and its alleged democratic institutions, which stemmed from the characteristics of the Slavic family of peoples, which were distinct from the Germanic or Romanic peoples. Feudalism, which was contrary to Christian and Slavic morals, was to blame for the weakening of Croatian statehood, because it separated the nobility from the people. The nobility thus fell prey to a foreign “spirit,” while the national consciousness of the peasant masses almost completely disappeared. Rački taught Croats that their very existence would be threatened unless they maintained their Slavhood, and he was convinced that the state union of Hungary and Croatia had separated the Croats from other South Slavs and thus ruined Croatian statehood.34 By encouraging the writing of overviews of Croatian history, Rački expressed his belief that a complete Croatian history could only be written by a nationally conscious individual (i.e. not a foreigner), and that “national consciousness, criticism and science should be married in a national historian.”35 He also warned that, for the survival and future development of the Croatian nation, work should have been undertaken immediately to elevate the arts and sciences in Croatia to a level comparable to that of the most developed nations of Europe, while at the same time maintaining the characteristics of intellectual endeavor among Croatians which were an expression of the national “spirit.” Otherwise, the Croatian people, who according to Rački were exposed to the hegemonic aspirations of the culturally developed Germans and Italians, would in time disappear from the stage of history.36

The beliefs of people like Rački were strongly present among the political class, which had by then clearly defined itself as “Croatian” and had clearly expressed its political goals and influenced the efforts of the Sabor to reform many areas of social life, including education. Their goal, frequently emphasized in the Sabor, was to secure both the “material” and “spiritual” development of “our people,” and the first steps towards this were the reorganization of the absolutist educational system in a manner appropriate to the “national spirit” and the founding of the University of Zagreb as the “crown of national education.”37 The bishop of Đakovo, Josip Juraj Strossmayer (1815–1905), offered public support for the founding of the University of Zagreb through his inspired speech in the Sabor, together with a monetary donation. Strossmayer was one of the leading members of the People’s Party (Narodna Stranka) and the most important patron of cultural institutions in Croatia in the second half of the nineteenth century. His speech in the Sabor encompassed all the tropes and standard discursive motifs of the “Croatian” political, intellectual, cultural and scientific fields and their meeting points in the second half of the nineteenth century.38 Stressing the importance of enlightenment and education as “spiritual goods” more important than “material riches,” in his speech the bishop explicitly spoke of the challenges faced by the Croatian people, who found themselves in a peripheral area of a great empire which had the aspiration of casting itself as a national community. History, he said, had been unjust and merciless towards a community which had belonged to a circle of advanced nations. Its territory had been torn apart and estranged from its former cultural achievements, the Croatian nation had the historical right and spiritual capacity to restore its former glory. Its position on the periphery and crossroads of great empires gave it a chance to unite with its “brothers” and spread modern European Christian civilization to the southeast of Europe. An important role in this was to be played by education and science. The implicit tension in Strossmayer’s statement is the relationship between the “Croatian” and the “Yugoslav,” a relationship about which he offers no definitive conclusions. Also, as not surprising in the Habsburg context, he gave no clear indication of the aspirations of his “tribal” brothers “on the other side” for unity or connection, appealing merely to the tradition of the Croatian right to statehood and the potential of Zagreb as a modern cultural center of the Yugoslav world.

In the subsequent sessions of the Sabor, as the efforts to found a university became more concrete, Strossmayer’s enthusiastic words gave way to more prosaic formulations. Thus, Pavao Muhić (1811–97),39 when presenting the legal basis of the university formulated by a committee elected for that purpose, devoted most of this time to describing the inadequacy of higher education in Croatia, which was limited to the practical education of state officials, while higher education institutions would “be an instrument of all-round and thorough higher education, which is only possible at a university.”40 Muhić didn’t fail to mention how the founding of the university and the advancement of the sciences were imperatives in a world in which others had already achieved significant scientific-technological advancements, and he went on to repeat Strossmayer’s view of Zagreb’s university as a potential bridge towards the Ottoman lands, concluding that

 

[n]o matter how the legacy of the Sick Man of the Bosporus [the Ottoman Empire] is divided, whether some of the Yugoslav lands end up under the Croatian–Hungarian crown as we wish them to, or whether they are left to an uncertain fate, it shall remain our noble and most high duty to spread the culture and civilization of Europe, cleansed of the western mold, to the nations which are part of our body, blood of our blood.41

Strossmayer’s and Muhić’s geopolitical ambitions even found a place in the final address to the ruler, albeit in a somewhat humbler form.42 This also illustrates the liberal-minded nature of the 1861 Sabor, which was held at a time when the Habsburg authority had weakened, but not nearly enough to prevent it from dissolving the Sabor, which left most of the Sabor’s provisions, including those on the founding of a university, without the ruler’s sanction. The ruler’s permission for the founding of the two institutions, the Academy and the University, which the political and social elite in Croatia, particularly the part of it that advocated the unification of the Triune Kingdom and national autonomy with the characteristics of statehood, considered of special national interest and honor, had to wait until the crystallization of the new constitutional framework of the state, which appeared following the Austro–Hungarian Compromise of 1867. Apart from the Unionists, for whom this arrangement guaranteed that Croatia and Slavonia would have to define their relationship with the Kingdom of Hungary clearly on the principles of a relatively narrow provincial autonomy, the other political groups in Croatia were disappointed by this turn of events. However, it was only under these circumstances that the barriers to the founding of the Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences were removed. It was formally established in 1867, but, despite its name, was largely devoid of “Yugoslav” content. Its declared purpose at the 1861 Sabor was to support the arts and sciences on the “Slavic South” among Croats, Serbs, Slovenians, and Bulgarians, i.e. to offer a scientific interpretation of the state, social, and intellectual life of the “Yugoslav nations,” with the ambition of bringing together all the better “minds” of the Slavic South into a single scientific organization.43 However, the rules that eventually were sanctioned changed these aims into mere stress on the general tendency to cultivate sciences and arts, especially the “Yugoslav” language and “Yugoslav” literature, while its ordinary members were to be “impeccable Austrian citizens,” i.e. not those living in Yugoslav lands outside the Monarchy.44 Similar political occurrences delayed the sanctioning of the legal basis of the founding of the University of Zagreb. While the ruler gave his sanction to the draft of the legal basis in 1869, political infighting between the Unionists and the People’s Party delayed the sanctioning of the final document until 1874. At this time, the People’s Party and ban Ivan Mažuranić were in power, and they intensified the modernization reforms with a liberal orientation. In the numerous declarations, from the Austro–Hungarian Compromise to the founding of the University itself, one no longer finds grand plans for a “Yugoslav” university in Zagreb as the central institution of higher education of all the South Slavs that would have fulfilled the visions of Strossmayer and Muhić. The rudiments of such a goal can be seen in some of Rački’s speeches,45 but the basic tone of all these discussions had a more pragmatic character, aimed at the eventual founding of an institution of higher education within the frame of the self-governing territorial unit of Croatia and Slavonia. Eventually, even the idea of calling the University “Yugoslav” was rejected in the name of pragmatism and realism. It was named the University of Francis Joseph I, i.e. the name became an expression of loyalty, not difference.46

The Founding of the University as a Factor in the Development of Croatian Historiography

The reformist practices of Mažuranić’s government in the year in which the University was founded included the enacting of a law on primary education, which laid the foundations of the entire educational pyramid and created the conditions for the construction of an educational system which allowed functional differentiation in the field of education. It thus was an important step forward in the further creation of a modern civil society.47 Contemporaries saw the year 1874 as the final point at which “the progress of the Croatian nation was raised to such a level that, in the sense of education, they can rightly be counted not only among the first nations in the Slavic south, but among the most cultured nations in general.”48 During the opening of the University, its first rector, Matija Mesić (1826–78), who also became the first professor of Croatian history in the Faculty of Philosophy, expressed similar feelings in his long speech, in which he also spoke of the history of the Croatian people and their continued aspirations for the founding of a university.49 Mesić said that the Croats had settled in their current homeland as a national group that had already taken form, whose cultural transformation was marked by Christianization and Enlightenment in the Slavic spirit through the saints Cyril and Methodius. Slavic cooperation had been broken by the Christian schism, so “its [the nation’s] cultural life then followed two different courses: the Croats, together with their Slovenian kin, were left under the influence of the West, while their Serb neighbors stood under the influence of the Byzantine East.”50 Thereafter, Mesić limited himself to presenting the basic flow of Croatian history, which he did according to the interpretation which by then had become canonical. According to this interpretation, the Croats had been raising their level of education until the centuries-long caesura caused by the Ottoman conquests, when they were forced to devote their energies to the defense of the Christian world, neglecting the development of their education and science. The seed of institutions of higher education reappeared in the seventeenth century, but they did not reach acceptable levels of development until, “in the fourth decade of our century, the spirit of the times and the danger which threatened our homeland gave rise to a select circle of Croatia’s sons,”51 who awoke the “consciousness” and “pride” of the nation. After many decades of struggle, their efforts to found a university were fulfilled when Mesić held his speech, and now the university not only served as an institution for the education of government officials, but also was charged with the task of

 

nurturing the general educational sciences, considering science to be an end in itself, [since] science is not only the characteristic of one nation, but the common treasure of all mankind, our university shall build upon the great achievements that have been made over the ages, especially in the recent times, thanks to the activity of man’s spirit. The duty of the scholar shall, however, be to refer to the individual nature and character of his nation, to research and test its people and its views on the world and man, and the conditions in which he lives.52

 

Mesić eventually returned to Strossmayer’s visions and expressed his hope that the newly-opened University, as “the shrine of science and education,” would spread its boons throughout the Balkans and thus fulfill the mission which history had accorded the Croatian people, “to be the intermediary between the progressive West and the backward East.”53

The University of Zagreb was divided into three faculties, the Faculties of Law, Theology, and Philosophy; the latter included two sections, one for the philosophical-historical sciences and another for the mathematical-natural sciences.54 Within the Faculty of Philosophy, chairs in universal history and Croatian history (with special consideration of Austrian and Hungarian history) were established. These chairs were completed by a seminar on the auxiliary sciences of history (a separate chair was founded in 1908). The chairs in history tried to implement the modern imperatives related to the organization of the curriculum and research, basing historical inquiry methodologically on the factual and source-oriented research ideal and epistemologically on the “genealogical concept.” Burrows’s theories on the organization and institutionalization of higher education as being congruent with the tendencies of the general construction of the modern social order explain quite well how this expert system was legitimized. Faculties became a place of instituting55 (creating new academics), but also of the selection and hierarchization of cadres in the educational pyramid. The rules prescribed the enrolment and duties of the faculty and students, and the evaluation committees reviewed dissertations, habilitations, and applications to fill vacant professorial posts. Thus, in the period before 1918, 17 doctoral dissertations were written, the main topic of which was related to subjects from general or Croatian history, and numerous dissertations were written dealing primarily with the fields of philology, Slavonic studies, the history of philosophy, geography, etc. This contributed to the creation of a Croatian cultural space and Croatian history, situating it within a broader geopolitical and socio-cultural context and forming and rooting contemporary Croatian identity.56 In addition, university professors, as top-ranking experts, were also competent to serve on commissions that appointed secondary school teachers.57 It could be said that a “truly Croatian” historical scholarship was established only once it had joined the general process of scientification and experts had emerged as agents of this development.

Three Distinguished Historians

Three professors of history were particularly prominent in the 1874–1918 period due to their public activities, reputations, and influence. They were Tadija Smičiklas, Vjekoslav Klaić, and Ferdo Šišić, and they still occupy prominent positions in the Croatian historiographic canon. They are particularly significant due to their overviews of Croatian history, which had a deep impact on the approach to research, narrativisation, and interpretations of the history which was understood as the history of the “Croatian people” and the “Croatian” lands.

Through his academic path and public and political activity, Tadija Smičiklas (1843–1914) represented a sort of role model of the Croatian national bourgeoisie and scholarly elite, even to his contemporaries. Educated at the Faculty of Philosophy in Vienna and having graduated in the field of auxiliary sciences of history at the Austrian Institute of History Research, he chose the right moment to appear on the intellectual and scientific scene with his long-awaited synthesis, a two-volume History of Croatia (1879–82). Fulfilling the general wish of the intellectual elite of every “emancipator” nation (to use Baár’s term) for a “complete history of the nation,” Smičiklas also presented the narrative of this history in a widely-desired “pragmatic” tone with the goal of educating the broader strata of society and presenting an account that resonated with current events.58 The work garnered him much attention, both among valued predecessors such as Rački, who lauded both his scientific merits and his patriotic spirit, and successors such as Šišić, who emphasized that few scholarly books were as widely read as this one, which “also strongly affected consciousness-raising and the desperate resistance and struggle of the people in the last quarter of the nineteenth century.”59 He also won other forms of recognition, such as honorary citizenship of Zagreb, Karlovac, and Varaždin.60 In addition, it was precisely this book that, together with his Viennese diploma, was of crucial importance for his appointment as professor at the Chair of Croatian History of the University of Zagreb in 1882.61 Until his death in 1914, Smičiklas served as a professor, president of Matica hrvatska, and president of the Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences. He was also the person who set in motion the publishing of important historical sources in an edition known as the Codex diplomatics regni Croatiae, Dalmatiae et Slavoniae. He also actively participated in politics as a parliamentary representative of the Independent People’s Party in the 1880s and 1890s, with the goal of opposing ban Károly Khuen-Héderváry’s Hungary-friendly regime. Smičiklas thus positioned himself among the top history experts of his time, and he became an important person for the cultural and political development of the modern Croatian nation, whose ideological outlooks on the era were in line with historiographic interpretations. Thus, in the tradition of the People’s Party of the 1860s and 1870s and led by the visions of Strossmayer and Rački, he developed a periodization of Croatian history from which the historical rights-based argumentation for the unification of the Triune Kingdom was derived on a political level and from which the distinctiveness of the Croatian people as a social whole, albeit ethnically substantially linked to other South Slavs, was derived on a cultural level. In the more down-to-earth context of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, Smičiklas’s synthesis was clearly seen as an argument for granting greater autonomy to the part of Croatia under the Hungarian crown. Therefore, his narrative of the fourth epoch of Croatian history (from 1700 on) and the dangers of German centralization efforts highlighted the negative role of Hungarian nationalism.

 

The Croats, being rather weak, found strength [in opposition to Hungarian nationalism] in the Slavic idea. If the Hungarians, seeing their tribe alone among great nations, strongly and bravely gave their people the goal of spreading as far as possible, then the Croats started to feel that they were a living part of a large nation, that they had brothers. It is through the Slavic idea that Croatia was reborn.62

Smičiklas reaches the significant conclusion: “Researching the new contacts and conflicts that will be born of it, or whether we are approaching the fifth epoch of Croatian history, is not our goal.”63

Smičiklas’s main rival for the position of professor at the Chair for Croatian history in 1882 was Vjekoslav Klaić (1849–1929). Another Viennese student, Klaić became a publically respected historian and geographer as a secondary school (gymnasium) teacher. In 1878, he replaced the deceased Matija Mesić as substitute professor at the Chair for Croatian History. Although he didn’t manage to attain a permanent position as professor in 1882, he was appointed professor at the Chair for General History in 1893, and in the meantime worked as assistant professor (Privatdozent) of the Geography of South Slavs. Active both in the field of historiography and geography and authoring a range of works, from syntheses to school textbooks and works intended for the broader public,64 Klaić strove to build the foundations of the historiographic and geographic imagination of the Croatian national space, extending it to Bosnia and Herzegovina more resolutely than his other colleagues. As a university professor and member of the Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences (1896), Klaić maintained his status of a distinguished scholar, occasionally feeling himself invited to participate in political discussions, based on his authority as a historian.65 His outlook was grounded primarily in the traditional conceptions of the Party of Rights and the real position of Croatia, and he emphasized historical state rights as the basis for securing the autonomous position of Croatia within the Monarchy. Klaić was also preoccupied with Croatian historical state rights in his scientific work, which culminated in a five-volume History of the Croats (1899–1911), but only covered the period up to 1608. Despite the fact that Klaić never completed his overview of early modern and modern history, parts of his work which concern the High Middle Ages still attract the attention of historians today, but its contemporary mass reception was even more significant. His work was republished several times, and the editions from the 1970s are a ubiquitous feature of all second-hand book shops and an almost symbolic example of Croatian historiography present in many private libraries in Croatia today. His skillful narration, which follows the chronological line of history, and his discourse, which masterfully links major socio-political group identities with past times, have ensured Klaić a place as the ideal choice for historical dilettantes who lazily seek answers to questions about the geographic and social continuities of their national affiliation. From the perspective of this paper, Klaić is not only interesting because of his clear idea of the subject and goal of historiography, but also because of his clear vision of the importance of belonging to a nation, the importance of its continuity and—inevitably in a world made of different nations which have their own interests and goals—its rivals and allies. In accordance with his general socio-political conceptions, he saw the Croats as part of the Slavic world, but he also insisted they had developed a distinct identity it. He contended that over the course of twelve centuries the Croat “remained defiant towards all that seeks to eradicate him and has through unfailing perseverance defended and maintained his name, his individuality and his territory.”66 Croats thus fought against both political and cultural invaders, preserving their independence and particularity within the framework of Christian civilization through their Cyrilomethodic heritage, while politically “[t]he Kingdom of Croatia never ceased living throughout all these centuries: they tore it apart limb by limb, trampled and stunted many of its rights, which had been guaranteed by oaths; but the core of the kingdom remained intact, so that its scattered or stolen remains would always return to it.”67 The oaths to which he referred were given by both the Hungarian and the Habsburg king. The Ottomans invaded, but Klaić actually considered the time in which he was living of crucial importance:

 

But the nineteenth century, the century of nations, pushed the Croatian nation into the fiercest struggle in its history. The struggle is persistent and decisive, since it involves not only the living but also the dead. The knot has been tightened, and God knows what would have happened had it not been cut by the sword of ban Jelačić. The Croatian language was recognized as a diplomatic one only after two wars, and now reigns not only in the peasant’s cottage, but also in the Ban’s Court. Let all those who eat Croatian bread speak and create using the Croatian language [...] The power of the Croatian people to resist was best seen in the originally bloodless, but eventually bloody struggle for nationality. Little Croatia [...] showed the entire world that it lives and is worthy of living. Croatia again refused to fall, but emerged from the struggle stronger and greater than before [...] Dalmatia also ceaselessly calls for unification, which shall come to pass sooner or later; for this is not only the wish of all Croats, but a completely legitimate goal, guaranteed by the newest laws and oaths! Then the Croatian Kingdom shall once again encompass all the territory it possessed in the time of kings Petar Krešimir and Dmitar Zvonimir [...] A great Hungarian patriot at the beginning of our century said of his country: “Hungary was not, but it will be.” And let us say: “Croatia was, it is, and it must remain until the end of time.”68

The influence of the third university professor who tried his hand at writing an extensive overview of Croatian history, Ferdo Šišić (1869–1940), has also persisted up to the present day. His work, An Overview of the History of the Croatian People, was first published in 1916, and it was reissued many times in the following decades. Šišić was already belonged to a generation which had graduated from the University of Zagreb. Although he had spent part of his time as a student in Vienna, he enrolled and graduated in Zagreb, where he also attained his PhD. He also became assistant professor there in 1902 and full professor in 1905, succeeding Smičiklas as the Chair of Croatian History. Unlike Smičiklas or Klaić, Šišić did not write school textbooks or popular history books. Rather, he made substantial contributions as an acclaimed expert in two apparently different areas: historiographic works on the period of “Croatian national rulers” in the early Middle Ages, which garnered him decades-long scientific relevance, and scientific efforts to study recent historical events focusing (with the unavoidable political implications) on Croatian-Hungarian relations, a field in which he was practically a pioneer.69 Of course, in accordance with his focus on “genetic” political history, to which Šišić had remained loyal, his research preoccupations were not contradictory and were actually skillfully combined in his synthesis,70 forming an interpretative academic and national canon that provided arguments for the continuity of the symbols of independent Croatian statehood. In doing this, Šišić followed in the path of Smičiklas, situating his contemporary political reasoning, which was based on historical arguments, within the context of the Habsburg Monarchy, but transcending its borders in a cultural sense, putting Croats in a broader South Slavic context. In the turbulent period of the crisis of Dualism, which was felt in post-Khuen-Héderváry Croatia (after 1903) and marked by political turmoil, Šišić, as a member of the Croatian-Serbian Coalition (winning four elections for Sabor in 1906–1913), remained a member of the Croatian parliament and a member of the delegation to the Hungarian Parliament where, according to the words of his contemporary, the student and later professor Viktor Novak, he spent more time working in the Budapest archives and libraries than participating in the activities of the parliament.71

Conclusion

It is precisely this statement by Novak about Šišić that gives us a characteristic picture of professional Croatian historians in the second half of the long nineteenth century. Parallel to the imperatives of building modern scholarly institutions as constituent parts of the nation-building process in a world of chronic shortages of intellectual forces capable of building a complex national institutional infrastructure (a problem faced by most of the emerging nations of Central and Eastern Europe), the intelligentsia of these regions was inevitably involved in political processes not only on an ideological level, but often also operationally. The often-present discrepancy between the scholarly habitus of individuals and their practical political activities, which left its mark on their reception both in domestic and international circles, stems precisely from these circumstances. However, even in places where conditions for the greater independence of the scholarly and political spheres existed and which for the most part spared scholars from having to “dirty their hands” by wrestling with the contradictions of political work and allowed them to reach the public status of “experts” more safely, the processes of modern nation-building and the institutionalization and professionalization of the scientific and intellectual fields were interwoven. “Croatian” historiographers, under the institutional strength and the officialized authority of the Faculty of Philosophy, legitimizing themselves according to modern standards of research, succeeded in creating an “expert” template for the interpretation of national history, demonstrating (or at least alleging) the continuity of historical political rights and revealing the distinctiveness of the Croatian nation as a political, social, and cultural entity. The devotion to exact learning and the metaphysics which stood behind it were linked by the idea that a historian does not deal in abstractions, but in unique spiritual entities and individualities embodied in the form of states and nations and the condensed texture of their mutual relations.72 The character of the nation constitutes a space of experience that explains individual practical orientation and provides a framework for individual “free choices” to become articulated and socially coherent.73 However, this could not be done in a vacuum, but only in the “Croatian space of experience,” as derived in officialized and “expert” historical scholarship and molded in accordance with international scientific trends of historical scholarship intermediated by the political context of the Habsburg realm and its political and social conflicts, collective dissatisfactions, and divergent interests, but also by the transfer and emulation of scholarly knowledge. These kind of historiographic narrative constructs received their incentive from the basic characteristics of modernity, which I have adapted from Giddens and which allowed the construction of a discourse on the nation, the imagining of its borders, and the concept of belonging to a national community, as well as the derivation of the continuity of its culture and statehood in the context of comparisons of the past and present, in the terms of a unitary, “emptied” time and space, which allowed the clear “detection,” definition, and historical situation of the identity “us” and those who are close to us, as opposed to the “others” and enemies. Regardless of historiographic disputes about certain matters and the differing ideological and political beliefs that adapted historiography to different political and social visions and plans, the template that I have striven to present in this paper has shaped the discursive constitution and institutional organization of the modern social order, into which more and more people were inevitably incorporated over time, and has remained the basis of political and social discourse and activity in the Croatian national space to this day, presenting life in the current political reality and social order as natural, normal, and historically-grounded.

 

Archival Sources

Hrvatski državni arhiv [Croatian State Archive], Fond 502

Arhiv Filozofskog fakultet u Zagrebu [Archive of Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb], Box 3

 

Bibliography

Antoljak, Stjepan. “Ferdo Šišić.”Arhivski vjesnik 32 (1989): 125–41.

Baár, Monika. Historians and Nationalism: East-Central Europe in the Nineteenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Bourdieu, Pierre. Language and Symbolic Power. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991.

Burrow, John. A History of Histories. London: Penguin Books, 2009.

Charle, Christophe. “Patterns.” In A History of the University in Europe, edited by Walter Rüegg, 3:33–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Damjanović, Stjepan, ed. Filozofski fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu: Monografija [The Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Zagreb: A monograph]. Zagreb: Filozofski fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu, 1998.

Deák, István. “Historiography of the Countries of Eastern Europe: Hungary.” American Historical Review 97, no. 4 (1992): 1041–63.

“Dodatak: Izvestje o glavnoj skupštini društva ‘zapovestnicuistarine jugoslavenske’ dne 2. Veljače god. 1853 [Appendix: Report of the general assembly of the Society for History and Yugoslav Antiquities, 2 February, 1853].” Arkiv za povestnicu jugoslavensku 2, no. 2 (1852): 439–40.

Friedrich, Margret, Brigitte Mazohl, and Astrid von Schlachta. “Die Bildungsrevolution.” In Soziale Strukturen: Von der feudal-agrarischen zur bürgerlich-industriellen Gesellschaft, vol. 9/1 of Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, edited by Helmut Rumpler and Peter Urbanitsch, 67–107. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010.

Giddens, Anthony. The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996.

Gross, Mirjana. Počeci modern Hrvatske [The beginnings of the modern Croatia]. Zagreb: Globus, 1985.

Gross, Mirjana, and Agneza Szabo. Prema hrvatskom e građanskom društvu [Towards a Croatian civil society]. Zagreb: Globus, 1992.

Gross, Mirjana. Vijek i djelovanje Franje Račkog [The age and activities of Franjo Rački]. Zagreb: Novi liber, 2004.

Höbelt, Lothar. “Well-tempered Discontent: Austrian Domestic Politics.” In The Last Years of Austria–Hungary, edited by Mark Cornwall, 47–74. Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2002.

Janeković Römer, Zdenka. “Vjekoslav Klaić na zagrebačkom sveučilištu” [Vjekoslav Klaić at the University of Zagreb].” In Vjekoslav Klaić – Život i djelo [VjekoslavKlaić – his life and works], edited by Dragan Milanović, 363–74. Zagreb: Sveučilište u Zagrebu–Hrvatski institute za povijest–Podružnica za povijest Slavonije, Srijema i Baranje, 2000.

Klaić, Vjekoslav. Pripovijesti iz hrvatske povijesti [Tales from Croatian history], 3 vols. Zagreb: Društvo sv. Jeronima, 1886–1891.

Klaić, Vjekoslav: Hrvati i Hrvatska [Croatians and Croatia]. Zagreb: Dionička tiskara, 1890.

Klaić, Vjekoslav. Povijest Hrvata [History of the Croats], vol. 1. Zagreb: Lav Hartman, 1899.

Korunić, Petar. “Hrvatski nacionalni i politički program 1848/49. godine: Prilog poznavanju porijekla hrvatske nacije i države Hrvatske” [The Croatian national and political programme of 1848/49: A contribution towards understanding the origin of the croatian nation and state]. Povijesni prilozi 11 (1992): 211–12.

Markus, Tomislav. Hrvatski politički pokret 1848.–1849. godine [The Croatian political movement 1848/49]. Zagreb: Dom isvijet, 2000.

Matković, Stjepan. “Politički rad Vjekoslava Klaića [Political work of Vjekoslav Klaić].” In Vjekoslav Klaić – Život i djelo [Vjekoslav Klaić – his life and works], edited by Dragan Milanović, 401–15. Zagreb: Sveučilište u Zagrebu–Hrvatski institute za povijest–Podružnica za povijest Slavonije, Srijema i Baranje, 2000.

Okey, Robin. The Habsburg Monarchy c. 1765–1918. Basingstoke–London: MacMillan, 2001.

Palti, Elías José. “The Nation as a Problem: Historians and the ‘National Question.’” History and Theory 40 (October 2001): 324–46.

Smičiklas, Tadija. Poviest Hrvatska [History of Croatia]. Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1882.

Spomenica na svetčano otvaranje Kralj. Sveučilišta Franje Josipa I. u Zagrebu, prvoga Hrvatskoga, dana 19. listopada 1874 [Memorial book on the solemn opening of the Royal University of Francis Joseph I in Zagreb, the first in Croatia, on 19 October 1874]. Zagreb: Dragutin Albrecht, 1875.

Spomenica o 25–godišnjem postojanju Sveučilišta Franje Josipa I. u Zagrebu [Memorial book on the 25 years of the University of Francis Joseph I in Zagreb]. Zagreb: Tisak Kr. Zemaljske Tiskare, 1900.

Strecha, Mario. “O nastanku i razvoju modern hrvatske historiografije u 19. stoljeću” [On the genesis and development of modern Croatian historiography in the nineteenth century]. Povijest u nastavi 3 (2005): 103–16.

Surman, Jan Jakub. “Habsburg universities 1848–1918: Biography of a space.” PhD diss., University of Vienna, 2012.

Šišić, Ferdo. Hrvati i Magjari od godine 1790. do 1873. [The Croats and Hungarians from 1790 until 1873]. Zadar: Matica Dalmatinska, 1913.

Šišić, Ferdo. Rijeka I riječko pitanje od godine 1790. do 1870. [Rijeka and the Rijeka Question from 1790 until 1870]. Zadar: Matica Dalmatinska, 1913.

Šišić, Ferdo. Pregled povijesti hrvatskoga naroda [An overview of the history of the Croatian people]. Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1916.

Šišić, Ferdo. Povijest Hrvata u vrijeme narodnih vladara [History of Croats in the age of people’s dinasty]. Zagreb: Tisak Narodnih novina, 1925.

Török, Borbála Zsuzsanna. Exploring Transylvania: Geographies of Knowledge and Entangled Histories in a Multiethnic Province, 1790–1918. Leiden–Boston: Brill, 2016.

Veliz, Fernando. The Politics of Croatia-Slavonia 1903–1918: Nationalism, State Allegiance and the Changing International Order. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2012.

Župan, Dinko. “Pučkoškolstvo u vrijeme banovanja Ivana Mažuranića” [Primary education during the mandate of ban Ivan Mažuranić]. MA thesis, University of Zagreb, 2002.

1 John Burrow, A History of Histories (London: Penguin Books, 2009), 454.

2 Ibid., 455.

3 Ibid., 478.

4 Anthony Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996), 1–54.

5 Mario Strecha, “O nastanku irazvoju moderne hrvatske historiografije u 19. stoljeću,” Povijest u nastavi 3 (2005): 106.

6 Jan Jakub Surman, “Habsburg Universities 1848–1918: Biography of a Space” (PhD diss., University of Vienna, 2012), 34.

7 Borbála Zsuzsanna Török, Exploring Transylvania: Geographies of Knowledge and Entangled Histories in a Multiethnic Province, 17901918 (Leiden–Boston: Brill, 2016), 1–25.

8 Margret Friedrich, Brigitte Mazohl, and Astrid von Schlachta, “Die Bildungsrevolution,” in Soziale Strukturen: Von der feudal-agrarischen zur bürgerlich-industriellen Gesellschaft, vol. 9/1 of Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, ed. Helmut Rumplerand and Peter Urbanitsch (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), 92–93.

9 Christophe Charle, “Patterns,” in A History of the University in Europe, ed. Walter Rüegg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 48, 51.

10 Surman, “Habsburg Universities 1848–1918,” 40.

11 Ibid., 51.

12 Robin Okey, The Habsburg Monarchy c. 1765–1918 (Basingstoke–London: Macmilllan Press, 2001), 194.

13 Lothar Höbelt, “ ‘Well-tempered discontent’: Austrian Domestic Politics,” in The Last Years of Austria–Hungary, ed. Mark Cornwall (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2002), 49.

14 Okey, The Habsburg Monarchy, 195.

15 Fernando Veliz, The Politics of Croatia-Slavonia 1903–1918: Nationalism, State Allegiance and the Changing International Order (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2012), 76.

16 Ibid, 84.

17 Surman, “Habsburg Universities 1848–1918,” 5.

18 Ibid, 155–57.

19 Ibid., 214.

20 Ibid., 311–12.

21 Ibid., 281–89.

22 Okey, The Habsburg Monarchy, 314.

23 István Deák, “Historiography of the Countries of Eastern Europe: Hungary,” American Historical Review 97, no. 4 (1992): 1041–42, 1045–50.

24 Tomislav Markus, Hrvatski politički pokret 1848.–1849. godine: Ustanove, ideje, ciljevi, politička kultura (Zagreb: Dom isvijet, 2000), 47.

25 Petar Korunić, “Hrvatski nacionalni i politički program 1848./49. godine: Prilog poznavanju porijekla hrvatske nacije i države Hrvatske,” Povijesni prilozi 11 (1992): 231–33.

26 Ban Jelačić conquered Međimurje, the Hungarian Littoral, and Rijeka in 1848. The emperor named him the governor of Rijeka and the civilian and military governor of Dalmatia. With the introduction of the so-called Imposed Constitution of 1849, Rijeka and the Croatian Littoral were united with Croatia and Slavonia, and the unification of Dalmatia with Croatia and Slavonia was also promised. However, attempts to unite the Military Frontier with civil Croatia and Slavonia proved unsuccessful. Mirjana Gross, Počeci modern Hrvatske (Zagreb: Globus, 1985), 15–16.

27 Ibid.

28 “Dodatak: Izvestje o glavnoj skupštini društva ‘za povestnicu I starine jugoslavenske’ dne 2.Veljače god. 1853,”Arkiv za povestnicu jugoslavensku 2, no. 2 (1852): 439–40.

29 Gross, Počeci modern Hrvatske, 427.

30 Mirjana Gross and Agneza Szabo, Prema hrvatskom građanskom društvu (Zagreb: Globus, 1992), 130–31.

31 Strecha, “O nastanku i razvoju modern hrvatske historiografije u 19. stoljeću,” 105–06.

32 Mirjana Gross, Vijek i djelovanje Franje Račkog (Zagreb: Novi liber, 2004), 503.

33 Monika Baár, Historians and Nationalism: East Central Europe in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 46–74.

34 Gross and Szabo, Prema hrvatskom e građanskom društvu 290.

35 Strecha, “O nastanku i razvoju modern hrvatske historiografije u 19. stoljeću,” 107.

36 Ibid., 107.

37 Gross and Szabo, Prema hrvatskom e građanskom društvu, 147–48.

38 Spomenica na svetčano otvaranje Kralj. sveučilišta Franje Josipa I. u Zagrebu, prvoga hrvatskoga, dana 19. listopada 1874 (Zagreb: Dragutin Albrecht, 1875), 5–12.

39 Lawyer and professor of political-cameral sciences at the Zagreb Academy of Law (1850–71); member of the Sabor (1861–66).

40 Spomenica na svetčano otvaranje Kralj. sveučilišta, 13–14.

41 Ibid., 16–17.

42 Ibid., 18–20.

43 Gross and Szabo, Prema hrvatskom e građanskom društvu, 149–50.

44 Ibid., 285.

45 Spomenica na svetčano otvaranje Kralj. sveučilišta, 45–47.

46 All important discussions and acts regarding the process of founding the University can be found in: Ibid., 30–76.

47 Dinko Župan, “Pučkoškolstvo u vrijeme banovanja Ivana Mažuranića” (MA thesis, University of Zagreb, 2002), 107.

48 Spomenica o 25-godišnjem postojanju Sveučilišta Franje Josipa I. u Zagrebu (Zagreb: Tisak Kr. Zemaljske Tiskare, 1900), 2.

49 Mesić’s entire speech can be found in: Spomenica na svetčano otvaranje Kralj. sveučilišta, 80–104.

50 Ibid., 84.

51 Ibid., 94.

52 Ibid., 98–99.

53 Ibid., 101.

54 The Faculty of Medicine became active only in 1918, despite the fact that its legal basis was laid down in 1874.

55 In the sense of Bourdieu’s solemn sanctioning and sanctifying of a certain social difference, which is known and accepted by both the instituted agent and other members of the society and which permanently increases the value of the bearers of state credentials, the prevalence and intensity of the belief in its value. Pierre Bourdieu, Language and Symbolic Power (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), 119.

56 Stjepan Damjanović, ed., Filozofski fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu: Monografija (Zagreb: Filozofski fakultet Sveučilišta u Zagrebu, 1998), 325–29.

57 Candidates who wished to hold history lectures had to display a good grasp of chronology, the “pragmatic coherence” of the “major events,” and the “cultural-historical” value of the important periods. They also had to incorporate into “general history” a “detailed and broad” knowledge of “the history of the Austro–Hungarian Monarchy with special regard to Croatian history”. Hrvatski državni arhiv [Croatian State Archive], fond 502: Ispitna komisija zapolaganje stručnih ispita za zvanje profesora srednjih škola Filozofskog fakulteta u Zagrebu, opći spisi, 1882–1889, document No. 12.

58 Baár, Historians and Nationalism, 53.

59 Ferdo Šišić, Povijest Hrvata u vrijeme narodnih vladara (Zagreb: Tisak Narodnih novina, 1925), 20.

60 Zdenka Janeković Römer, “Vjekoslav Klaić na zagrebačkom sveučilištu,” in Vjekoslav Klaić – Život i djelo, ed. Dragan Milanović (Zagreb: Sveučilište u Zagrebu–Hrvatski institute za povijest–Podružnicaza povijest Slavonije, Srijema i Baranje, 2000), 365.

61 Arhiv Filozofskog fakulteta u Zagrebu [Archive of the Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb], box 3 (1880–1882) - zapisnik IV. sjednice profesorskog zbora mudroslovnoga fakulteta Kr. Sveučilišta Franje Josipa I, držane 13. veljače 1881 [Report of the Fourth assembly of the professorial council of the Philosophical faculty held on February 13, 1881].

62 Tadija Smičiklas, Poviest Hrvatska (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1882), 1:xxxii.

63 Ibid.

64 For example Hrvati i Hrvatska (Zagreb: Dioničkatiskara, 1890); Pripovijesti iz hrvatske povijesti, 3 vols. (Zagreb: Društvo sv. Jeronima, 1886–1891).

65 Stjepan Matković, “Politički rad Vjekoslava Klaića,” in Vjekoslav Klaić–Život i djelo, ed. Dragan Milanović (Zagreb: Sveučilište u Zagrebu–Hrvatski institute za povijest–Podružnica za povijest Slavonije, Srijema i Baranje, 2000), 401–15.

66 Vjekoslav Klaić, Povijest Hrvata (Zagreb: Lav Hartman, 1899), 1:V.

67 Ibid., 1:VI–VII.

68 Ibid., 1:VIII–IX.

69 Ferdo Šišić, Hrvati i Magjari od godine 1790. do 1873. (Zadar: Matica Dalmatinska, 1913); idem., Rijeka i riječko pitanje od godine 1790. do 1870. (Zadar: Matica Dalmatinska, 1913).

70 Ferdo Šišić, Pregled povijesti hrvatskoga naroda (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1916).

71 Stjepan Antoljak, “Ferdo Šišić,” Arhivski vjesnik, 32 (1989): 127.

72 Burrow, A History of Histories, 458–61.

73 Elías José Palti, “The Nation as a Problem: Historians and the ‘National Question’,” History and Theory 40 (2001): 328–29.

Volume 5 Issue 2 CONTENTS

pdf

Michael Antolović

Modern Serbian Historiography between Nation-Building and Critical Scholarship: The Case of Ilarion Ruvarac (1832–1905)

 

In the process of the construction of the Serbian nation, the discipline of history had a prominent role, as was true in the case of other European nations. Especially reinforced after recognition of the independent Principality of Serbia at the Congress of Berlin in 1878, this process led gradually to the building of a Serbian bourgeois society with all its modern institutions. A year later, an important controversy began, which was not limited to the academic circles, but strongly influenced all of Serbian culture over the course of the next 15 years. The controversy was marked by the dispute between supporters of a Romantic view of history and the supporters of the modern historical scholarship embodied in the work of Leopold von Ranke and his successors. The Romantics were ardent nationalists who, though they lacked an adequate knowledge of the relevant methods, used the past for the legitimation of their own nationalistic ideologies and were trying to demonstrate the continuity of the Serbian nation from Antiquity to modern times. Ilarion Ruvarac (1832–1905) played the key role in the refutation of this nationalistic para-historical ideology. Ruvarac accepted Ranke’s methodology, and he insisted on the “scientific character” of historical knowledge and its objectivity. He therefore insisted that “historical science” had to be based on critical assessments of archival sources, which could lead historians to the “historical truth.” According to this principle of historical scholarship, he researched different topics concerning the history of the Serbian and Balkan peoples from the Middle Ages to the eighteenth century. Emphasizing the methods of philological criticism, Ruvarac focused on resolving individual chronological and factual problems, which is why “contribution” and “article” were his favorite forms for the presentation of the results of his research. From this standpoint, he often engaged in polemics with the followers of the so-called “Romantic school” in Serbian historiography, demonstrating their “unscientific practice of history” and their lack of essential knowledge. After acrimonious debates with Pantelija-Panta Srećković and his supporters, which at the same time reflected the power distribution in the Serbian academic fields, by the end of the nineteenth century Ruvarac succeeded in establishing Serbian historiography on scientific grounds.

Keywords: Serbian historiography, Ilarion Ruvarac, nationalism

 

In the informative obituary on Ilarion Ruvarac’s death in 1905, Vatroslav Jagić, a professor at the University of Vienna, wrote that Ruvarac, led by his love of scholarly work, had achieved “most magnificent results and had been recognized for decades as the most important, most critical and most learned Serbian historian and commander of Serbian historiography during the second half of the nineteenth century.”1 The illustrious Slavist’s assessment of Ruvarac as a “great critical historian in the field of Serbian history”2 was shared by scholars in Saint Petersburg, Budapest, and Zagreb, who emphasized his love of truth, his “outstanding erudition, and [his] rare methodological exactness.”3 The young generation of Serbian historians that emerged at the turn of the century considered Ruvarac their “spiritual father” and the founder of scholarly or, as was said at the time, “critical” Serbian historiography, a man who, in the age of “great national self-deception,” had managed “with great success to turn on the lights of truth […] in the darkness of ignorance.” 4 As the founder of a “scientific” approach to the past, Ruvarac was a distinctive figure in the history of modern Serbian historiography. The aim of this paper is to examine the particularities of his work and his historical scholarship in the context of the main currents of historical thought in the nineteenth century and the specific social and political circumstances which determined the development of Serbian historiography at the time.5

Serbian Historiography and National Renewal during the First Half of the Nineteenth Century

The rebuilding of the Serbian state (which began with uprisings against Ottoman rule at the beginning of the nineteenth century and reached partial fulfillment with the international recognition of Serbia’s independence at the Congress of Berlin in 1878) was the main achievement of the “Serbian revolution” (1804–1830), as Leopold von Ranke called it in his work of the same name. As part of the revolution, an encompassing process of social and cultural modernization took place. Over the course of the long nineteenth century, Serbian agrarian society was thoroughly transformed, the institutions of bourgeois society were gradually established, and the foundations were laid for cultural development by the standardization of the language, the founding of the educational and cultural institutions, and the adoption of European intellectual ideas. In this process of modernization of Serbian society, the Serbs in the Habsburg Monarchy, who began to establish cultural and scholarly institutions in the 1820s, had an important role. Stimulated by a series of Serbian uprisings, the Serbian intellectuals in Hungary adopted a Serbian nationalist program. The Hungarian Serbs considered the restored Serbian principality as the embryo of future national liberation and unification.

As of the middle of the nineteenth century, liberalism was the prevailing ideology among the Serbian bourgeoisie. In addition to its claims for the establishment of constitutional order and civil rights, liberalism was inseparably linked to nationalism and claims for the creation of nation states which would encompass all compatriots. Since the past constituted one of the essential elements of nationalistic ideologies,6 Serbian intellectuals shared an increasing interest in their past, trying to find legitimacy for their political projects in the traditions of the Serbian medieval kingdom.

The development of Serbian historiography in the nineteenth century was tied up with the renewal of the Serbian state and the fashioning of a nationalistic ideology, as was the case not only in the Balkans but in most of Europe.7 However, in the first half of the nineteenth century Serbian historiography did not make any significant progress. It was still marked by the work of Jovan Rajić (1726–1801). A typical representative of the Enlightenment, in his work The History of Various Slavic Peoples, Particularly the Bulgarians, Croats and Serbs, which was written in the middle of the eighteenth century and published in 1794/95, Rajić gave an overview of the history of the South Slaves from the Middle Ages till his times based on limited evidence and without drawing a clear distinction between historical and literary sources. Rajić wrote his History under the influence of Enlightenment ideas about the progress of humankind through the accumulation of rational knowledge about men and their past. At the same time, his work had a distinct didactical purpose. At a time when no Serbian state existed, Rajić aimed with his History not only to inform literate Serbs about their past, but also to help preserve and strengthen national consciousness among his compatriots by pointing out the historical continuity with the traditions of the Serbian medieval state. Rajić’s work had a very strong influence on the next generations of educated Serbs, and it remained the main source of knowledge about Serbian history.8 Jakov Ignjatović, editor of the leading Serbian literary magazine Letopis Matice srpske, pointed this out in the middle of the 1850s. Appraising the trends in Serbian historiography that were current at the time, Ignjatović concluded that it had not made any progress since Rajić’s times. He substantiated this contention with the observation that Rajić’s monumental work had not been outdone and that “we—his descendants—either imitate or simply glean” insights based on the material he had gathered.9 The very fact that Ignjatović had considered historiography part of literature indicates that Rankean methodology had not gained a foothold among Serbian intellectuals yet.

This judgment about Serbian historiography might seem pretty severe. However, it is accurate, taking into consideration that no important historical work had been published since the end of the eighteenth century and that the writers of Serbian history were Rajić’s epigones. Using the data from his voluminous History, they interpreted the Serbian past according to their national-Romantic viewpoint, and they tried to strengthen the nationalism of their compatriots with narratives about “the glorious past.” Hence, these amateur historians from the first half of the nineteenth century (Dimitrije Davidović, Aleksandar Stojačković, Danilo Medaković, Milovan Vidaković, Jovan Sterija Popović and Jovan Subotić, to mention only the most prominent among them) considered history a useful tool of “national pedagogy.” As journalists, writers and politicians, they approached history from a pragmatic standpoint. Accenting the traditions of the medieval Serbian kingdom, they were trying to give historical legitimacy to the new Serbian state and kindle aspirations for national unification.10 In this sense, the work of Danilo Medaković entitled History of the Serbian People from Ancient Times till 1850 is illustrative.11 Influenced by the idea that history is the most eloquent testimony to a nation’s character and that “only wild, unhappy and neglected people do not have their own history,” Medaković aimed to “nurture feelings for and worthy knowledge of our historical heroes and all the glorious deeds of our earliest ancestors.”12 The substantial growth of interest in the past, however, was not followed by professionalization of historical studies. In the middle of the nineteenth century, there were no educated Serbian historians who possessed the necessary professional background. Neither was there any critical editing of sources on Serbian history, nor were there specialized historical journals. Although some Serbian periodicals, such as Letopis Matice srpske, had begun to publish Serbian medieval sources unsystematically (chronicles, genealogies, and charters) and translations of works by some foreign historians, such as Ranke, František Palacký, and Pavel Jozef Šafárik, in the middle of the nineteenth century Serbian historiography was dominated by writers and journalists. Without appropriate training, they were retelling Rajić’s History and uncritically accepting information about the past preserved (or fashioned) in Serbian epic poetry.13

A change came in Serbian historiography in the 1860s with the founding of the Higher School (Velika škola) in Belgrade in 1863, the first institution of higher education in Serbia, and with the coming of a generation of Serbian intellectuals educated at universities abroad, mostly in Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and Heidelberg. Politically, they were liberal, and they accepted positivism as a scientific paradigm and worldview. Guided by the ideas of Auguste Comte, Herbert Spencer, Henry Thomas Buckle, John Stuart Mill, and John William Draper, Serbian intellectuals were trying to apply the “general laws” of social and historical development to narratives of the Serbian past.14 Some of them, such as Alimpije Vasiljević and Stojan Bošković, were professors at the new Higher School, and they tried to apply positivistic methods to the study of Serbian history by establishing the physical, geographical, and social laws which had shaped it. However, since they were not trained as historians, their efforts yielded only modest results, limited essentially to the interpretation of a few known facts about the Serbian past according to the principles of positivistic philosophy.15

Ruvarac’s Intellectual Formation

These social and intellectual circumstances dominated Serbian historiography when, at the end of the 1850s, Ilarion Ruvarac appeared with his first historical works. Born as Jovan Ruvarac in a Serbian clergyman’s family in 1832 in Sremska Mitrovica (then part of Slavonian Military Frontier in the Habsburg Monarchy), he grew up in Stari Slankamen and Novi Banovci, small villages in Srem, where his father served as an Orthodox priest. He attended the gymnasium in Sremski Karlovci, a small town on the hillside of the mountain of Fruška Gora, which since the time of the Great Migrations of the Serbs at the end of the seventeenth century was the religious and cultural center of Serbs in the Habsburg Monarchy. Enthusiastic about the poetry of Goethe, Heine, and Schiller, Ruvarac began to read very carefully the writings of leading Serbian journals of the time, Letopis Matice srpske and Srpski narodni list, which devoted considerable attention to historical topics. Already interested in the past, Ruvarac was strongly influenced by Jakov Gerčić, his history teacher in the gymnasium. Although he did not pursue significant historical research, Gerčić was considered the best expert in general history among the very few educated Serbian citizens.16 After the turmoil caused by the revolution of 1848/49, Ruvarac continued his education in Vienna in 1850. After graduating from the gymnasium, he enrolled in the University of Vienna in 1852 and began to study law. He completed his university studies in 1856. During his time as a student in Vienna, the capital of Habsburg Monarchy was a meeting place of the intellectual elites of the South Slavs, where the leading figures of Serbian culture were Vuk Karadžić, the reformer of the Serbian language and creator of modern Serbian orthography, and his pupil, the philologist Đura Daničić. “All nationally minded Slavs” gathered regularly in the famous café Slavisches Kafeehaus,17 and Ruvarac socialized among the members of this circle.18 After having returned to his homeland, Ruvarac completed his theological studies, and he entered a monastery in early 1861. As the monk Ilarion, he was the rector of the Orthodox theological seminary in Sremski Karlovci and clerk of the Ecclesiastical Court, and he was appointed to the archimandrite of the Grgeteg monastery of Fruška Gora. Ruvarac remained there until his death on August 8, 1905.19

During his studies, Ruvarac continued to deepen his knowledge of history, attending lectures by Albert Jäger, one of the most distinguished Austrian historians, who taught Austrian history at the University of Vienna from 1851.20 At the same time, Ruvarac read a great deal of historical literature, in particular works by the German liberal historians Friedrich Christoph Schlosser and Georg Gottfried Gervinus. Finally, the most decisive influence came from Leopold von Ranke. After having been familiarized with the works of the “father of modern historiography,” Ruvarac accepted his understanding of history and of the historian’s task, summarized in the famous sentence “to show how it actually happened” (wie es eigentlich gewesen). In addition to this principle of objectivity in historical research, Ruvarac also accepted the clear difference between historical evidence and literature, as well as the insistence on the importance of documentary, i.e. “primary sources” in the reconstruction of the past. This conception Ruvarac applied to the study of Serbian history when he wrote his first article, Review of Native Sources of old Serbian History (1856), following the example of Ranke’s early work Critique of Modern Historians (Zur Kritik der neuerer Geschichtsschreiber, 1824). Accenting the importance of documentary sources21 and accepting the crucial distinction between primary and secondary sources, Ruvarac classified published sources for Serbian medieval history. In doing so, he followed the model given by the famous German source edition Monumenta Germaniae Historica. His next article, Contribution to the Examination of Serbian Epic Poems (1857/1858),22 was strongly influenced by comparative linguistics and religion which, based upon the findings of Franz Bopp and Adalbert Kuhn, had undergone extraordinary development. Ruvarac analyzed the contents of Serbian epic poetry, determined its main motifs (common to all Indo-European poetry), and concluded that it could not be used as a historical source. Recognizing the “esthetic,” i.e. artistic value of folk poetry, he rejected its usefulness for historical research. Remaining extremely critical, Ruvarac announced his “crusade” against the representation of the Serbian past on the basis of epic tradition and a historical consciousness rooted in myths and legends.23 Ruvarac’s “student’s treatise” caused a great stir in the Serbian milieu, which, influenced by the spirit of national Romanticism, approached the folk epic traditions uncritically, considering them a credible representation of the “glorious Serbian past.” The importance of this treatise is pointed out by Nikola Radojčić, undoubtedly the best expert on Ruvarac’s work, who considered it “the deepest earlier historical treatise on Serbs.”24

“Objectivity and Historical Truth:” The Fundamentals of Ruvarac’s Approach to History

In his first article, Ruvarac pointed out that Serbian historiography amounted to little more than retellings of Rajić’s History and neglect for historical evidence, “which, selected by clear eyes and clever thoughts, is the only way to arrive at the plain truth.” In his assessment, this was why it “actually has been not changed for fifty years, and it is very hard to observe signs of any progress in the examination of a people’s history.”25 Ruvarac devoted himself to the collection and careful study of historical sources over the course of the next decade (1858–1868). In addition to medieval charters and church chronicles, Ruvarac studied works by Byzantine writers published in the series of Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, and he also familiarized himself with the history of Hungary by reading István Katona’s voluminous work Historia Critica Regnum Hungariae (I–XLII, 1779–1817) and the collection of documents Codex diplomaticus Hungariae ecclesiasticus ac civilis, edited by György Fejér. Both Katona and Fejér had been representatives of the Hungarian late Enlightenment historiography and had published a great deal of primary documents. Based on such historical evidence, Ruvarac began to research the history of Serbs in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Era in the vast area of the Balkans and Central Europe.

The leitmotif of Ruvarac’s methodology was the critical examination of the historical sources which constituted the basis of his scholarly work.26 He was less inclined to consider theoretical questions and instead devoted himself to the critical editing of sources, the identification of falsifications and interpolations based on philological criticism, and the establishment of historical facts. Resolving chronological, genealogical, and geographic problems, he did not go into historical processes, and this ultimately determined the character of his scholarly works. Ruvarac’s dominant form of presentation was treatises and articles. According to Nikola Radojčić, “he became a researcher of sources and a writer of treatises, contributions, and small contributions.”27 At the same time, one of the distinctive features of Ruvarac’s method is his narrative style. Almost all of his works were characterized by many digressions, frequently appeals to the reader, and signs of anxiety and mental tension. Writing in a polemical style and not hesitating to ridicule his opponents, Ruvarac led his pitched battles with “war cries” against the misapprehensions and ignorance of his contemporaries. In his polemics, he challenged not only amateurs but also some prominent scholars, such as the Croatian historian Franjo Rački and the Hungarian Lajos Thallóczy. In a polemic about the origins of Pavle Bakić, the last Serbian despot in Hungary, Ruvarac sent word that he would have fought with Thallóczy, and he concluded that “if he is a hero, he should make this heroic competition possible himself.”28 However, Ruvarac was deeply aware that he frequently was not capable of overcoming his emotions, which led him when, in his search for historical truth, he deconstructed the historical myths fashioned by his contemporaries. He himself confirmed this in his own words:

 

I have never begun to sing, and as I was 40 years ago, I am the same today: somber and dissatisfied, restless and upset; and I look for something and explore permanently, and in this eternal search I forget myself and lose my balance, so that even I do not care, and I hate soulfully the squabbles and quarrels in which I find myself, suddenly on the stormy waves of angry squabbles and in the muddy lake of heated quarrel […] and I quarrel with such vehemence, as if the solution of the Eastern Question depended on it.29

Finally, the extensiveness of his work and the many quotations he offers from numberless sources in order to prove his hypotheses make Ruvarac’s writings tiring and demanding. Hence, it has been astutely observed structure was the greatest weakness of Ruvarac’s methodology, which otherwise was distinguished by “brilliant heuristics and undeveloped hermeneutics.”30

The features of Ruvarac’s style were the results of his striving for historical truth, which, having been given a kind of religious sanctification, constituted the main aim of his historical work. Considering that only artists (“poets and painters”) do not have to follow historical truth,31 Ruvarac’s opinion was that the search for historical truth was the basic principle of “historical science.” His scholarly ideal and the meaning of historical scholarship for him meant historical truth determined by the precisely developed methodology of historical research. Sharing the conviction of his university mentors that history should be a science (in the sense of the German term Wissenschaft), Ruvarac repeatedly acknowledged that he had been “ready to die rather than to say that a lie is the truth.”32 He did not care about “what people say and what the mob will say,” and from the silence of his monastery he struggled persistently to meet his scholarly ideal. Judging the past “shortly, objectively, coldly,”33 he confronted nationalistic interpretations of the past with the principle of objectivity, arguing that “one could not write more objectively than I write, and I am not interested in persons and subjects, but in matter and objects, and my every bend and digression, every question and shout, my every touch have their cause not in me, but in the object.”34 From this scholarly standpoint, Ruvarac formulated his understanding of the aims of future Serbian historians. Stressing the substantial difference between a scholarly approach to the past and representations of the past in Serbian epic poetry, Ruvarac asserted decisively that

 

a future Serbian historian with entirely different goals from the goals of folksong singers and poets, laudators and mourners should restrain himself, and when he has written the history of the Kosovo battle, he should listen neither to these poems and stories, nor to the narratives about them, but he should ask about and study what is said on this question in the first, oldest, and best sources and historical evidences, and he should ask if the information they provide is consistent or not.35

He defined his own aim as a historian in a similar way:

 

I will explain the records and facts that I was able to discover; I will not hesitate to tell my opinion as well, if I have been able to arrive at one and answer the question … on the question; but it is not appropriate for me to present judgment, because I’m the minor among my brothers—that judgment […] I will leave to those who are more competent, more impartial and more objective than I am.36

Ruvarac’s political views were conservative. During the 1848/49 revolution, which caused interethnic conflict in the multinational Habsburg Monarchy, as a young man Ruvarac was suspicious of the nationalistic demands of his compatriots, arguing that “the entire business will remain without visible results.”37 Sharing a strong sense of loyalty to the Habsburg dynasty, he consistently rejected the liberal and democratic aspirations of Serbian citizens in Hungary.38 Hence, he was radically pessimistic about the future of the Serbian people, considering that the entire nation, addicted to a seductive ideology, “is sick.”39

The social function of nineteenth-century historiography was to legitimize the great transformation of the social and political order and establish continuity with earlier times, collecting historical material necessary for the (re)construction of the (fictional) tradition and determining a desirable value system in the form of grand narratives about the national past. In both cases, historiography endeavors either to challenge or to confirm the roots of modern institutions in the recent or distant past, thus giving scholarly legitimacy to conservative or liberal political ideology.40 Ruvarac tried to avoid value judgments and interpreting the Serbian past in the form of historical narratives, and he used neither the motif of “the golden epoch of the Serbian medieval kingdom” nor the motif of “the centuries-old Serbian struggle for liberty.” However, unlike many nineteenth-century historians all over Europe (for instance, Johann Gustav Droysen in Germany, František Palacký in Bohemia, and Mihály Horváth in Hungary), Ruvarac was not a national ideologue. Rather, he deconstructed historical myths, which were seen as the foundation of the collective consciousness by his contemporaries. Hence, it is hardly surprising that he did not pay any attention to the question of “ethnogenesis,” one of the favorite research topics of nineteenth-century historians. Finally, Ruvarac did not search in the past for the “ideal” social or political order, as he did not believe that there had ever been a “golden age of Serbian history.”

However, he did not manage to escape the Zeitgeist, which was strongly influenced by nationalism. Like most nineteenth-century historians, Ruvarac concentrated on the past of his own nation, devoting himself mainly but not exclusively to the study of Serbian history. In doing so, he was led by his governing belief that historical knowledge had an emancipatory function, i.e. that the material and cultural development of any nation would be possible only if its own past was approached objectively, without any kind of nationalistic exaggeration. In Ruvarac’s view, objective historical knowledge was a prerequisite for any progress of the nation.

The Historian as a Critic

Many of Ruvarac’s historical works are still relevant. Among them, the works in which he deconstructed misapprehensions of his contemporaries were particularly important for the development of Serbian historiography. He focused his sharp criticism on some of the most common motifs in Serbian epic poetry, which offered “a heroic picture” of the Serbian past, assigned responsibility for the downfall of the medieval Serbian empire, narrated the Great Migration of the Serbs into Hungary at the end seventeenth century, and emphasized the “centuries-old independence” of Montenegro. In the treaty Chronological Questions about the Time of the Battle of Marica, the Death of King Vukašin, and the Death of Emperor Uroš (1879),41 Ruvarac demonstrated the falsehood of the assertion that king Vukašin, the incarnation of an unfaithful lord in epic poetry, had killed emperor Uroš (1355–71), the last member of the Nemanjić “dynasty of sacred roots,” in order to usurp legitimate rule. A decade later, on the occasion of the 500th anniversary of the battle of Kosovo, Ruvarac criticized the central idea of epic poetry, according to which the Serbian medieval empire had fallen as the result of a betrayal. Ruvarac devoted On Prince Lazar (1887), one of his most comprehensive treatises and successful monographs, to the refutation of the widespread opinion concerning Prince Lazar’s reign. He demonstrated that Lazar had never held the title of emperor (he thus contradicted the epic tradition) and that the Serbian empire came to an end with the death of the last ruler of the Nemanjić dynasty, emperor Uroš, in 1371.42

After having deconstructed these legendary views of the Serbian medieval past, Ruvarac moved to the key problems of Serbian history in the early modern period. In the book On the Patriarchs of Peć from Makarije to Arsenije III 1557–1690 (1888),43 he examined the history of the Serbian Orthodox church in the Ottoman Empire, and on the occasion of the 200th anniversary of the migration of the Serbs in Hungary he published a series of articles republished later in the book Excerpts on Count Đorđe Branković and Patriarch Arsenije Čarnojević, with Three Digressions About the So-called Migration of the Serbs (1896).44 First, he established that during the migration in 1690, between 70,000 and 80,000 Serbs arrived in the territory of Hungary, while the Serbian public tended to claim that the number was more than half a million.45 Furthermore, Ruvarac challenged the view according to which the Serbian people migrated to Hungary after an official invitation by the Vienna court, and that, as a national community, they had been given a degree of autonomy, including rights and privileges, by the Habsburg emperor. Having analyzed all available sources, Ruvarac concluded that the Serbs had come as refugees, fleeing their homeland in fear of Ottoman revenge: “The Roman emperor and Hungarian king Leopold never invited the Serbian patriarch or the Serbian people to move from the Serbian lands and come to Hungary and Slavonia […] Hence, in the years 1691–1699, the Serbs were only guests, and because nobody had called on them to come to Hungary, they were uninvited guests.”46 At the same time, Ruvarac pointed out that Count Đorđe Branković, a prominent person among the Serbs in Hungary at the end of seventeenth century and the self-proclaimed “Despot od Illyricum,” was not a descendant of the family of late medieval Serbian rulers. Rather, according to Ruvarac, he was “a good-for-nothing, a liar, and an imposter, in other words, a swindler with a grand style.”47

Finally, Ruvarac also analyzed the thesis concerning the allegedly centuries-old independence of Montenegro, which played a particularly important role in Serbian nationalism in the nineteenth century. Much as Hungarian nationalists have ascribed mythic importance to Transylvania, the Serbian nationalistic-minded bourgeoisie glorified and admired Montenegro as the “homeland of liberty” and “Serbian Sparta,” famous for the bravery and rebelliousness of its inhabitants, who were considered the best representatives of “Serbianhood.”48 Ruvarac questioned these notions in his work Montenegrina: Small Contributions to the History of Montenegro. He demonstrated that Montenegro had been part of the Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern age.49

The Great Dispute in Serbian Historiography

Although later research refuted some of Ruvarac’s conclusions, such as his thesis according to which the Serbs had come to Hungary as “uninvited guests,” in the abovementioned works he showed that epic poetry was not reliable and that it could not be accepted as a historical source. In doing so, he initiated the most important controversy in Serbian historiography. The controversy between the supporters of the “critical” approach and the “Romantic” approach to the folk epic tradition lasted for the next 15 years (1879–1894), and the victory of the “critical orientation” led to the making of the modern Serbian historiography. The historians of Romantic orientation considered epic poems authentic representations of Serbian history, while the historians lead by Ruvarac had a critical approach towards the folk tradition and denied its plausibility and use as a source for historical research. Romantic historians were usually amateurs without an appropriate education, who praised the Serbian past by quoting epic poetry. According to Radovan Samardžić, this “terminological confusion” in Serbian historiography was the result of the fact that the term “Romantic historians” is used to describe amateur historians who were “too seriously occupied by patriotism” and who, without actually pursuing study of or research on the past, offered interpretations which were intended to legitimize a policy of national liberation and unification.50 Accepting epic poetry as the only reliable evidence about the past and rejecting the rational core of the discipline of history, these “late and salient Romantics” presented “a dangerous regression to the beginnings of intentional and organized historical memory, which had merged with the oral tradition.”51 Having started in 1879 with Ruvarac’s article about chronological facts, the dispute involved how to deal with the past. The dispute concerned fundamental questions regarding the methodology of historical research. Furthermore, the controversy possessed a latent dimension as well regarding the function of rational knowledge. Did Serbian society need rational knowledge about its past, or should history be functionalized for the realization of desired political goals? In that sense, the erudite judgment of Stojan Novaković, who shared Ruvarac’s views, was typical. Novaković asserted that “the correction of the year and the way emperor Uroš had died is far more important for Serbian history than is usually accepted; merit for that correction is particular.52 Hence, the debate between Ruvarac on one side and Miloš S. Milojević (1840–97) and Pantelija-Panta Srećković (1834–1903) on the other, the main supporters of the “Romantic orientation” in Serbian historiography, was extremely bitter. It went well beyond the frameworks of the historical profession and was met with considerable interest among members of the Serbian public.

A man of liberal political views and strong nationalistic feelings, Miloš Milojević took part as a volunteer in the Serbian–Ottoman wars (1876–78). After this episode he continued to work as a national propagandist, spreading the idea of national liberation among Serbs who were living in the areas of so-called Old Serbia (Kosovo, Macedonia), provinces that remained under Ottoman rule. Milojević understood the power of historical notions in the collective mobilization of the masses, so he put his entire historical work in the service of the anticipated political aims.53 In his Excerpts From the History of Serbs and Serbian-South Slavic lands in Turkey and Austria (1872) he was guided by nationalistic ideas about greatness and the distinctiveness of his people. Hence, he claimed that the history of the Serbs began in ancient times, when they had left their ancient homeland in India and settled all over the Middle and Near East, Asia Minor, Africa and Europe.54 In spite of the somnambulistic character of his conceptions, based on his nationalistic imagination and lack of historical knowledge, because of his “patriotic merits” he was made a member of the most important scholarly institution in the Principality of Serbia, the Serbian Learned Society, which also published his works. Provoked by the rise to prominence of a man whose concept of historical scholarship contrasted so radically with his, Ruvarac analyzed his works and concluded that Milojević was guided by fantasy and his own worldview in writing history.55 Ruvarac stated bluntly that Milojević was “a charlatan” who “fabricates folk poems and invents inscriptions and records.” Not without bitterness, Ruvarac emphasized that the “Serbian Learned Society in Belgrade accepted such a charlatan as a member.”56 Ruvarac’s critique gave rise to a bitter quarrel, not only about historical research, but also about his relationship to the Serbian nation. Milojević accused Ruvarac of being a “traitor of Serbian nationality” and announced that Ruvarac “should be executed.”57

The conflict between Ruvarac and Milojević indicates the passions that influenced the development of Serbian historiography. However, Ruvarac’s dispute with Pantelija-Panta Srećković was more important. As a theologian, Srećković was appointed professor at the Belgrade Lyceum (the predecessor of the Higher School) in 1859, where he taught first general and then Serbian history until his retirement in 1894. As an active politician and a lifelong member of the Liberal Party, he had been a member of the Serbian parliament for almost 20 years, during which time he had engaged in national propaganda, organizing the Serbian school system in the Ottoman Empire. His devotion to these issues was crowned by his appointment as a member of the newly established Serbian Royal Academy in 1887.58 As a professor, he published a History of Serbian People (1884), in which he attempted to give an overview of Serbian history in the early Middle Ages.59 In his review of Srećković’s work, Ruvarac noticed some crucial shortcomings, which were the result of insufficient erudition and ignorance of historical methodology.60 Since in Srećković’s work there were many errors and incorrectly translated passages from medieval sources, Ruvarac asserted that Srećković did not possess the elementary qualifications for scholarly work. He concluded that “he does not know as much Latin as even a student in the fourth grade gymnasium should know.”61 The main objection Ruvarac made to Srećković’s work was that he did not use the published collections of historical documents, but rather uncritically compiled facts contained in the Russian historical literature.62 Furthermore, Ruvarac astutely concluded that, as a “patriotic historian or historical panegyrist,” Srećković was guided in his “method” by nationalist conceptions, and thus exaggerated the size of the territory of Serbian medieval state and wrongly glorified Serbian rulers of the early Middle Ages as the “greatest Serbian patriots.”63

Srećković rejected Ruvarac’s objections, not by replying with scholarly arguments, but rather simply by describing Ruvarac as a “lunatic and ignoramus,” who “destroys Serbian nationality and helps the enemies of the Serbs.”64 Ruvarac answered with a detailed critique of Srećković’s method (1885/86), beginning with the assertion that Srećković was “a pale imitation” of Miloš Milojević, who “had looked for the Serbs and had found them in tropical Africa.”65 Furthermore, Ruvarac repeated his observation that Srećković had written his book using Russian scholarly works and that he had presented somebody else’s findings as his own. Emphasizing that Srećković “writes badly, incorrectly and confusingly,” Ruvarac accused him of plagiarism, arguing that “anything else is taken and stolen.”66 He considered Srećković a “charlatan,” unskilled in historical criticism, who interpreted the past from the viewpoint of “exaggerated patriotism, letting emotions and wishes prevail over intellect and reason.”67 Hence, Ruvarac concluded that Srećković’s History “is not valuable, in fact, it is worthless, and it is a great shame for Serbia and Serbianhood that it was published.”68 At the same time, Ruvarac claimed that, as a “Pan-Serb […] who is engaged in the propagation of the idea of Serbian unification […] [Srećković] is trying to make all Slav tribes, clans and languages Serbian,” and that “he proved that in the Slav South there have never been any Slav tribes apart from the noble Serbian tribe.”69 Noting Srećković’s bias and politically motivated approach to history, Ruvarac compared him to Ante Starčević, the founder of the nationalist Croatian Party of Rights. Ruvarac considered them both chauvinists and “offspring and emanation of the same spirit, […] which spreads the seed of discord among similar and closest brothers, among the Slav tribes in the South.”70

Assaults on Ruvarac lasted till the end of his life, and they were fundamentally ideological. Because of his critical attitude towards nationalist narratives of the Serbian past and his deconstruction of widely spread myths about “glorious Serbian history,” the propagandists of Serbian nationalism regarded Ruvarac as a destroyer of epic tradition and therefore a destroyer of “Serbian ideals.”71 The judgment of Aleksandar Protić, a colonel in Serbian army, is typical of the reception of Ruvarac and his followers in these nationalistic circles. He thought that they neglected the interests of national policy in their search for “historical truth.” Consequently, he accused Serbian historians led by Ruvarac of being “excessively skeptical in their attempt to serve the truth, and this begins to be harmful to the interests of Serbian nation.”72 However, it is obvious that some of Ruvarac’s conclusions had clear political implications, in spite of his lack of interest in political issues and his devotion to the principle of objectivity. For instance, questioning the constitutional character of the Privileges Granted to the Serbs by Emperor Leopold I, which were issued in 1690, Ruvarac denied implicitly the main argument of Serbian politicians in southern Hungary, who founded their claims for autonomous territory on this imperial legal document.73 Similarly, arguing that Montenegro was a part of the Ottoman Empire in the Early Modern era, Ruvarac indirectly denied the historical legitimacy of the modern state of Montenegro, which grounded its self-understanding on precisely the deeply rooted idea of a centuries-old tradition of freedom.

With regards to the reception of his work in the Serbian nationalistic public, Ruvarac was aware that “it was dangerous to struggle against deeply rooted prejudices and folk tradition.”74 Considering himself an “element of destruction,”75 Ruvarac defined his relation to the Serbian nation and its history in the following way: “And I remain alone […] leading quarrels and wars against all the supporters of the people’s glory, even if that glory is sometimes false and futile […] [B]eing constantly at war and in quarrel, I am always longing and aspiring for peace, tranquility and truth.”76 At the same time, in spite of the fact that he had “destroyed more than he had built,” Ruvarac asserted his commitment to his nation, which found manifestation in his efforts to liberate it “from ignorance and misapprehensions”: “I know […] that I loved and I still love my Serbian people like folk poets and famous orators love their nation […] We all think that we serve and repay our nation in our own way.”77

Ruvarac’s Legacy and Modern Serbian Historiography

In the dispute between the “Romantics” on the one hand and Ruvarac and his followers on the other, there was also an intergenerational conflict. Ruvarac was supported by the younger historians, like Stanoje Stanojević (1874–1937) and Jovan Radonić (1873–1953), who both admired his work. In one of his first articles, the former praised Ruvarac as a “first rank scholar […] and the greatest Serbian historian,”78 while the latter devoted his first book to Ruvarac, considering him the “founder of the critical orientation of Serbian historiography.”79 Belgrade scholars Stojan Novaković (1842–1915) and Ljubomir Kovačević (1848–1918) shared Ruvarac’s understanding of the historical discipline. They insisted on a rational approach to the past, governed by the rules of methodological historical research. With Ruvarac, who enjoyed their professional and friendly support, they contributed decisively to the rejection of the “Romantic school” in Serbian historiography. At the same time, Franjo Rački (1828–94), a leading Croatian historian of the time, and the aforementioned highly influential Slavist Vatroslav Jagić appreciated Ruvarac’s historical work. Ruvarac’s election to the Serbian Royal Academy in Belgrade in 1888 and the Yugoslav Academy of Sciences and Arts in Zagreb in the same year demonstrate the recognition he was given for his scholarly work.

However, the decisive victory of Ruvarac’s concepts came up after the retirement of Pantelija Srećković in 1894, when the latter was succeeded by Ljubomir Kovačević as professor of Serbian history in the Higher School in Belgrade. The institutionalization of historical studies continued in the subsequent years, with the founding of departments of ancient, medieval, and modern history (which previously had not existed) and the appointment of the first Serbian historians who had received their professional education at European universities abroad.80 Almost all of them, for instance Stanoje Stanojević, Ljuba Jovanović, and Jovan Radonić, were followers of Ruvarac, and they were elected to serve as professors in the Higher School at the beginning of the twentieth century. This meant not only the defeat of the “Romantics” by representatives of Serbian “critical historiography,” but also the professionalization of historical studies and acceptance among Serbian historians of the dominant historiographical paradigm of the time.

In comparison with the main currents of the European historical scholarship of the nineteenth century, after a delay of a few decades Ruvarac and his followers carried out activities such as the collection and publication of critical editions of sources, establishing auxiliary historical disciplines and determining historical facts that were prerequisites for the emergence of a modern historical profession. Taking into consideration these facts, although he was not educated as a historian, Ilarion Ruvarac contributed decisively to the professionalization of Serbian historical studies and their transformation into a scholarly discipline. Accepting Rankean methodology, particularly the principle of objectivity, Ruvarac became the founder of modern Serbian “scientific” historiography and “almost a symbol of historical criticism the only aim of which is (establishing) facts.”81 This judgment is confirmed by the statement of Jovan Radonić, who observed that “Ruvarac’s merit is that he accepted completely the currents of modern German historiography, that as a young man he arrived at his own understanding of history and its tasks, that as a student he completely mastered the method of historical research, and that, starting from a Romantic [view of history], he became a representative of a new, realistic direction [in Serbia].”82 Therefore, Ruvarac’s works, including his reviews and critiques, “are important and informative documents on the dramatic development of modern [Serbian] historiography.”83 At the same time, it should be noted that the establishment of “Serbian critical historiography” had some inherent limitations. Among them, the most important was the rejection of the wider approach to the past initiated by positivistic historiography, which would have included not only political but also social and cultural questions. Therefore, this rejection determined the lasting concentration in the scholarship on individual problems, mostly from the field of political and diplomatic history.84 Unlike Ruvarac’s liberally oriented opponents, who lacked the knowledge to give a “Whig interpretation” of the Serbian past, Ruvarac did not intend to become a “great writer,” and he never wrote a complete overview of Serbian history.

Bibliography

Baár, Monika. Historians and Nationalism: East-Central Europe in the Nineteenth Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Berger, Stefan with Christoph Conrad. The Past as History: National Identity and Historical Consciousness in Modern Europe. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2015.

Berger, Stefan, Mark Donovan and Kevin Passmore, eds. Writing National Histories: Western Europe since 1800. London: Routledge, 1999.

Bešlin, Branko. Evropski uticaji na srpski liberalizam u 19. veku [European influences on Serbian liberalism in the nineteenth century]. Novi Sad–Sremski Karlovci: IKZS, 2005.

Ćirković, Sima. “Javljanje ‘kritičke istoriografije’ na Velikoj školi i Univerzitetu” [The emergence of “critical historiography” at the Great School and University]. In Univerzitet u Beogradu 1838–1988: Zbornik radova, 645–54. Belgrade: Univerzitet u Beogradu, Savremena administracija, 1988.

Ćirković, Sima M. The Serbs. Oxford: Blackwell, 2004.

Đorđević, Dimitrije. “Uloga istoricizma u formiranju balkanskih država 19. veka” [The Role of Historicism in the Making of the Balkan States in the Nineteenth Century]. Zbornik Filozofskog fakulteta u Belgradeu 10 (1968): 309–26.

Đorđević, Dimitrije. “Die Serben.” In Die Völker des Reiches, vol. 3/1 of Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, edited by Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanitsch, 734–774. Vienna: VÖAW, 1980.

Donath, Oskar. “Siegfried Kappers Leben und Wirken.” Archiv für slavische Philologie 30 (1909): 400–47.

Grass, Nikolaus. “Albert Jäger.” In Neue Deutsche Biographie, 10:273. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1974.

Grčić, Jovan. Portreti s pisama [Portraits From Letters], 5 vols. Novi Sad: Štamparija Jovanović i Bogdanov, 1939.

Hobsbawm, Eric. Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990.

Ignjatović, Jakov. “Pogled na knjižestvo” [View on Literature]. Letopis Matice srpske 96 (1857): 141–79.

Ilinsky, G. A. “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac.” Vizantijski vremennik 13 (1906): 256.

Jagić, Vatroslav. “Ilarion Ruvarac.” Archiv für slavische Philologie 27 (1905): 634–35.

Jovanović, Ljubomir. “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac.” Delo: List za nauku, književnost i društveni život 36 (1905): 227–32.

K. “Ruvarac Hilárion.” Századok 39 (1905): 783–84.

Marinković, Borivoje. “Ilarion Ruvarac i njegovo delo: Povodom 140-godišnjice rođenja (1832–1972)” [Ilarion Ruvarac and His Work: On the Occasion of the 140th Anniversary of His Birth, 1832–1972]. Istraživanja 2 (1973): 453–509.

Medaković, Danilo. Povjesnica srbskog naroda od najstarijih vremena do 1850. godine [History of Serbian People from Ancient Times to 1850]. 4 vols. Novi Sad: Narodna knjigopečatnja, 1851–1852.

Milojević, Miloš S. Odlomci istorije Srba i srpskih – jugoslavenskih – zemalja u Turskoj i Austriji [Excerpts from the History of Serbs and Serbian-South Slavic Lands in Turkey and Austria]. Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1872.

Novaković, Stojan. Istorija i tradicija [History and Tradition]. Belgrade: SKZ, 1982.

Popov, Čedomir. “Ilarion Ruvarac i Jovan Ristić” [Ilarion Ruvarac and Jovan Ristić]. In Braća Ruvarac u srpskoj istoriografiji i kulturi, 175–91. Novi Sad–Sremska Mitrovica: SANU, 1997.

Popović, Z. R. “Miloš S. Milojević.” Bratstvo 8 (1899): 379–400.

Protić, Aleksandar. Naši moderni istoričari [Our Modern Historians]. Belgrade: Štamparija kod Prosvete, 1900.

Radojčić, Nikola. Jakov Gerčić: Prvi srpski pokušaj velike opšte istorije [Jakov Gerčić: The First Serbian effort toward great general history]. Belgrade: Čupićeva zadužbina, 1928.

Radojčić, Nikola. “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca” [About the historical method of Ilarion Ruvarac]. In Spomenica Ilarionu Ruvarcu, 44–103. Novi Sad: Filozofski fakultet, 1955.

Radojčić, Nikola. Srpski istoričar Jovan Rajić [The Serbian historian Jovan Rajić]. Belgrade: Naučna knjiga, 1952.

Radojčić, Nikola. “Uvod: O mislima i naporima oko izdavanja radova Ilariona Ruvarca” [Introduction: About ideas and efforts on the publication of Ilarion Ruvarac’s works]. In Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, i–xxx. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Radonić, Jovan. “Ilarion Ruvarac 1832–1905.” Letopis Matice srpske 233 (1905): 106–20.

Radonić, Jovan. “Ilarion Ruvarac i njegovi radovi na polju crkvene istorije” [Ilarion Ruvarac and his works in the field of church history]. Glasnik istoriskog društva u Novom Sadu 5 (1932): 229–44.

Radonić, Jovan. “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu” [On Ilarion Ruvarac]. In Spomenica Ilarionu Ruvarcu, 11–43. Novi Sad: Filozofski fakultet, 1955.

Radonić, Jovan. Zapadna Evropa i balkanski narodi prema Turcima u prvoj polovini XV veka [Western Europe and the Balkan peoples and the Turks in the first half of the fifteenth century]. Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1905.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Pregled domaćih izvora stare srpske povesnice” [Review of native sources of old Serbian history]. Sedmica 5 (1856): 338–40, 348–50, 353–56, 364–65.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Prilog k ispitivanju srpskih junačkih pesama” [Contribution to the examination of Serbian epic poems]. Sedmica 6 (1857): 17–19, 25–27, 33–36, 49–52, 68–69, 81–83, 89–90, 106–08, 113–14, 137–38, 161–62, 177–78, 193–94, 211–13, 243–45, 265–68; 7 (1858): 6–8, 57–60.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “O radu Miloša S. Milojevića u Glasniku” [About the Work of Miloš S. Milojević in the Glasnik]. Letopis Matice srpske 115 (1873): 172–178. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 60–67. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Hronološka pitanja o vremenu bitke na Marici, smrti kralja Vukašina i smrti cara Uroša” [Chronological questions about the time of the battle of Marica, the death of King Vukašin, and the death of Emperor Uroš]. Godišnjica Nikole Čupića 3 (1879): 214–26. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 68–78. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Otvoreno pismo” [An open letter]. Naše doba 35 (1885): 3–4.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. Prethodni prikaz knjige Istorija srpskog naroda, napisao P. Srećković [Preliminary review of the book History of the Serbian People, written by P. Srećković]. Belgrade: Štamparija dra Mladena Jojkića, 1885. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 89–120. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Prelaz s prikaza na kritiku” [From review to critique]. Naše doba 1885 and 1886, passim. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 123–242. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. O knezu Lazaru [On Prince Lazar]. Novi Sad: Srpska štamparija S. Miletića, 1887.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Prilošci Ilariona Ruvarca” [Ilarion Ruvarac’s small contributions]. Stražilovo 46 (1888): 744–45.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. O pećkim patrijarsima od Makarija do Arsenija III 1557–1690 [On the patriarchs of Peć from Makarije to Arsenije III 1557–1690]. Zadar: Štamparija I. Vodicke, 1888.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Na pitanje: Kad su se Srbi s patrijarhom Arsenijem III Čarnojevićem doselili u zemlje mađarske krune?” [Question: When did the Serbs led by Patriarch Arsenije III settle in the lands of the Hungarian crown?]. Javor 21 (1891): 330–31.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. Stari Slankamen [Old Slankamen]. Zemun: Štamparija Sime Pajića, 1892. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 365–410. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. Odlomci o grofu Đorđu Brankoviću i Arseniju Crnojeviću patrijarhu, s tri izleta o takozvanoj velikoj seobi srpskog naroda [Excerpts on Count Đorđe Branković and Patriarch Arsenije Čarnojević with three digressions about the so-called migration of the Serbs]. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1896.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. Montenegrina: Prilošci istoriji Crne Gore [Montenegrina: Small contributions to the history of Montenegro]. Sremski Karlovci: Srpska manastirska štamparija, 1898.

Ruvarac, Ilarion. “Poreklo Sibinjanin Janka” [The Origins of Sibinjanin Janko]. Belgrade: Štamparija Petra Ćurčića, 1901. Republished: Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi, edited by Nikola Radojčić, 511–23. Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934.

Samardžić, Radovan. Pisci srpske istorije [The writers of Serbian history]. 2 vols. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1976–1981.

Smičiklas, Tadija. “Ilarion Ruvarac.” Ljetopis Jugoslavenske akademije znanosti i umjetnosti 21 (1907): 168–73.

Srećković, Pantelija S. Istorija srpskog naroda [The History of the Serbian people]. Belgrade: Srpsko učeno društvo, 1884.

Stanojević, Stanoje. “Ilarijon Ruvarac.” Stražilovo 36 (1892): 574–75.

Suvajdžić, Boško. Ilarion Ruvarac i narodna književnost [Ilarion Ruvarac and folk literature]. Belgrade: Institut za književnost i umetnost, 2007.

Šuica, Marko. “Milojević Miloš.” In Enciklopedija srpske istoriografije, edited by Sima Ćirković and Rade Mihaljčić, 507. Belgrade: Knowledge, 1997.

Šuica, Marko. “The Image of the Battle of Kosovo (1389) Today: A Historic Event, a Moral Pattern, or the Tool of Political Manipulation.” In The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European states: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins, edited by R. J. W. Evans and Guy P. Marchal, 152–74. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011.

Tomić, Jovan N. “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac.” Godišnjak Srpske kraljevske akademije 19 (1906): 348–62.

Turda, Marius. “Historical Writing in the Balkans.” In The Oxford History of Historical Writing, Vol. 4: 1800–1945, edited by Stuart Macintyre, Juan Maiguashca, and Attila Pók, 349–66. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011.

Vasiljević, Alimpije. Istorija narodnog obrazovanja kod Srba [History of the education of the Serbian people]. Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1867.

Veselinović, Andrija. “Srećković Pantelija-Panta.” In Enciklopedija srpske istoriografije, edited by Sima Ćirković and Rade Mihaljčić, 644–46. Belgrade: Knowledge, 1997.

Zbornik radova naučnog skupa Jovan Rajić: Istoričar, pesnik i crkveni velikodostojnik [Proceedings of the symposium on Jovan Rajić: Historian, poet and church dignitary]. Novi Sad: SANU, 2002.

1 Vatroslav Jagić, “Ilarion Ruvarac,” Archiv für slavische Philologie 27 (1905): 634.

2 Ibid.

3 G. A. Ilinsky, “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac,” Vizantijski vremennik 13 (1906): 256; Cf. K., “Ruvarac Hilárion,” Századok 39 (1905): 783–84; Tadija Smičiklas, “Ilarion Ruvarac,” Ljetopis Jugoslavenske akademije znanosti i umjetnosti 21 (1907): 168–73.

4 Ljubomir Jovanović, “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac,” Delo: List za nauku, književnost i društveni život 36 (1905): 227–32. Cf. Jovan Radonić, “Ilarion Ruvarac (1832–1905),” Letopis Matice srpske 233 (1905): 106–20; Jovan N. Tomić, “Arhimandrit Ilarion Ruvarac,” Godišnjak Srpske kraljevske akademije 19 (1906): 348–62.

5 The most comprehensive bibliography of Ruvarac’s works is found in: Borivoje Marinković, “Ilarion Ruvarac i njegovo delo: Povodom 140-godišnjice rođenja (1832–1972),” Istraživanja 2 (1973): 453–509.

6 See: Eric Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), especially 46–79.

7 Cf. Stefan Berger, Marko Donovan, and Kevin Passmore (eds.), Writing National Histories: Western Europe Since 1800 (London: Routledge, 1999); Stefan Berger with Christoph Conrad, The Past as History: National Identity and Historical Consciousness in Modern Europe (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2015), particularly 80–139.

8 Nikola Radojčić, Srpski istoričar Jovan Rajić (Belgrade: Naučna knjiga, 1952); Zbornik radova naučnog skupa Jovan Rajić: istoričar, pesnik i crkveni velikodostojnik (Novi Sad: SANU, 2002).

9 Jakov Ignjatović, “Pogled na knjižestvo,” Letopis Matice srpske 96 (1857): 159.

10 Radovan Samardžić, Pisci srpske istorije (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1976), 1:70. Cf. Dimitrije Đorđević, “Uloga istoricizma u formiranju balkanskih država 19. veka,” Zbornik Filozofskog fakulteta u Beogradu 10 (1968): 309–26.

11 Danilo Medaković, Povjesnica srbskog naroda od najstarijih vremena do 1850. godine, 4 vols. (Novi Sad: 1851–1852).

12 Ibid., 1: v, xxxvii.

13 Samardžić, Pisci srpske istorije, 1:69–70 and 2:234.

14 Branko Bešlin, Evropski uticaji na srpski liberalizam u 19. veku (Novi Sad, Sremski Karlovci: IKZS, 2005).

15 Cf. Alimpije Vasiljević, Istorija narodnog obrazovanja kod Srba (Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1867).

16 Nikola Radojčić, “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca,” in Spomenica Ilarionu Ruvarcu (Novi Sad: Filozofski fakultet, 1955), 45. About Gerčić see: Nikola Radojčić, Jakov Gerčić: Prvi srpski pokušaj velike opšte istorije (Belgrade: Čupićeva zadužbina, 1928).

17 Oskar Donath, “Siegfried Kappers Leben und Wirken,” Archiv für slavische Philologie 30 (1909): 420.

18 Jovan Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” in Spomenica Ilarionu Ruvarcu (Novi Sad: Filozofski fakultet, 1955), 16–17.

19 In addition to the abovementioned articles of Radojčić and Radonić, for the newest and most comprehensive insight into Ruvarac’s biography see: Boško Suvajdžić, Ilarion Ruvarac i narodna književnost (Belgrade: Institut za književnost i umetnost, 2007), 11–37.

20 Nikolaus Grass, “Albert Jäger,” Neue Deutsche Biographie (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1974), 10:273.

21 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Pregled domaćih izvora stare srpske povesnice,” Sedmica 5 (1856): 338–40, 348–50, 353–56, 364–65.

22 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Prilog k ispitivanju srpskih junačkih pesama,” Sedmica 6 (1857): 17–19, 25–27, 33–36, 49–52, 68–69, 81–83, 89–90, 106–08, 113–14, 137–38, 161–62, 177–78, 193–94, 211–13, 243–45, 265–68; 7 (1858): 6–8, 57–60.

23 Cf. Suvajdžić, Ilarion Ruvarac i narodna književnost, 61–66.

24 Radojčić, “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca,” 92.

25 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Pregled domaćih izvora stare srpske povesnice,” Sedmica 5 (1856): 339.

26 Jagić, “Ilarion Ruvarac,” 635.

27 Radojčić, “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca,” 79.

28 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Prilošci Ilariona Ruvarca,” Stražilovo 46 (1888): 745.

29 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Na pitanje: Kad su se Srbi s patrijarhom Arsenijem III Čarnojevićem doselili u zemlje mađarske krune?” Javor 21 (1891): 330.

30 Čedomir Popov, “Ilarion Ruvarac i Jovan Ristić,” in Braća Ruvarac u srpskoj istoriografiji i kulturi (Novi Sad, Sremska Mitrovica: SANU, 1997), 182.

31 Ilarion Ruvarac, Montenegrina: Prilošci istoriji Crne Gore (Sremski Karlovci: Srpska manastirska štamparija 1898), 107.

32 Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 23. Cf. Marius Turda, “Historical Writing in the Balkans,” in The Oxford History of Historical Writing: Vol. 4. 1800–1945, ed. Stuart Macintyre, Juan Maiguashca, and Attila Pók (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 354.

33 Ilarion Ruvarac, Stari Slankamen (Zemun: Štamparija Sime Pajića, 1892), reprinted in Nikola Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca: Odabrani istoriski radovi (Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1934), 401.

34 Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 29.

35 Ilarion Ruvarac, O knezu Lazaru (Novi Sad: Srpska štamparija S. Miletića, 1887), 191.

36 Radojčić, “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca,” 98.

37 Jovan Radonić, “Ilarion Ruvarac i njegovi radovi na polju crkvene istorije,” Glasnik istoriskog društva u Novom Sadu 5 (1932): 239.

38 Cf. Jovan Grčić, Portreti s pisama (Novi Sad: Štamparija Jovanović i Bogdanov, 1939), 5:86.

39 Ibid., 12. Jovan Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 35.

40 Monika Baár, Historians and Nationalism: East-Central Europe in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).

41 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Hronološka pitanja o vremenu bitke na Marici, smrti kralja Vukašina i smrti cara Uroša,” Godišnjica Nikole Čupića 3 (1879): 214–26. Reprinted in Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, 68–78.

42 Ruvarac, O knezu Lazaru, 350–51. On the historiography of the battle of Kosovo see: Marko Šuica, “The Image of the Battle of Kosovo (1389) Today: A Historic Event, a Moral Pattern, or the Tool of Political Manipulation,” in The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European States: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins, ed. R. J. W. Evans and Guy P. Marchal (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011), 152–74.

43 Ilarion Ruvarac, O pećkim patrijarsima od Makarija do Arsenija III 1557–1690 (Zadar: Štamparija I. Vodicke, 1888).

44 Ilarion Ruvarac, Odlomci o grofu Đorđu Brankoviću i Arseniju Crnojeviću patrijarhu, s tri izleta o takozvanoj velikoj seobi srpskog naroda (Belgrade: Srpska kraljevska akademija, 1896).

45 Ibid., 93–103.

46 Ibid., 144–45.

47 Ilarion Ruvarac, “Otvoreno pismo,” Naše doba 35 (1885): 3–4.

48 About Montenegro see: Sima M. Ćirković, The Serbs (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 108–10.

49 Ruvarac, Montenegrina. Cf. Suvajdžić, Ilarion Ruvarac i narodna književnost, 395–414.

50 See Samardžić, Pisci srpske istorije, 2:231.

51 Ibid., 235.

52 Stojan Novaković, Istorija i tradicija (Belgrade: SKZ, 1982), 5.

53 About Milojević see: Z. R. Popović, “Miloš S. Milojević,” Brastvo 8 (1899): 379–400. Cf. Marko Šuica, “Milojević Miloš,” in Enciklopedija srpske istoriografije, ed. Sima Ćirković and Rade Mihaljčić (Belgrade: Knowledge, 1997), 507.

54 Miloš S. Milojević, Odlomci istorije Srba i srpskih – jugoslavenskih – zemalja u Turskoj i Austriji (Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1872).

55 Ilarion Ruvarac, “O radu Miloša S. Milojevića u Glasniku,” Letopis Matice srpske 115 (1873): 172–78. Reprinted in Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, 60–67.

56 Ibid., 67.

57 Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 26.

58 Andrija Veselinović, “Srećković Pantelija-Panta,” in Enciklopedija srpske istoriografije, ed. Sima Ćirković and Rade Mihaljčić (Belgrade: Knowledge, 1997), 644–46.

59 Pantelija S. Srećković, Istorija srpskog naroda (Belgrade: Srpsko učeno društvo, 1884).

60 Ilarion Ruvarac, Prethodni prikaz knjige Istorija srpskog naroda, napisao P. Srećković (Novi Sad: n.p., 1885.) Reprinted in Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, 89–120.

61 Ibid., 95.

62 Ibid., 95–97.

63 Ibid., 98–113.

64 Excerpts from Srećković’s letter are given in: Ilarion Ruvarac, “Prelaz s prikaza na kritiku,” Naše doba (1885–1886). Reprinted in Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, 126.

65 Ibid., 127, 130.

66 Ibid., 138.

67 Ibid., 158.

68 Ibid., 182.

69 Ibid., 200.

70 Ibid., 200–01.

71 Radojčić, “O istoriskome metodu Ilariona Ruvarca”, 97; Cf. Ilarion Ruvarac, “Poreklo Sibinjanin Janka,” Kolo 1 (1901). Reprinted in Radojčić, ed., Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, 523.

72 Aleksandar Protić, Naši moderni istoričari (Belgrade: Štamparija kod Prosvete, 1900), 9.

73 Cf. Dimitrije Djordjević, “Die Serben,” In Die Völker des Reiches, ed. Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanitsch, vol. 3 of Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1980), 1:734–74.

74 Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 28.

75 Ruvarac, Odlomci o grofu Đorđu Brankoviću, 21.

76 Ibid., vii.

77 Ibid.

78 Stanoje Stanojević, “Ilarijon Ruvarac,” Stražilovo 36 (1892): 574–75.

79 Jovan Radonić, Zapadna Evropa i balkanski narodi prema Turcima u prvoj polovini XV veka (Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1905).

80 Sima Ćirković, “Javljanje ‘kritičke istoriografije’ na Velikoj školi i Univerzitetu,” in Univerzitet u Beogradu 1838–1988: Zbornik radova (Belgrade: Univerzitet u Beogradu, Savremena administracija, 1988), 645–54.

81 Samardžić, Pisci srpske istorije, 1:195.

82 Jovan Radonić, “O Ilarionu Ruvarcu,” 19.

83 Nikola Radojčić, “Uvod: O mislima i naporima oko izdavanja radova Ilariona Ruvarca,” in Radojčić, Zbornik Ilariona Ruvarca, vii.

84 Samardžić, Pisci srpske istorije, 2:242.

Volume 5 Issue 2 CONTENTS

pdf

Aleksandar Pavlović and Srđan Atanasovski

From Myth to Territory: Vuk Karadžić, Kosovo Epics and the Role of Nineteenth-Century Intellectuals in Establishing National Narratives*

 

In this article, we argue that the nineteenth-century Serbian scholars had a pivotal role in establishing Kosovo as the crucial subject of Serbian literature, culture, and politics. By revisiting the formation of the Kosovo epic in the collections of Vuk Karadžić, the founder of modern Serbian culture, we trace his role in making Kosovo the foundational myth of the whole Serbian nation from the nineteenth-century surge in Romantic nationalism onwards. In particular, we scrutinize Karadžić’s editorial procedures as parts of a process of cultural inscription representing a cultural transformation that made the Kosovo epic an instance of the invention of national tradition in Eric Hobsbawm’s terms.

 

Keywords: Kosovo epic, Serbian oral tradition, Vuk Karadžić

Introduction

This article examines the role of nineteenth-century Serbian scholars, and in particular Vuk Karadžić, in establishing Kosovo as the key theme of Serbian literature, culture, and politics. The Kosovo myth was established by Serbian folklorists in the early nineteenth century. By revisiting the formation of the Kosovo epic in the collections of Vuk Karadžić, the founder of modern Serbian culture, we trace the transformation of the late eighteenth-century and early nineteenth-century Weltanschauung of the Serbs of the Habsburg Empire (especially of southern Hungary, where Karadžić collected most of the Kosovo songs). In particular, we examine Karadžić’s editorial procedures as instances of a process of cultural inscription that transformed the Kosovo epic into a typical example of invented tradition in Eric Hobsbawm’s terms.

Serbian oral songs about the Kosovo battle published by Vuk Karadžić are generally still perceived as having been collected rather than invented. This long-established conviction in the secondary literature has primarily been the result of two principal underlying presumptions: that Karadžić was a reliable collector and editor who refrained from altering or adding to the texts he published and that the Kosovo songs were popular and widespread among the Serbs for centuries. This view also has the support of the glorifiers of the Serbian Kosovo epic and, more recently, those who see it as the source of conflicts in the Balkans.1 Focusing on the “universal” or “eternal” qualities of the Kosovo epic, both approaches fail to identify Karadžić’s interventions as cultural inscriptions representing a cultural transformation which makes the Kosovo epic in his edition an instance of invented national tradition in Hobsbawm’s terms. By revisiting the formation of the Kosovo epic in Karadžić’s collections, we trace his contributions to the establishment of the Kosovo epic in its present form. We make two principal arguments: first, Karadžić secured for the Kosovo epic songs a far more prominent role than the role they appeared to occupy within the oral tradition itself; and second, he shaped their published form, modeling them to fit the existing model of folk songs at the time.

Intellectuals and Nation-building

The role of intellectuals in promoting national agendas has been recognized in the existing scholarship. In the wake of the publication of the works of Benedict Anderson,2 Anthony D. Smith,3 Ernest Gellner4 and others in the early 1980s, it became a commonplace in the humanities to refer to the idea of the nation as a late eighteenth-century and early nineteenth-century European invention, closely related to the emergence of the modern state, grounded in popular sovereignty after the French Revolution.5 Meanwhile, the pivotal role of intellectuals as the true creators of the “imagined communities” in the nation-formation process has been systematically studied.6 What such studies reveal is that intellectuals did not merely reveal or discover facts about a nation, they also created or simply fabricated these facts and “truths,” thus “traditions which appear or claim to be old are often quite recent in origin and often invented.”7 Specifically, in the context of East Central Europe it has been observed that the intellectuals strived to establish “national history” both as a scientific discipline and as a volume of texts marketed towards popular audiences, thus blurring the border between science and the national imagination and the border between academic and lay readers.8

In the processes of inventing (“discovering”) their national traditions, nineteenth-century Eastern European intellectuals delegated a role of particular importance to their oral traditions and folklore. To be sure, Romantic nationalism promoted by Johann Gottfried Herder, the Grimm Brothers, and other European scholars in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century already established folklore and folk songs in particular as the “soul of the nation” and the greatest expression of the national spirit.9 However, these ideas and publications of Herder and the Grimm Brothers had a particularly strong impact on the cultures and nations of Eastern and Northern Europe. As Guiseppe Cocchiara argues, Eastern and Northern Europeans had a relatively modest literary tradition in comparison to the French, English, or Italians, for example. Without strong roots in written literature, national intellectuals thus turned to oral literature as “a rich intellectual, moral, and social fortune, both the document of their traditions and the monument of their language.”10

Under such circumstances, the folk epic was more than likely to attain a privileged position in society. Epic songs typically focus on national heroes, battles against invaders, and the glorious deeds of ancestors, and thus often serve as confirmation of a glorious national past and a source of identity representations. As John Miles Foley reminds us, “for national identity, epic is a foundational genre.”11 According to Beissinger, Tylus and Woofford, this peculiar and complex connection of epic to national and local cultures or, as they call it, the “political explosiveness” or “political potency” of epic is most evident “in the intense reimagining of epic undertaken by most emerging European nations as a means of coming to self-knowledge as a nation.”12 Michael Branch and Vilmos Voigt also view this exceptional early nineteenth-century interest in epic poetry in Eastern Europe as a part of the process of national formation and self-affirmation. As they emphasize, oral poetry often served as “a convenient substitute for written history” for Eastern European nations, and the epic was the only proper form for this subject. Voigt describes this as “the constant urge to establish or re-establish a heroic past from and in the form of heroic songs as part of the cultural tradition and identity.”13 Branch conveniently labels this practice “the invention of national epic” and “the patriotic imperative to produce an epic,” and he follows the birth of several mystifications published as “ancient” epic poems that were “discovered” in the first half of the nineteenth century.14

Vuk Karadžić and the Making of the Kosovo Epic

The aforementioned scholars also consider Serbian epic songs collected and edited by Vuk Stefanović Karadžić (1787–1864) throughout the nineteenth century as especially relevant and illustrative examples of the importance and exceptional role of epic poetry in these processes.15 Born in a rural family of what at the time was the Ottoman Empire, Karadžić came to Vienna in 1813 after the collapse of the first Serbian uprising against the Ottoman rule, where he played a major role in the modernization of Serbian literature and culture. He reformed the language and orthography by promoting the vernacular instead of the Slavonic-Serbian language used at the time. He also collected the folklore of Serbian peasants and herders and is considered to have been the first Serbian folklorist, ethnographer, and literary critic.16 Throughout his life, Karadžić meticulously collected Serbian oral epic and lyric songs, and he published three editions with ten volumes altogether between 1814 and 1862. In addition, through his acquaintances with leading scholars of the time, such as Jacob Grimm, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and Leopold Ranke, and his many publications, Karadžić drew the attention of scholars and lay readers to Serbian folk poetry and Serbian culture in Europe. Two of his younger friends and associates, the prominent Serbian poet Sima Milutinović Sarajlija and Montenegrin ruler and writer Petar II Petrović Njegoš, soon followed Karadžić’s founding work and published their editions of epic songs, mostly collected in the territory of present-day Montenegro. Milutinović printed his A Montenegrin and Herzegovinian Songbook (Pjevanija Crnogorska i Hercegovačka) in 1833 and 1837, and Njegoš edited The Serbian Mirror (Ogledalo srbsko) in 1846. During the second half of the nineteenth century, comprehensive collections of the oral traditional poetry of other South Slavs, such as Jukić-Martić’s Bosnian and Herzegovinian Folk Songs (Narodne pjesme bosanske i hercegovačke), Kosta Hörmann’s The Folk Songs of Bosnian and Herzegovinian Muslims (Narodne pjesme Muhamedovaca u Bosni i Hercegovini), and the first four volumes of Croatian Folk Songs (Hrvatske narodne pjesme), were published.17 The oral tradition documented by these collectors thus corresponded to their ideas about the Serbian (Croatian, Muslim, South Slav...) folk epic as a narrative that contained the national past and preserved a living memory of the former national heroes and glory. This notion of the folk epic as the expression of popular and collective views of national history was codified and canonized by Karadžić’s and Njegoš’s followers during the second half of the nineteenth century.18

The Kosovo epic published by Karadžić in the early nineteenth century had all the virtues required of a national tradition. It comprises a separate and distinct cycle of some 15 related epic songs describing the events of the Battle of Kosovo, fought in 1389 between the Serbs and the Ottomans. Over the centuries, the battle acquired mythical status and evolved into one of the central national symbols in Serbian culture, referred to as the Kosovo tradition or the Kosovo myth. These oral epic songs about Kosovo are by far the most important source of the myth, and both Karadžić himself and later scholars in particular appreciated and praised this cycle as central to the entire Serbian oral tradition.19 In these songs, the Battle of Kosovo is depicted as the decisive one that saw the downfall of Prince Lazar, the Medieval Serbian Empire, and Serbia’s independence, while at the same time it established the Ottomans as the new masters. The Kosovo epic contains various elements of literary, religious, and popular origin, such as the last supper on the eve of the battle, the treason of Lazar’s brother-in-law Vuk Branković, the heroic death of Miloš Obilić, who killed the Ottoman Sultan Murad, Lazar’s deliberate choice of death and the kingdom of heaven over earthly fame, the sorrows of mothers and maidens who lost their sons and grooms, etc.

As far as the selection of the material is concerned, it has long been established that Karadžić’s collections are anthologies rather than collections.20 His manuscripts, for example, show that he published only a small percentage of all the songs that he had at his disposal. Karadžić himself was ready to admit that his publications were not representative of the whole of Serbian oral tradition, but rather contained only its best achievements. Responding in 1833 to a comment about his exclusiveness in publishing the songs, he explained his views: “I believe it to be foolish not to choose, if one can, [and I believe] that our folk songs would not get such praise and glory if I had published them all, and without any order.”21

Karadžić’s particular interest in the songs that celebrated the heroes from the times of the Medieval Serbian Empire and the Kosovo battle forms another important aspect of his editorial approach. For instance, in his earliest (1814) songbook, he stressed the particular importance of these songs that “preserve former Serbian being and name.”22 Such an attitude had significant implications with regards to his editorial practice, since in the first decades Karadžić focused mainly on documenting these songs and heroes at the expense of other popular subjects. For example, more than half of approximately twenty-four songs that he collected from Tešan Podrugović (1783?–1820?), who was Karadžić’s favorite source for Serbian epic poetry, are about medieval heroes and subjects, and Marko Kraljević alone appears as a hero in nine of these songs.23 However, these older subjects and heroes were far less prominent if placed in the context of Podrugović’s entire repertoire, which is due to Karadžić’s selective process of collecting songs. As Karadžić himself noted, Podrugović knew “at least one hundred of songs such as this one that I wrote down from him, especially about certain highwaymen from the [Dalmatian] Coast, Bosnia and Herzegovina.”24 In accordance with his editorial preferences, however, Karadžić collected and published all Podrugović’s songs about Marko Kraljević, but very few about more recent heroes. Another similar example is his transcription of Starac Milija’s (?–after 1822) songs, who was another important source for Karadžić. For years, Karadžić persistently tried to arrange a meeting with this singer, because he had heard that Milija knew two songs about medieval Serbian aristocracy exceptionally well, The Wedding of Maksim Crnojevic (Ženidba Maksima Crnojevića) and Banović Strahinja (Banovic Strahinja). Again, it shows his special interest in the songs about subjects and heroes from the times of the Serbian Empire. In total, Karadžić managed to write down three songs about older heroes from this singer, and only one about a more recent local character, but he left testimony that Milija knew many more songs about these newer events.25 In both cases, therefore, the bulk of the singer’s repertoire consisted of songs about relatively recent local characters and events. Karadžić, however, documented and published only those describing the exploits of older heroes, thus giving the songs about the “former Serbian being and name” a more prominent position in his early collections that they appear to have had in the early nineteenth-century Serbian oral tradition.

The case of the Kosovo epic is equally telling. Karadžić appreciated these songs in particular and made efforts to collect all the songs available at the time. For instance, upon hearing that a blind female singer from Fruška Gora near Novi Sad performed a song called The Downfall of the Serbian Empire (Propast carstva Srpskoga), he immediately wrote to Lukijan Mušicki, the prior (iguman) of the nearby monastery, and asked him to collect Kosovo songs about Lazar from a particular blind singer. As Karadžić explicitly says: “we will hardly find these songs anywhere else.”26 This statement was logical, given that he had collected practically all the songs about Kosovo in this narrow region of Fruška Gora, and perhaps even suspected the tradition was not present anywhere else. Thus, in the following period, he persistently reminded Mušicki to collect three Kosovo songs from the blind woman from Grgurevci; finally, in late 1816, Mušicki informed Karadžić that the woman had been brought to the Šišatovac monastery, and that deacon Stefan had written down the songs she had sung.27 During these years, Karadžić collected several other songs of the Kosovo epic, as a rule from the blind singers whore sided and performed in the area of Fruška Gora.

Apparently, Karadžić suggests that these particular songs about Lazar were neither widely popular nor widely known. His later collections confirm the point made in this letter. Namely, although in the following decades Karadžić established a network of associates in Serbia proper, Montenegro, and Herzegovina, he later published only one more song about Lazar, which describes the building of Ravanica, a Serbian Orthodox monastery in the Kučaj Mountains that was constructed as an endowment of Prince Lazar.28 Other collectors who published songs from the mountainous regions where the Serbian oral epic tradition was practiced, such as the aforementioned Sarajlija and Njegoš, also found no instances of the Kosovo epic. Even in the early twentieth century, Slovene folklorist Matija Murko studied contemporary oral tradition in Bosnia and Herzegovina and reported that the Kosovo songs did not feature prominently among the repertoires of the local singers:

 

I was surprised that the Bosnian and Hercegovinian Orthodox did not know the magnificent songs relating to the ancient history of Serbia as well as I had expected, any more than did the Orthodox people of Montenegro. When I collected recordings in Sarajevo, the Serbian intellectuals present asked a singer from the region if he knew the poems about Prince Lazar, Miloš Obilić, and Vuk Branković. He answered: “No, I’m illiterate.”29

This indicates that, rather than being widely popular at the time, the songs about Prince Lazar were mostly confined to the Srem region surrounding the monasteries of Fruška Gora.

This is hardly surprising. After the so-called Great Migrations in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, the centers of the Serbian Orthodox Church moved from Kosovo and central Serbia to the north, and Fruška Gora, with important Orthodox monasteries, became the center of Serbian religious life. Moreover, in 1697 the monks from Ravanica moved Lazar’s relics to the Vrdnik monastery in Fruška Gora. The monastery annually commemorated the day of Lazar’s death, and medieval texts, such as the aforementioned Slovo o knezu Lazaru, were read on the occasion.30 This shows both how the local cult of Lazar found its way into this local oral tradition and how Karadžić significantly contributed to the establishment of this tradition as a (and almost the) national tradition.

From the Unified Lazarica Poem to the Separate Kosovo Songs

The arrangement of the Kosovo songs in Karadžić’s collections forms another important element of his influence over the Kosovo epic. The Kosovo tradition in Fruška Gora existed in the form of one long poem about Kosovo. Karadžić’s awareness of this fact is corroborated in his Serbian Dictionary (Srpski rječnik) from 1818, in which he acknowledges the existence of a long poem sung by the blind singers who called it Lazarica and specifies that “all other Kosovo songs are only parts of Lazarica.”31 Moreover, Karadžić’s manuscripts contain one instance of such a lengthy Kosovo epic poem. In 1820, a local priest informed Karadžić that he had collected one large Kosovo song from a blind singer residing in the same area in which other Kosovo songs had been collected.32 The manuscript of the song, called About the Battle of Kosovo (O Boju Kosovskom), contains exactly 2,439 decasyllables,33 which is approximately twenty times more than an average Serbian oral song and over twice the length of The Wedding of Maksim Crnojević (Ženidba Maksima Crnojevića), by far the longest song published by Karadžić.

So, why did Karadžić publish the Kosovo epic as separate songs if he apparently knew that they form one long poem? This editorial choice may seem unlikely, even counterintuitive, if one keeps in mind the fact that the early folklorists as a rule approached their material in the opposite way. James Macpherson and Elias Lönnrot, for example, typically regarded the Iliad as the role model of an oral tradition, and they unified short Scottish and Finnish oral songs to form long, narrative poems (The Works of Ossian and Kalevala).

The rationale for Karadžić’s approach is that he wanted to accommodate the Kosovo epic into the existing model of a Serbian folk song. He had started his folkloristic career in 1814 in Vienna under the influence of the Slovene scholar Bartholomeus (Jernej) Kopitar and Jacob Grimm, who preferred the songs collected from illiterate, common people in rural areas, which they regarded as true, genuine, and authentic folk songs. Grimm, for example, recommended to his correspondents and associates that they collect songs in remote regions uncorrupted by urban civilization and education. According to Grimm, “On the high mountains and in the small villages, where there are neither paths or roads, and where the false Enlightenment has had no access and was unable to do its work, there still lies hidden in darkness a treasure: the customs of our forefathers, their sagas and their faith.”34 According to him, the creativity and imagination characteristic of folk poetry spring and originate from these deepest and most conservative parts of the peasantry.35 For him, therefore, the notion of the folk as a creator was collective and limited to a particular background and particular class, specifically the rural population living in remote areas detached from the influence of official literature and civilization.

It is precisely for this authenticity that Karadžić’s early collections, conveniently published at the peak of scholarly interest in folk poetry, almost instantly gained international repute and unanimous recognition among leading scholars of the time as great achievements of “natural poetry.” The collections offered a number of folk songs “uncorrupted” by literacy and scholarly influence, as Karadžić wrote in his first short collection from 1814.36 In his lengthy review of Karadžić’s edition of Srpske narodne pjesme in 1823, Jacob Grimm similarly emphasized that the songs had been collected directly “aus dem warmen Munde des Volkes,” and he wrote that the works were the most important and valuable epic songs for an understanding of heroic poetry since the Homeric epic, and Kopitar claimed that no European nation could match the Serbs in the quality of their folk poetry.37

The “problem” with the Kosovo epic was that it hardly met these standards. Not only was it apparently not so popular “on the high mountains and in the small villages,” but it had been sung by a professional guild of blind singers located around Fruška Gora.38 As shown by scarce bits of evidence from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, blind singers were trained to sing epic and other songs in the town of Irig at the center of Fruška Gora, and they had the assistance of the local community and nearby monasteries.39 According to the few available sources, the “school” actually consisted of a basement or an abandoned building where blind singers practiced during the winter. A report from 1826 testifies that “these blind singers form a sort of a guild among themselves, like the German Meistersingers; older singers educate the younger ones, and that is how these wonderful songs are preserved. Those blind singers perform mostly at fairs, gatherings, and other similar occasions.”40 Scholars have explained why Karadžić himself makes no mention of the “Irig School”: any emphasis on this institutional and professional manner of epic singing would compromise the idea of the collectivity of the oral tradition and its popular basis.41 The oral technique and repertoire were not the manifestations of a living oral tradition, as in Montenegro and Herzegovina, but were part of a professionalized and institutionalized procedure. Consequently, Karadžić decided to divide Lazarica into separate songs and present it as other short songs collected from the highlanders from Montenegro and Herzegovina, “where almost every house has a gusle” (the traditional one-string instrument that typically accompanies the oral epic performance).42

A detailed philological analysis would likely reveal other, less prominent forms of Karadžić’s interventions in the Kosovo epic. For instance, in his earliest collections he published some words originally performed by singers in the ekavian dialect used in Fruška Gora in the ijekavian that was spoken in Herzegovina and Montenegro, for instance using bijelo and vjerna instead of belo and verna. While this may not appear terribly significant, it was in line with his belief at the time that the songs that were of Herzegovinian origin but had been collected in southern Hungary should be published in the Herzegovinian dialect. This gave the impression that the songs had been collected from the rural mountainous parts of the central Balkans, rather than from the areas of what at the time was southern Hungary, the culture of which was strongly influenced by literacy and Serbian Orthodox church. These changes could serve as fabricated arguments in support of his view according to which hall Serbian heroic songs originated from Herzegovina, while the culture of the more urban and literate Serbs from the Habsburg Empire was not of great value. Thus, he wanted to ground new Serbian culture on an illiterate oral and epic tradition and hence presented the Kosovo epic as the highest expression of this illiterate rural population. But the high ethical values and expressions of advanced culture in the Kosovo epic were made possible precisely through combinations of oral and written, urban and rural, European and Orthodox cultures.

In addition, although Karadžić declared that the songs he published had been collected directly from the singers as part of the living oral tradition, he did occasionally use existing written sources. Thus, in his first collection he published Hasanaginica not, as he claims, on the basis of his childhood memory, but on the basis of Alberto Fortis’s book Viaggio in Dalmatia, published in Venice in 1774, and he continued to reprint it regularly in the later editions. The same applies to several other songs for which Karadžić claimed to be part of the living oral tradition, but which in fact were taken from printed sources.43

Svetozar Matić and Miodrag Maticki also suggested that several of Karadžić’s Kosovo songs and songs about older subjects from Montenegro had not been collected directly from oral singers, but rather had been taken from earlier manuscript collections.44 According to their suggestions, in addition to transforming certain ekavian dialectical forms into ijekavian, Karadžić made other changes when editing the Kosovo epic. For instance, he inserted some verses from other songs, relied on the Kosovo songs available in unpublished manuscripts of the educated Serbs of the time, and even possibly falsely attributed some fragments of the Kosovo epic which he took from the manuscripts to his father, Stefan. However, without Karadžić’s original manuscripts, these contentions remain a matter of dispute.

Finally, although Karadžić demanded that his associates write down the songs accurately, he did not always respect these high methodological demands and principles himself, and quite often he made certain changes and corrections or altered certain phrases in the texts he published. The difficulty with identifying these changes, however, lies in the fact that Karadžić did not keep the manuscripts of the songs he published. As Živomir Mladenović indicated, this might be a consequence of his intention to shrink his voluminous archive, but he also may have sought to conceal the actual amount of editorial changes he had made.45 Karadžić’s manuscripts thus consisted mostly of the songs that he received from his associates after 1832 and which remained unpublished during his lifetime. Nevertheless, his archive still contains some writings made in the earliest period of his work which enable us to create a provisional image of his overall editorial procedure. Živomir Mladenović’s comprehensive analysis of Karadžić’s manuscripts identified three basic types of changes in the texts that Karadžić had published.46 The songs that Karadžić personally wrote down from his best singers, such as Filip Višnjić, he edited practically without any changes, apart from punctuation and minor corrections. The preserved part of the manuscript of the song “Knez Ivan Knežević,” collected from Filip Višnjić in 1815, for example, contains only two slight divergences from the published texts. Karadžić published the verse Pred bijelu pred Brodačku crkvu as Pred Brodačku pred bijelu crkvu, and he changed Ni Ivanu kogodi zavali to Ni Ivanu kogodi zafali. These changes thus only affect word order or orthography in some cases, which has little to do with folklore and has relevance in the context of his efforts to reform Serbian grammar and orthography. In the songs that Karadžić himself had written down on the basis of renditions by less accomplished singers, Mladenović observes that he intervened more frequently, often changing the word order, substituting phrases, or inserting certain verses.47 Finally, in the songs that Karadžić received from his associates, Mladenović argues, he felt free to intervene aggressively and add or remove whole verses or even series of verses.48

Conclusion

In conclusion, Karadžić’s editorial method and procedure should not be judged too severely, especially when placed in the context of his time and compared with the methods used by Macpherson and Lönnrot. In general, Karadžić collected many oral songs himself, and he persistently searched for the best singers and quite successfully avoided obviously literary epic songs and poems that some of his contemporaries considered oral songs and published as examples of the purest folk poetry. Foley’s conclusion that “his editing was light in comparison with the usual practice of the time”49 thus appears justified.

Nevertheless, when talking about the Kosovo epic, we believe that the aforementioned analysis exemplifies the impact of Vuk Karadžić and the nineteenth-century conceptions of folklore and folk songs on editing, codifying, and interpreting the Kosovo epic at the time. Most importantly, Karadžić separated an existing long Kosovo poem into smaller epic songs dedicated to particular events and parts of the legend. In addition, we revisited the commonly held idea about the Kosovo songs being widely popular among the Serbs for centuries, which persists to this day in the “glorifying” and “critical” approaches to the Kosovo legend, and we suggested that Karadžić and later scholars contributed substantially to this exceptional status of the Kosovo songs. Thus, we argued that Karadžić, though his interventions are certainly not as drastic as those made by many of his contemporaries, had a distinguished and formative role in the codification of the Kosovo epic in its present form.

The impact of Karadžić’s Kosovo epic on the formation of Serbian nationalism is hard to overemphasize. Since its inception, the Kosovo myth has been one of the cornerstones of the discourse, which is due not only to its purported vernacular popularity, but primarily because of the political potency of the myth. Namely, the story of the Serbian medieval state provided an enviable legitimacy to the current political claims of Serbian nationalism, especially in order to vindicate specific territorial claims. This comes as no surprise, since European national movements of the day generally relied heavily on medieval history for legitimacy, particularly in order to define themselves in spatial terms. As Patrick J. Geary argues, the Middle Ages were in the nineteenth century seen as a time of “primary acquisition,” when the European lands were supposedly rightfully parceled out by the historic nations.50 Since the Kosovo epic made it possible to see the vast swathe of land in the hands of Ottoman Empire at the time as the “primary acquisition” of the Serbian nation, the myth served not only as a literary achievement, but also as a veritable battle cry and a trump card of Serbian expansionistic politics.51 Its popularity has been fostered through various adaptations since the mid-nineteenth century up to the recent times. One of the early and most influential was the publication in 1871 in Belgrade of the poems arranged by the “epic alignment” by Stojan Novaković, followed by an edition in Zagreb the following year, and entitled simply Kosovo, in an effort to present a comprehensive and succinct plotline.52 The Kosovo epic has won praise the world over, as during the first half of the twentieth century, the poems were typically included in the anthologies of world epics and singled out as one of the great folk epic achievements in general.53 More recently, the tale has featured prominently both in the agenda of Serbian nationalists, who saw in it the nation’s commitment to metaphysical values and heroism,54 and to Western authors, who referred to it as the source of an explanation for much of the troubles and atrocities in the Balkans.55 Perhaps shifting the focus from allegedly centennial and metaphysical features of the Kosovo myth to the contributions made by Karadžić and other nineteenth century figures to the Kosovo epic and its establishment as invented tradition will bring some welcome moderation into discussion of its present contested status.

Bibliography

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983.

Anzulović, Branimir. Heavenly Serbia: From Myth to Genocide. London: Hurst, 1999.

Bakić-Hayden, Milica. “Kosovo: Reality of a Myth and Myth of Many Realities.” In Serbien und Montenegro: Raum und Bevölkerung, Geschichte, Sprache und Literatur, Kultur, Politik, Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft, Recht, edited by Walter Lukan, Ljubinka Trgovčević, and Dragan Vukčević, 133–42.Vienna–Berlin: LIT, 2006.

Bećković, Matija. Kosovo: Najskuplja srpska reč [Kosovo: The most expensive Serbian word]. Valjevo: Glascrkve, 1989.

Beissinger, Margaret. “Epic, Genre, and Nationalism: The Development of Nineteenth-Century Balkan Literature.” In Epic Traditions in the Contemporary World: The Poetics of Community, edited by Margaret Beissinger, Jane Tylus, and Susanne Wofford, 69–86. Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California Press, 1999.

Beissinger, Margaret, Jane Tylus, and Susanne Wofford, eds. Epic Traditions in the Contemporary World: The Poetics of Community. Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California Press, 1999.

Bowra, Cecil Maurice. Heroic Poetry. London: Macmillan, 1952.

Branch, Michael. “The Invention of a National Epic.” In The Uses of Tradition: A Comparative Enquiry into the Nature, Uses and Functions of Oral Poetry in the Balkans, the Baltic, and Africa, edited by Michael Branch and Celia Hawkesworth, 195–211. London–Helsinki: School of Slavonic and East European Studies–Finnish Literature Society, 1994.

Brown, Maximilian. Kosovo: Die Schlacht auf dem Amselfelde in geschichtlicher und epischer Überlieferung. Leipzig: Markert und Petters, 1937.

Burke, Peter. Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe. London: Temple Smith, 1978.

Chadwick, H. Munro. The Heroic Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912.

Chadwick, Munro, and N. Kershaw Chadwick. The Growth of Literature. 3 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932–1940.

Cocchiara, Giuseppe. The History of Folklore in Europe. Translated by John N. McDaniel. Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1981.

Coote, Mary P. “Serbocroatian Heroic Songs.” In Heroic Epic and Saga: An Introduction to the World’s Great Folk Epic, edited by Felix J. Oinas, 257–85. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1978.

Deretić, Jovan. Istorija srpske književnosti [The history of Serbian literature]. Belgrade: Prosveta, 2004.

Foley, John Miles. “Analogues: Modern Oral Epics.” In A Companion to Ancient Epic, edited by John Miles Foley, 196–212. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005.

Foley, John Miles. “Epic as genre.” In The Cambridge Companion to Homer, edited by Robert Fowler, 171–87. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Geary, Patrick J. The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002.

Gellner, Ernest. Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Blackwell, 1983.

Greenawalt, Alexander. “Kosovo Myths: Karadžić, Njegoš and the Transformation of Serb Memory.” Spaces of Identity 3 (2001): 49–65.

Hobsbawm, Eric. “Introduction: Inventing Traditions.” In The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, 1–14. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983.

Hörmann, Kosta. Narodne pjesme Muhamedovaca u Bosni i Hercegovini [The folk songs of Bosnian and Herzegovinian Muslims]. 2 vols. Sarajevo: Zemaljska štamparija, 1888–89.

Hroch, Miroslav. Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups Among the Smaller European Nations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

Hrvatske narodne pjesme [Croatian folk songs]. 4 vols. Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1896–99.

Judah, Tim. The Serbs: History, Myth and the Destruction of Yugoslavia. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997.

Jukić, Ivan Frano, and Grga Martić, eds. Narodne pjesme bosanske i hercegovačke [Bosnian and Herzegovinian folk songs]. Osijek: 1858.

Kamenetsky, Christa. The Brothers Grimm & Тheir Critics: Folktales and the Quest for Meaning. Athens: Ohio University Press, 1992.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Mala prostonarodnja slaveno-serbska pjesnarica (1814); Narodna srbska pjesnarica (1815) [Little simple folk Slavonic-Serbian songbook (1814); Folk Serbian Songbook (1815)]. Vol. 1 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića [The collected works of Vuk Stefanović Karadžić], edited by Vladan Nedić. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1965.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Prepiska I (1811–1821) [Correspondence]. Vol. 20 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, edited by Golub Dobrašinović. Belgrade: Prosveta 1988.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Srpske narodne pjesme I [Serbian folk songs]. Vol. 4 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, edited by Vladan Nedić. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1975.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Srpske narodne pjesme II [Serbian folk songs]. Vol. 5 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, edited by Vladan Nedić. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1976.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Srpske narodne pjesmeizne objavljenih rukopisa Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića [Serbian folk songs from the unpublished manuscripts of Vuk Stefanović Karadžić], edited by Živomir Mladenović and Vladan Nedić. Belgrade: Srpska akademija nauka i umetnosti, 1974.

Karadžić, Vuk Stefanović. Srpski Rječnik 1818 [Serbian dictionary]. Vol. 2 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, edited by Pavle Ivić. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1966.

Lavrin, Janko. “Historical Preface.” In: Kosovo: Heroic Songs of the Serbs, edited by Helen Rootham, 9–20. Oxford: Blackwell, 1920.

Malcolm, Noel. Kosovo: A Short History. London: Macmillan, 1998.

Matić, Svetozar. Naš narodni ep i naš stih: ogledi i studije [Our folk epic and our verse: Essays and studies]. Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1964.

Maticki, Miodrag. “Jezik u jeziku slepih guslara” [A language in the language of the blind singers”]. In Sima Milutinović Sarajlija: Književno delo i kulturnoistorijska uloga, edited by Marta Frajnd, 169–74. Belgrade: Institut za književnost i umetnost, 1993.

Maticki, Miodrag. Istorija kao predanje [History as oral history]. Belgrade: Rad, 1989.

Mladenović, Živomir. Traganja za Vukom [In search of Vuk]. Tršić–Belgrade: Vukovsabor–Rad, 1987.

Mojašević, Miljan. Jakob Grim i srpska narodna književnost: Književno istorijske i poetološke osnove [Jacob Grimm and Serbian folk literature: Literary-historical and poetical foundations]. Belgrade: Srpska akademija nauka i umetnosti, 1983.

Murko, Matija. “The Singers and their Epic Songs.” Oral Tradition 5 (1990): 107–30.

Murko, Matija. Tragom srpsko-hrvatske narodne epike: Putovanja u godinama 1930–1932 [In search of Serbo-Croatian folk epics: Travels from 1930–1932]. 2 vols. Zagreb: Jugoslavenska akademija znanosti i umjetnosti, 1951.

Nedić, Vladan. “O prvoj i drugoj Vukovoj Pjesnarici” [On the first and the second Vuk’s Songbook]. In Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Mala prostonarodnja slaveno-serbska pjesnarica (1814); Narodna srbska pjesnarica (1815) [Little simple folk Slavonic-Serbian Songbook (1814); Folk Serbian Songbook (1815)]. Vol. 1 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića [The collected works of Vuk Stefanović Karadžić], edited by Vladan Nedić, 367–80. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1965.

Nedić, Vladan. Vukovi pevači [Vuk’s singers]. Edited by Radmila Pešić. Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1981.

Novaković, Stojan. Kosovo: Srpske narodne pjesme o boju na Kosovu: Pokušaj da se sastave u cjelinu kao spjev [Kosovo: Serbian folks songs about the Kosovo Battle: An attempt at unifying them into an epic]. Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1871.

O Vuku Karadžiću: Studije i eseji [About Vuk Karadžić: Studies and essays]. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1968.

Pavlović, Aleksandar. “Rereading the Kosovo Epic: Origins of the ‘Heavenly Serbia’ in the Oral Tradition.”Journal of Serbian Studies 23 (2009): 83–96.

Popović, Miodrag. Vidovdan i časni krst: Ogled iz književne arheologije [St. Vitus and the Holy Cross: An essay in literary archaeology]. Belgrade: Slovo ljubve, 1976.

Samardžić, Radovan, Sima Ćirković, Olga Zirojević, Radmila Tričković, Dušan T. Bataković, Veselin Đuretić, Kosta Čavoški, and Atanasije Jevtić. Kosovo i Metohija u srpskoj istoriji [Kosovo and Metohija in the Serbian history]. Belgrade: Srpska književna zadruga, 1989.

Samardžić, Radovan. Kosovsko opredeljenje: Istorijski ogledi [Decision on Kosovo: Historical views]. Belgrade: Srpska književna zadruga, 1990.

Skerlić, Jovan. Omladina i njena književnost: Izučavanja o nacionalnom i književnom romantizmu kod Srba [Youth and its literature: The investigations of Serbian national and literary romanticism]. Belgrade: Srpska Kraljevska Akademija, 1906.

Smith, Anthony D. The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986.

Sundhaussen, Holm. Geschichte Serbiens: 19.–21. Jahrhundert. Vienna: Böhlau, 2007.

Šurmin, Đuro. Povijest književnosti hrvatske i srpske [The History of Croatian and Serbian literature]. Zagreb: Lav. Hartman, 1898.

Voigt, Vilmos. “Primus Inter Pares: Why Was Vuk Karadžić the Most Influential Folklore Scholar in South-Eastern Europe in the Nineteenth Century.” In The Uses of Tradition: A Comparative Enquiry into the Nature, Uses and Functions of Oral Poetry in the Balkans, the Baltic, and Africa, edited by Michael Branch and Celia Hawkesworth, 179–93. London–Helsinki: School of Slavonic and East European Studies–Finnish Literature Society, 1994.

Weber, Max. “The Nation.” In From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, edited by H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, 171–79. Abingdon: Routledge, 2009.

1 Alternatively, authors like Bakić-Hayden and Greenawalt emphasize that the national symbols of the Kosovo epic are essentially a late eighteenth-century and early nineteenth-century product, and that the Serbian national movement and especially the Serbian Uprising were decisive for their establishment. Milica Bakić-Hayden, “Kosovo: Reality of a Myth and Myth of Many Realities,” in Serbien und Montenegro: Raum und Bevölkerung, Geschichte, Sprache und Literatur, Kultur, Politik, Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft, Recht, ed. Walter Lukan, Ljubinka Trgovčević, and Dragan Vukčević (Vienna–Berlin: LIT, 2006), 133–42; Alexander Greenawalt, “Kosovo Myths: Karadžić, Njegoš and the Transformation of Serb Memory,” Spaces of Identity 3 (2001): 49–65.

2 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983).

3 Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986).

4 Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983).

5 Earlier scholars, such as Max Weber, already pointed out that the idea of the nation does not rest on empirical qualities but on a specific sentiment of solidarity shared by the members of community, and they emphasized the role of intellectual elites in promoting and imposing such sentiments on the wider population. See “The Nation,” in From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, ed. H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), 171–79.

6 Miroslav Hroch, Social Preconditions of National Revival in Europe: A Comparative Analysis of the Social Composition of Patriotic Groups Among the Smaller European Nations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Anderson, Imagined communities.

7 Eric Hobsbawm, “Introduction: Inventing Traditions,” in The Invention of Tradition, ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1.

8 See Monika Baár, Historians and Nationalism: East-Central Europe in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 50.

9 See Peter Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe, esp. Chapter I, “The Discovery of the People” (London: Temple Smith, 1978), 3–22, and Giuseppe Cocchiara, The History of Folklore in Europe, trans. John N. McDaniel (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1981), 177ff.

10 Cocchiara, The History of Folklore in Europe, 258. It is also instructive in this respect to keep in mind that terms such as national and popular also had different connotations in various European languages. Gramsci, for example, notes that while in France the term national had a meaning in which the term popular was “politically prepared for because it was linked to the concept of sovereignty,” in Italy it had a very narrow ideological meaning, which never coincided with that of popular; and that, on the other hand, the relationship between these two terms was completely different in Russian and other Slavonic languages in general, in which national and popular were synonyms (see Cocchiara, The History of Folklore in Europe, 257). In other words, Slavonic folklore and folk songs were additionally associated with the notion of the nation by the terminology itself.

11 John Miles Foley, “Epic as genre,” in The Cambridge Companion to Homer, ed. Robert Fowler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 185.

12 Margaret Beissinger, Jane Tylus, and Susanne Wofford, eds., Epic Traditions in the Contemporary World: The Poetics of Community (Berkeley–Los Angeles–London: University of California Press, 1999), 3.

13 Vilmos Voigt, “Primus Inter Pares: Why Was Vuk Karadžić the Most Influential Folklore Scholar in South-Eastern Europe in the Nineteenth Century,” in The Uses of Tradition: A Comparative Enquiry into the Nature, Uses and Functions of Oral Poetry in the Balkans, the Baltic, and Africa, ed. Michael Branch and Celia Hawkesworth (London–Helsinki: School of Slavonic and East European Studies–Finnish Literature Society, 1994), 183.

14 See: Michael Branch, “The Invention of a National Epic,” in The Uses of Tradition, 195–211.

15 See Branch, “The Invention of a National Epic”; Voigt, “Primus Inter Pares”; Foley, Epic as Genre, 171–86; Margaret Beissinger, “Epic, Genre, and Nationalism: The Development of Nineteenth-Century Balkan Literature,” in Epic Traditions, 69–86.

16 Jovan Deretić, Istorija srpske književnosti (Belgrade: Prosveta, 2004), 553–82. For a more comprehensive account of Karadžić’s role, see: O Vuku Karadžiću: studije i eseji (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1968).

17 Narodne pjesme bosanskei hercegovačke, ed. Ivan Frano Jukić and Grga Martić (Osijek: n.p., 1858); Kosta Hörmann, Narodne pjesme Muhamedovaca u Bosnii Hercegovini, 2 vols. (Sarajevo: Zemaljska štamparija, 1888–89); Hrvatske narodne pjesme, 4 vols. (Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1896–99). For a fuller list of the nineteenth- century collections see Đuro Šurmin, Povijest književnosti hrvatske i srpske (Zagreb: Lav. Hartman, 1898), 23–24.

18 See, for instance, Jovan Skerlić’s classical study Omladina i njena književnost: Izučavanja o nacionalnom i književnom romantizmu kod Srba, esp. Ch. 12 “Kult prošlosti” and Ch. 19 “Uticaj narodne poezije” (Belgrade: Srpska Kraljevska Akademija, 1906), 191–201 and 309–26.

19 Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme I, vol. 4 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Vladan Nedić (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1975), 569.

20 Deretić, Istorija srpske književnosti, 558.

21 Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme IV, 388.

22 Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Mala prostonarodnja slaveno-serbska pjesnarica (1814); Narodna srbska pjesnarica (1815), vol. 1 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Vladan Nedić (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1965), 44.

23 See the analysis of Podrugović’s contribution in Vladan Nedić, Vukovi pevači, ed. Radmila Pešić (Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1981), 31ff.

24 Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme IV, 394.

25 Ibid., 397.

26 Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Prepiska I (1811–1821), vol. 20 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Golub Dobrašinović (Belgrade: Prosveta 1988), 250.

27 Karadžić, Prepiska I (1811–1821), 320, 334, 353, 365, 366.

28 The term endowment in this context refers to a monastery founded by an Orthodox ruler or dignitary, erected to serve as a family chapel during the founder’s lifetime, and later as his burial place. See “Opet Zidanje Ravanice,” in Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme II, vol. 5 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Vladan Nedić (Belgrade: Prosveta, 1976), 154–60.

29 Matija Murko, “The Singers and their Epic Songs,” Oral Tradition 5 (1990): 123–24.

30 Miodrag Popović, Vidovdan i časni krst: Ogled iz književne arheologije (Belgrade: Slovo ljubve, 1976), 65.

31 Vuk Stefanović Karadžić, Srpski Rječnik 1818, vol. 2 of Sabrana dela Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Pavle Ivić (Prosveta: Belgrade, 1966), 360.

32 Karadžić, Prepiska I, 794, 984.

33 See “O boju kosovskom,” in Srpske narodne pjesme iz neobjavljenih rukopisa Vuka Stefanovića Karadžića, ed. Živomir Mladenović and Vladan Nedić (Belgrade: Srpska akademija nauka i umetnosti, 1974), 63–115.

34 Christa Kamenetsky, The Brothers Grimm & Тheir Critics: Folktales and the Quest for Meaning (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1992), 66.

35 Miljan Mojašević, Jakob Grim i srpska narodna književnost: Književno istorijske i poetološke osnove (Belgrade: Srpska akademija nauka i umetnosti, 1983), 415.

36 Karadžić, Mala prostonarodnja slaveno-serbska pjesnarica, 42.

37 See the reprint of Grimm’s review in Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme I, 554.

38 Aleksandar Pavlović, “Rereading the Kosovo Epic: Origins of the ‘Heavenly Serbia’ in the Oral Tradition,” Journal of Serbian Studies 23 (2009): 83–96.

39 Matija Murko, Tragom srpsko-hrvatske narodne epike: Putovanja u godinama 1930–1932 (Zagreb: Jugoslavenska akademija znanosti i umjetnosti, 1951), 1:212ff. Miodrag Maticki, “Jezik u jeziku slepih guslara,” in Sima Milutinović Sarajlija: Književno delo i kulturnoistorijska uloga, ed. Marta Frajnd (Belgrade: Institut za književnost i umetnost, 1993), 169–74.

40 Ibid., 171.

41 Ibid.

42 Karadžić, Srpske narodne pjesme I, 559.

43 See Vladan Nedić, “O prvoj i drugoj Vukovoj Pjesnarici,” in Karadžić, Mala prostonarodnja slaveno-serbska pjesnarica, 373. Cf. Svetozar Matić, Naš narodni ep i naš stih: Ogledi i studije (Novi Sad: Matica srpska, 1964), 7–55.

44 See Matić, Naš narodni ep, esp. 35ff; Miodrag Maticki, Istorija kao predanje (Belgrade: Rad, 1989), 38–44.

45 Živomir Mladenović, Traganja za Vukom (Tršić–Belgrade:Vukov sabor–Rad, 1987), 131, 140.

46 Ibid., 138–88.

47 Ibid., 159–60.

48 Ibid., 167.

49 John Miles Foley, “Analogues: Modern Oral Epics,” in A Companion to Ancient Epic, ed. John Miles Foley (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 208.

50 Patrick J. Geary, The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002).

51 Cf.: Holm Sundhaussen, Geschichte Serbiens: 19.–21. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Böhlau, 2007), 115–20.

52 Stojan Novaković, Kosovo: Srpske narodne pjesme o boju na Kosovu: pokušaj da se sastave u cjelinu kao spjev (Belgrade: Državna štamparija, 1871).

53 See H. Munro Chadwick, “The Battle of Kosovo in Servian Poetry,” in The Heroic Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912), 313–19; Janko Lavrin, “Historical Preface,” in Kosovo: Heroic Songs of the Serbs, ed. Helen Rootham (Oxford: Blackwell, 1920), 9–20; Maximilian Brown, Kosovo: Die Schlacht auf dem Amselfelde in geschichtlicher und epischer Überlieferung (Leipzig: Markert und Petters, 1937). Cf. chapter “Yugoslav Poetry” in Munro Chadwick and N. Kershaw Chadwick, The Growth of Literature, 3 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932–1940), 2:299–456; Cecil Maurice Bowra: Heroic Poetry (London: Macmillan, 1952). Mary P. Coote, “Serbocroatian Heroic Songs,” in Heroic Epic and Saga: an Introduction to the World’s Great Folk Epic, ed. Felix J. Oinas (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1978), 263.

54 Radovan Samardžić et al., Kosovo i Metohija u srpskoj istoriji (Belgrade: Srpska književna zadruga, 1989); Matija Bećković, Kosovo: Najskuplja srpska reč (Valjevo: Glascrkve, 1989); Radovan Samardžić, Kosovsko opredeljenje: Istorijski ogledi (Belgrade: Srpska književna zadruga, 1990).

55 Branimir Anzulović, Heavenly Serbia: From Myth to Genocide (London: Hurst, 1999); Tim Judah, The Serbs: History, Myth and the Destruction of Yugoslavia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997); Noel Malcolm, Kosovo: A Short History (London: Macmillan, 1998).

* This article is based on research that Aleksandar Pavlović conducted during his fellowship at the New Europe College in Bucharest, for which he expresses his utmost gratitude to NEC board and staff, and Srđan Atanasovski’s participation on the project Serbian Musical Identities within Local and Global Frameworks: Traditions, Changes, Challenges (no. 177004 /2011–2016/) funded by the Ministry of Education and Science of Republic of Serbia.

pdfVolume 4 Issue 3 CONTENTS

András Szécsényi

Development and Bifurcation of an Institution

The University Voluntary Labor Service and the Compulsory National Defense Labor Service of the Horthy Era

 

Previous studies of the Hungarian labor service have been characterized by an exclusive interest in the years between 1939 and 1945. Accordingly, they have tended to focus on its anti-Jewish impetus. However, the emergence of labor service in Hungary goes back to the mid-1930s, when a voluntary system was established. Placing this Hungarian institution into a transnational perspective, I trace the process of its ideological legitimation, its key practices, and its gradual growth and significant transformation over the years. I demonstrate that Hungary actually had two divergent systems of labor services in the war years, and I analyze the ways in which the infamous labor service of the post-1939 years could be seen as a continuation of its less familiar predecessor. I thus make a contribution to the historicization and broader contextualization of a key Hungarian institution of persecution during World War II.

Keywords: Hungarian labor service, history of state institutions, prehistory of the persecution of Jews, anti-Semitic radicalization, interwar Hungary

Introduction

In recent years, a great deal of scholarship has been published in Hungary on the subject of labor service during World War II, some of which goes well beyond description and the cataloguing of facts and reflects on questions of conceptual importance. However, to the present day the vast majority of the secondary literature on the institution of labor service and therefore also most of public discussion on the subject is still under the strong influence of the scholarship of Elek Karsai, Randolph L. Braham, and other historians which began to emerge in the 1960s (though I concede that there are exceptional works of scholarship on the subject worthy of acknowledgment).1 Labor service thus continues to be regarded essentially as a system that was established in the course of the war to effectuate the isolation and later murder of the Jews. The study of the fates of the Jews, Christians who were legally defined as Jews, members of Churches and national minorities that were persecuted by the state, people convicted for so-called crimes against public decency, and in 1944 some of the Roma population, in other words all the people who were forced to endure the humiliation and suffering of being members of the labor battalions and squadrons that were created as part of the Hungarian Royal Army and who in some cases were brutally massacred, was unquestionably one of the most important tasks awaiting historians.

At the same time, until very recently the mainstream historical literature in Hungary has made precious little mention of the fact that forced labor as an institution did not begin with the often cited 1939: II (civil defense) act, but rather had been established years earlier. As early as the summer of 1935, there were so-called labor service camps for college and university students, though they functioned on an entirely voluntary basis.2 I intend to show in this essay that there were significant interconnections between the organization and history of the voluntary labor service for university students in Hungary and the system of compulsory labor that later was to become one of the tools in the virtual annihilation of Hungarian Jewry. The former system served as the basis for the latter during the period that began in the summer of 1939 and ended in the spring of 1944, when the voluntary and compulsory labor service systems existed side by side. The similarities between the two institutions, which shared common roots, were so strong that the same Hungarian term was used to designate them, “munkaszolgálat,” which is a simple translation of the German term “Arbeitsdienst.” Thus, the institution itself was hardly a Hungarian peculiarity, notwithstanding the claims of some historians and scholars to the contrary, and in order to arrive at an understanding of its history one must adopt comparative and transnational perspectives.

Given the aforementioned lacunae in the secondary literature, I begin with a brief presentation of the ways in which the interwar labor service functioned in an international context and then offer a brief summary of the distinctive features of the voluntary labor service that came into being in Hungary in 1935. I then turn to the focus of my inquiry, the interconnections between the system of voluntary labor service and the system of compulsory labor service.

Hungarian Labor Service in an International Context

The shock of World War I dramatically changed the relationships between the old and newly created states of Europe and their respective societies. The different countries adopted varying economic strategies in the fight against rampant unemployment. In the democratic countries, alongside state efforts to revitalize the economies with injections of capital, planned employment, and industrial and economic development, a kind of “self-help” program was also launched in the civil sector. The idea of labor camps began to take form during the great calamity of World War I, and it spread relatively rapidly across Europe.3 For the growing numbers of unemployed who belonged to the middle class, some of the youth groups initiated independently organized enterprises and campaigns that helped put money in the pockets of people who had lost their jobs without taking employment away from people who were seeking work. The participants (women were not allowed to join) worked in labor camps, usually in the countryside, where they took part in projects that were useful to the local communities, such as road construction or repair, regulation of rivers, or logging.4 In many places, university and (even more frequently) college students formed work details on their own, and they sometimes even received modest payment for their work. With the passing of years, a professional system of university or student labor service emerged in many of the countries of Europe.

One of the most effective systems, the so-called Schweizerischen Zentralstelle für Freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst (Swiss Center for Voluntary Labor Service, or SZFA) emerged in Switzerland in 1925. In 1935, the Swiss state even codified it by law and developed it professionally. Federal state, provincial, and student bodies all had representation in the leadership of the SZFA, as did the political parties.5 The institution had appeared in many other places as well. By 1939, it was found in a total of twenty different countries (in Denmark it appeared in 1917, in Sweden and Bulgaria in 1920, in Norway in 1922, in England, Romania, and Holland in 1931, and in Germany in 1933, growing out of initiatives that had been launched in 1931). As was the case in Hungary, in the mid-1930s similar institutions were created in Estonia and Latvia (1934), Belgium (1935), and Greece and Spain (1937).6 Movements similar to the labor service institutions cropping up in the interwar period also emerged in several countries outside of Europe. Though they may have varied in their programs, comparable initiatives were found in the United States, New Zealand, Canada, China, Australia, and Japan.7

Thus, labor service movements were usually successful in Europe in the interwar period and enjoyed popularity as a means of organizing. In their essential developmental and operational structures the various institutions were similar. College and university students created them for the males among them,8 and then, with the passing of time, the ministries of labor and education in the various countries professionalized them and passed laws ensuring their continued operation. The labor camps brought no short term economic gain. At most, they helped strengthen the middle class materially and helped narrow the gap between different social groups. It is worth noting that the labor service programs in most of the countries accepted volunteers from abroad at the time. However, in part precisely because of their success, in some countries the tendency was not to maintain the voluntary nature of the institution but rather to nationalize it and make it obligatory. For instance, in the summer of 1939, forced labor service was introduced in Hungary (as I will discuss in greater detail later).

Since the institution of labor service in Hungary was inspired essentially by the German model, it is worth taking a moment to examine a few details of the latter. The work of Kiran Klaus Patel is of particular significance in the secondary literature of the past fifteen years. Patel has written not only shorter essays and articles on the subject, but also an excellent, balanced monograph.9 While the German cabinets were unreceptive to these kinds of initiatives for a long time, on June 5, 1931, the Brüning government established the Freiwilliger Arbeitsdienst (Voluntary Labor Service, FAD). By 1932, there were 200,000 young unemployed people working as volunteers in the FAD camps (which were separate for men and women).10 The work that they did, however, did not have any significant influence on Germany’s economy, in part because of the failure of the state to show any common resolve. Following Hitler’s rise to power, the Nazis threw themselves into economic planning with an unprecedented zeal. Their initiatives exerted a strong influence on the agrarian sector,11 and they envisioned a central role for the transformed FAD within this framework.12 In 1935, the Reichsarbeitsdienst (Reich Labor Service, RAD), which functioned as a kind of successor to the FAD, came under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Interior, where it remained until 1943, when it became independent. Field Marshal Konstantin Hierl, the director of the RAD, worked together with the specialists in the Ministry of Interior to develop the Nazi model of the labor service institution, a model based on the notion that participation should be compulsory.

The Nazi leadership saw the practical uses of labor service, which extended beyond the propagation of the notion of a community of the national “Volk” (or Volksgemeinschaft) and the creation of a corps that would provide a useful precursor to military training. The labor service helped take young people off the labor market and thereby ensured that there would be more employment opportunities for married men with children. Later, when large state investments were being made to promote development, unemployment dropped and the task of finding a job was no longer as burdensome as it had been, other volunteer workers were accepted into the labor service in the agricultural sector. At the same time, the rigid, pyramid-like hierarchical structure of RAD differed significantly from the considerably more flexible structures of the other labor service systems, and it was very clearly part of the Nazi state organization. Some historians have contended that in its composition and development it most clearly resembled the Nazi party itself.13

In the meantime, however, RAD represented a significant cost for the state, no less than 1.4 percent of the state budget annually in the period between 1933 and 1944 and rising at times to as much as 2.1 percent.14 According to economic historian Timothy W. Mason, it is not really possible to determine whether RAD actually brought in income for the state or not, i.e. whether or not it was actually an economic asset.15 Even if it did not have any immediate economic use for the state in the years leading up to the war, however, it is quite certain that it at least temporarily led to a clear drop in unemployment. The kinds of projects and endeavors that were undertaken resembled the projects and works done by labor service groups in other European countries, including for instance road construction and repair, swamp draining, flood prevention, and agricultural work. In addition to seasonal work, the tasks performed by labor service groups in cities also had lasting results. Landscaping and the renovation and reparation of public buildings owned by the state or by municipalities, for instance, won the labor service widespread respect and popularity.

As of 1939, participation in work involving the war industry and munitions became increasingly important.16 In 1941, the range of tasks performed by RAD broadened as it undertook projects that provided assistance to the Wehrmacht all over Europe, including road maintenance, repairs to and oversight of the supply lines between the front and the hinterland, and work involving anti-aircraft defense. RAD battalions were even deployed on the Eastern Front. The labor camp inmates (as participation was compulsory it seems reasonable to use this term), who lived in barracks, were required to do ten hours of work a day. In addition to the physical strain of the work, the compulsory national socialist exercises and singing, which were intended to create a sense of communal experience and fate, were also important factors, as was the military training in the interest of ensuring effective preparation for service as soldiers conscripted into the Wehrmacht. In exchange for their service, they were given very modest pay.17

The structure of the women’s camps did not undergo comparable changes, and this was closely tied to the notion of the role women were to play in the Nazi state. Women did not work in labor camps. Rather, in a system that represented a transformation and further development of the FAD system of women’s camps,18 after having presented themselves in a RAD center, women were sent in groups of 5 to 30 people to smaller state farms or peasant families. As a work force, until 1939 they were used exclusively in agriculture, which meant, first and foremost, summer harvest work or, in the case of the women who lodged with peasant families, housework and childcare. Since no changes were made in the development of labor service for females after 1935, the involvement of the private sector in the distribution of work served the needs of the government splendidly. At the same time, the leadership of the RAD, together with the Nazi Party, found the participants in female labor service to be of considerable use from the perspective of the Nazi propaganda, as the institution seemed to symbolize the idea of communal effort in the service of the German nation (or “Volk”).

The Introduction of Labor Service in Hungary

Naturally, these international initiatives and models found echoes in Hungary. In 1929, the so-called Turul High Command19 (the Turul Association was the most significant organization of university youth in the Horthy era) sent János Salló to a work camp in England to persuade him of the potential importance of the institution. In 1930, László Tarnói Kostyál took a similar trip to Switzerland to examine work camps first hand.20 Between 1931 and 1934, Salló visited three other work camps outside of Hungary (one in Switzerland, one in Wales, and one in England) where roads were under construction to gather further information.21 In May 1932, the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education had been presented with a detailed and ambitious plan. 22 In 1935, the Turul member associations began requesting financial support from the Dean of the University of Budapest to cover the costs of work camps.23

Following long negotiations, in June 1935 the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education ratified the final labor service plan.24 According to this plan, 50 students and 50 local unemployed construction workers or day-laborers would work for four weeks along the banks of the Maros River rebuilding the dams and embankments which had been deliberately sabotaged by Romanians during the floods of 1932. This goal harmonized with the visions of a prominent trend in Hungarian culture and public life in the interwar period that focused on both the traditions and the plight of the peasantry, a trend that was influenced in part by so-called “village researchers,” who traveled to rural communities to document the culture of rural Hungary and the circumstances in which people lived. It also served the frequently reiterated propaganda goals of the government. Behind the populist visions, which were unquestionably demagogical to some degree, there was a desire on both sides to address serious social issues. At the same time, the adoption of the German model would not have been possible without the participation of pro-Nazi circles of the coalition. The Turul High Command named Tarnói Kostyál, who was a radical racist, to the position of leader of the Labor Camp Committee and made Mihály Somlai, who was connected to populist writers, his deputy. 25

At the same time, however, the Turul Coalition would not have been successful in these ventures had it not enjoyed the financial support of and connections provided by the governing party, the extreme right wing, and prominent figures of political, economic, and social life. These individuals were given roles in the leading bodies of the labor service.26 While I cannot go into great detail on the subject within the scope of this article, it is worth noting that support for the institution of labor service in Hungary was relatively widespread and included a heterogeneous array of segments of Hungarian society.27 However, despite the support it enjoyed from successive governments and the positive responses from a wide cross-section of society, the system nonetheless was criticized harshly by some circles of the far right-wing and the left-wing of the populists.28

On the basis of the available sources we know that 40 work camps were in operation in Hungary between 1935 and 1939. Until the spring of 1937, the work camps, which were scattered across the country and were active for roughly one month in the summer, were under the supervision of the Work Camp Committee of the Turul Coalition, a committee which was created in 1934. In 1937, in large part because of the enthusiasm that had been created by their successes, the camps came under state oversight, specifically under the jurisdiction of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education. The Voluntary Work Camp of University and College Students, which was organized by the ministry and which in general copied the goals and the methods of the Turul camps (and which in 1938 was renamed Voluntary Work Service of University and College Students, or EÖM, to use an acronym based on the Hungarian name), was in operation on the territory of the Hungarian Kingdom until the spring of 1944.29

There was substantial continuity between the Turul work camps and the Voluntary Work Service of University and College Students, not only in the ideas on which they were based but also in their organization of work, and the system itself was based on the models of work camps outside of Hungary. Sometime between the beginning of early June and late September, the university and college students, who enrolled voluntarily and in every case as a member of some fraternal society, would do three or four weeks of hard physical labor, usually road construction and repair, swamp draining, logging, soil work, the construction of dams and embankments, digging channels to provide proper drainage in villages, and repairs to buildings in public spaces, such as cemeteries and churches. At the same time, in the camps for men, which were overseen by retired officers, the nature of the work depended in part on the geographical conditions. They strove to perform tasks that would be useful for individual communities without, however, taking away the few modest job opportunities that existed for day-laborers and navvies. In some cases, in the name of “protecting the race,” a notion that was alloyed with the views of some tendencies of populist thought, they managed to transform the ideal of cooperation between “Christian intellectuals” and the peasantry into a reality.

The Turul camps were not given names, but the camps organized by EÖM were given ancient Hungarian names or names that were regarded as illustrious. They were also given numbers, and by 1944, according to my estimate, they numbered over 100. In 1938, a leadership training course was launched in Tihany, which can be interpreted as a step in the direction of professionalization. The work was done in a remarkably rigid manner, according to some people, with an adherence to a kind of strictness borrowed from RAD. For instance, on the first day, during a ceremonial common pledge the participants also took an oath to the regent, Miklós Horthy. In the camps they lived in wooden barracks that could be easily disassembled or (more frequently) in military tents, depending on the local conditions. By the end of the decade, there were some amenities in the barracks.30 The various slogans were a mix of ideology and task to be performed: “Labor Service–Country Building,” “Our goal is to help, our tool is the sport of work,” or “Omnipotent God! Give a task and give bread to every working Hungarian.”31 In the case of women, the salutation “blessed work!” was used, which was expressive of the expectations regarding religious life in the camps. The routines of daily life in the camps over the course of the years took place within essentially similar frameworks.

Interconnections between Voluntary Work and Compulsory Labor Service

Drawing inspiration and energy from the success of EÖM and adopting an old aspiration of university fraternal societies, Béla Imrédy, who was appointed prime minister in May 1938 and who pursued a German orientation by this time, soon saw the potentials of RAD. 32 Given the dearth of sources, we do not know precisely why Imrédy, who initially was known as a pro-British figure, was drawn to the institution, which, though present worldwide, in Hungary bore strong affinities with Nazi models. Whatever the reason, we do know that in 1937, Tarnói Kostyál asked Prime Minister Kálmán Darányi in a memorandum to establish EÖM as quickly as possible and, drawing on the German model, to make it compulsory. Darányi had declined, but the document, which at the time also came into Imrédy’s hands, may have been the first such writing that called Imrédy’s attention to the issue. 33

On May 2, 1938, in the last weeks of Darányi’s tenure as prime minister, Imrédy, the heir apparent to his position as head of government, held a speech in parliament in which he described his vision for the country. He gave voice in this speech—and he was the first prominent figure in public life to do so—to the alleged necessity of labor service on a compulsory basis. According to Imrédy, the importance of social cohesion and unity, which were part of the ideals of the Turul Coalition and EÖM, clearly explained the need to make labor service obligatory, and he pledged to support and strengthen everything for which Miklós Kozma, who had been Minister of Interior from 1935 to 1937, had taken resolute though ultimately unsuccessful steps.

Kozma had been one of the most important proponents of the development on a large scale of the Turul labor service. He had also held the Nazi labor service institution in high esteem, and in December 1936, at the invitation of Wilhelm Frick, he had had occasion to observe the German labor service structures first hand. As Minister of Interior, Kozma had always endeavored to make the voluntary camps compulsory for university students, on the basis of the model of the RAD camps (even if he later denied this after having resigned from his position as minister).34 After having been compelled to resign, he made the following remarks regarding his recollections:

 

Compulsory labor service is a powerful institution for the nurturing of the nation, and it bears not the slightest affinity with slavery. In the work camps, youths who have completed a college education live alongside the simple children of the people in the most comradely spirit and without regard for social differences, and this means a great deal both from the perspective of ethical rearing and discipline. I spent time in places an hour and a half from Berlin, for instance, that were barren, submerged in water, and boggy. […] The work camps are amazingly simple, but they are similarly clean, healthy, and tasteful. It never occurred to me, I said later, that labor service should be made compulsory in Hungary, instead I will attempt to come into contact with the youth groups and societies that have done voluntary work service, and I want to support them in this very useful and beneficial endeavor. […] Naturally, one of the guiding principles is that this work should in no way create competition with the private economy.35

In his speech, Imrédy, alluding to international examples and the ideas of Kozma, made the following proclamation:

 

The unity of the Hungarian people means a fusion in thinking and in spirit. We must further this fusion with institutions that lead the individual layers of national society to love one another. For precisely this reason, one of the essential points of our program, a point that requires careful preparation, is the introduction of compulsory labor service… [noise, cries of approval and dissent] …such that, within the framework of compulsory labor, the youthful intelligentsia comes to know the mentality of the youthful working class and agricultural laborers [noise, cries of approval and dissent] so that the handshake can take place that—I believe and I proclaim—will lead to mutual respect and, through this, unusual spiritual enrichment.36

On May 19, 1938, Imrédy raised the question at a meeting of the leaders of the Hungarian Telegraph Office with regards to preparations for the International Eucharistic Congress. He may have mentioned it because he had already decided to follow the German model and make labor service compulsory. Miklós Kozma wrote the following in his journal at the time:

 

Everyone has read Béla Imrédy’s program. […] When you read this program, you see clearly that no government in Hungary has ever dared come forward with such a right-wing program. Who in Hungary would have dared, even as recently as six months ago, to have thought of creating a national labor service? It is an old idea of mine that is dear to my heart. It could help us overcome a host of Hungarian transgressions and mistakes.37

In the second half of May 1938, Imrédy informed the Minister of Defense of his plans. The Minister of Defense ordered Béla Szinay, commander-in-chief of EÖM (and also a man who bore the title “vitéz,” an honorary title given in the Horthy era), to state his position with regards to the question immediately and to devise a plan for the possible introduction of the program.38 On June 1, 1938, Szinay made the following report to the Minister of Defense:

 

In the near future, labor service in Hungary will become compulsory, and this makes it desirable for the aforementioned Supreme Command to inform itself with regards to the institution of compulsory labor service in Germany and Bulgaria (how many people are involved, how many camps are there, who is obliged to participate and for how long, who are the leaders and permanent commanders and who are the people in temporary leadership or command positions, what pay, provisions, clothing, and equipment is provided for the participants, what are the annual costs and what is the value of the work performed in a year, what kinds of advantages do the participants enjoy when seeking employment or with regards to taxes). I request that undersigned supreme command be provided with the organizational information enumerated above as quickly as possible by the foreign representatives in Germany and Bulgaria. I also note that the supreme command places emphasis on being provided information regarding the reorganization currently underway with regards to labor service in the former German–Austrian territories.39

Following this, the office of the prime minister better informed itself. On August 1, a conference was called at which ministerial advisor István Kultsár, the government commissioner for affairs involving the intelligentsia, reported on the things that had been accomplished by the labor service and the plans for the future. He also announced that the camps would gradually be made compulsory.40 In accordance with Szinay’s request, the presidential division of the Ministry of Defense instructed the military attaché to Sofia to obtain information about the labor service institution in Bulgaria (the so-called trudovak) and prepare a report for the head office of the Ministry of Defense, which indeed he submitted on August 9, 1938. The military attaché in Berlin was also instructed to submit a similar report. The German report was the book (in German) on the subject entitled Arbeitsdienst.41 In the meantime, Dániel Fábry was entrusted with preparing a bill for the transformation of the labor service into a compulsory institution.

According to Fábry, the people who would be obliged to perform the work naturally would be recruited from a different social group, but the goal of promoting the notion of social responsibility would be the same as the fundamental goal of EÖM, namely “to ensure that workers who are performing physical labor and the workers who are engaged in intellectual undertakings be thoroughly mixed together and the blue-collar worker come to know and respect the labors of the white-collar worker, while the white-collar worker comes to respect the physical labor of the blue-collar worker.”42

Szinay prepared the plans with Kultsár, the ministerial advisor and government commissioner for unemployed white-collar workers. The plans made it quite clear that the same types of work were going to be performed in the new system. And as was the case with EÖM, it was considered important to ensure that the projects not exert a negative influence on the opportunities for the unemployed. Thus, road construction and drainage continued to dominate their thinking. On August 7, Szinay informed the press that the government’s labor service program “has been completed.” In a few days they were going to present it to the public. He stated that, “[t]he new labor camp system builds on the structure of the existing system.”43

In what follows, I examine the establishment and evolution of compulsory labor service as an institution of civil defense only from the perspective of its relationship to the voluntary university work service. The 1939: II civil defense bill established the legal foundation for the creation of the institution of labor service in the public interest within the framework of the Hungarian military.44 Paragraph 230 a (1–6) of the law addresses the issue of the establishment of the institution of obligatory labor service in the public interest. According to the law, labor service programs had to be organized for men between the ages of 21 and 24 who were not suitable for military service and people whose citizenship was not regarded as clearly established (the first and second paragraphs).45 The phrasing of the law concerned labor service that was military in nature and compulsory, but to be performed while living in work camps, and it furthermore targeted young people between the ages of 21 and 24, i.e. the average age of college and university students. If one takes into consideration the fact that the Turul labor service programs and the EÖM program had also had a decidedly military character, the connection between them is even more striking. In my view, however, the stipulations in the fifth paragraph were of the most gravity: “With the agreement of her legal guardian, a girl who is at least sixteen years of age and who has completed the fourth year of her secondary schooling or has an educational level of equal value can be enrolled in labor service in the public interest on a voluntary basis. The provisions of paragraphs (1)–(4) with deviations following from this paragraph apply to this case as well.” This statement essentially constituted the incorporation (or even the smuggling) of the university labor service program, now with a lower age limit (though admittedly not compulsory), into the civil defense law. This contention finds further support in a decree that was issued by General Fábry, who at the suggestion of the Ministry of Defense had been named by the Regent to serve under the Ministry of Defense of Károly Bartha as National Supervisor of the Public Interest Labor Service (Közérdekű Munkaszolgálat Országos Felügyelője, or KMOF).46 Fábry had served as a spokesman for the Turul Labor Service in the Ministry of Defense,47 and in 1937–1938 he had accepted a role in EÖM. According to the decree, youths who had taken part in the voluntary university work camps before May 17, 1939 could count the time they had spent there against the obligation to serve in the public interest labor service. Anyone who had done so after this date, however, could not.48

As it so happens, in 1937, as part of a continuing studies program in public administration, Fábry had already spoken on the close link between EÖM and a compulsory labor service envisioned for the future.49 At a similar continuing studies program in public administration in 1938, Szinay built on Fábry’s ideas. We have good reason to think that Szinay’s plans were essentially identical with the ideas outlined in the report he sent to Prime Minister Béla Imrédy in May 1938. Like Fábry, Szinay emphatically called attention to the similarities between the mechanisms, functioning, and goals of the German RAD, the Turul Labor Service, EÖM, and the compulsory labor service program of the Hungarian military (which essentially was built on EÖM). Furthermore, he linked EÖM and the institution of non-combatant labor service with his contention that the two systems were essentially two branches of the “Hungarian National Labor Service.” However, he felt that EÖM would soon cease operations: “With this, I have brought to a close the University and College Student Voluntary Labor Service, because it has been replaced by compulsory labor service.”50 (History, however, did not bear out his words.) Szinay then discussed his plan for compulsory labor service, which would involve an expansion year by year of the EÖM camp system (in 1939, some 4,000 people worked in the labor service programs, but by 1944 this number had grown to 44,000) without, however, any essential change to its structure and operations. The plan did not contain any anti-Semitic discriminatory measures.51 In summary, the leaders of the two labor service systems both gave similar, unambiguous, and persuasive descriptions of the clear relationship between the voluntary and the compulsory institutions of labor service.

The significance of the parallels between the two systems is also illustrated by the comments that were made in the course of a debate in parliament regarding a bill on civil defense. On December 7, 1938, Minister of Defense Károly Bartha introduced a bill which was sent to committee for review. On January 13, 1939, the committee for the armed forces, administration, the economy, transportation and justice submitted its report on the bill to parliament. The bill was modified in accordance with the report and first discussed in parliament on January 17. In the course of the debate, a total of 32 representatives voiced their opinions, only two of whom, the two Social Democrats, were in opposition to the bill. The governing party and the right-wing opposition celebrated the measure and only a few of them actually made observations bearing on the details of its contents. According to Sándor Ember, for instance:

 

We have already experimented with labor service in past decades. A small segment of the college youth tried to further the introduction of this institution in Hungary by organizing voluntary work camps, drawing on models from abroad. The attempts that were made in this sphere amply justified the expectations, and I must express my sincere appreciation and thanks to the Minister of Defense for having thought of this institution when preparing this bill.52

Ember continued, saying that the bill was in no way an obstacle to the voluntary university labor service programs, which he felt were fully justified given the endless public works projects that had been undertaken, which would have been inconceivable if entrusted simply to the private sector. Others emphasized the groundbreaking role of the Turul and the EÖM work camps, which had provided a kind of prototype for the introduction of compulsory military labor service. The Jewish laws (1938: XIV and the 1939: IV) provided a foundation for making labor service compulsory, and using these laws, the parliamentary majority agreed to allow the leaders and divisions of the Ministry of Defense to begin “the solution of the Jewish question in the army.” Thus the first step was taken in the legal prohibition from the armed services of the citizens of Hungary who were defined by the law as Jewish. It seems worth noting, however, that in the initial stages the law was directed against the Jews neither in its provisions nor in its implementation.

This is also indicated by the minutes of a meeting held in March 1939 by the Directorate of the General Staff (the Ministry of Defense, division 1/a). They resolved, in accordance with paragraphs 91 and 230 of the law, to pursue “certain work training” programs. The participants in the meeting saw labor service as a means of addressing the dearth of workers and skilled laborers by drafting people who were not suitable for military service. The proposed plan would have assigned these people, somewhere between 3,000 and 5,000 in total, to three-month work projects (road construction, railroad work), while the skilled laborers among them would be given work in factories that required training. In the end, division 1/a called on division 10 to organize the statistics concerning the people regarded as unsuitable for military service by line of occupation and provide this information to the Supreme Civil Defense Council, which was to devise a plan that included precise regulations of the two labor services and send it to division 1/a.53

In the course of a meeting of the General Staff on April 24, the participants discussed the concrete steps that were to be taken to achieve the public interest labor service’s large scale development on the basis of the proposal of the prime minister’s office. People fulfilling their compulsory labor service obligations were required to do three months of “public interest labor service.” Following two weeks of preparatory training, males between the ages of 14 and 42 and females between the ages of 16 and 42 could be called up for service. The people responsible for the plans anticipated providing training for 6,000 skilled laborers and 14,000 workers within one year. In the event of war, these numbers could jump to 75,000 and 250,000, in which case one to three weeks of training was to be provided and, as was already the case, males between the ages of 14 and 42 and women between the ages of 16 and 42 could be called up for service. The workers, who lived in camps and were parts of squadrons that functioned under the authority of KMOF (which itself was under the Ministry of Defense), were given uniforms and, like the student workers of EÖM, 200 fillérs per day as pay. The cost of establishing the system was estimated at 2,200,000 pengő and the first round of conscriptions was planned for July 1 and October 1, 1939.54

As a consequence of the council, the Ministry of Defense drew up decree 5070/1939. ME, which established the general principles and organization of the labor service.55 On July 1, 1939, the Presidential Division of the Ministry of Defense gave instructions according to which a meeting was to be held on July 13 under the chairmanship of General Fábry at which, at the request of the Ministry of Defense, the leaders of the relevant Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education divisions would be present. The meeting was held and the representative of the Presidential Division had the impression that the institution was “still fighting with initial difficulties.” According to Fábry,

 

the people who perform public interest labor service will be those who have accepted this as their task or are pleased to learn that they do not have to do military service. If the equipment, accommodation, provisions, etc. provided for these individuals do not meet the desired standard, then we will have done more to harm the initiative than to promote it, and we will have awoken antagonistic sentiments in these people with regards to the army. The question of equipment, accommodation and provisions leaves a great deal to be desired.56

 

At the meeting that was held on July 13, however, the decision was reached to have the first shift begin on July 1.57 The presidential division employed retired officers and EÖM officers to do the organizational work.

The contemporary print media reported on the connections between the two labor service systems very much in the spirit of what I have discussed above. This view found expression frequently in the press on the local and national levels, regardless of the political orientation of the publication. It is also worth noting contentions made by László Tarnói Kostyál in his book Magyar munkaszolgálat [Hungarian Labor Service], which was published in the spring of 1939. Tarnói Kostyál, who at the time was already active in the National Socialist movement, regarded the Turul labor service, the EÖM camps, and the compulsory military labor service as essentially the same. He unambiguously asserted that the institution of compulsory labor service had grown out of the other two systems and essentially represented their logical extension through the creation of an institution that could become the site of joyous communal social life. It is true that he did not regard Imrédy’s organization as suitable and thought that it should be transformed in its ideology and its structure to correspond more closely to the RAD model. In the book, he presented his detailed and sometimes rather fantastic visions regarding this transformation.58

A book entitled Munkaszolgálatos kézikönyv [Labor Service Handbook], which was published in 1940, likened both EÖM and the system of compulsory labor service to standard military training, and in doing so elevated the value of the labor service camp. The publication reveals that even in the legally and politically new situation, the work camps were not substantially different from the EÖM camps:

 

according to the executive decree regarding the public interest labor service, the work camp is a workers unit that is organized along military lines; the framework of the labor service obligation. The camp (barracks, tents, etc.) is home to the battalion. Everyday life begins and ends here. Reveille at dawn (roughly 5:00 AM). Suddenly rest and peace are transformed into the pulsing circulation of the blood. After the participants have done their morning exercises, washed, cleaned the area, and cleaned their living quarters, they will find a fresh, hot breakfast steaming in a mess tin. The squadron soon lines up and departs for the work site. The Sun has hardly begun to rise and their muscles are already bulging. The road is being built! The work is at a boil! Hours fly by and soon it is noon. The squadrons return to the areas around their barracks one by one. This is followed by reporting to the commander. Soon the sound of the horn can be heard calling everyone to lunch. Then one or two hours of rest, followed by a dip. Following the short work shift in the afternoon, military training or discipline drills, then a presentation on national defense. Orders are issued and the ill or ailing are examined. Then a period of leisure time begins, which lasts until dinner, or rather until taps. Everyone spends this time as he pleases. You can rest, work, write letters, or have fun. This is how the day is broken up in the work camp. Sundays and holidays, naturally, do not follow the same tempo as weekdays. The piety of the church service in the camps, the great peace and liberating calm, and the songs that rise forth from beside the red flames of the campfire create an unforgettable array of variation. […] The days spent doing difficult, strenuous work are also full of good cheer, joy, and unforgettable experiences. Camp life is the healthiest life for a man.59

Until 1941, the year in which Hungary entered the war, EÖM and the system of compulsory labor service essentially satisfied the same demand.60 This was not changed by the creation of voluntary military labor service for females, in accordance with which, as of December of 1940, females above the age of 16 were given work on a voluntary basis in arms factories.61 In the initial phases, the two institutions were even sometimes mixed up by the press.62

On July 15 and September 20, 1939, the first battalions of people working as part of the compulsory labor service were established in ten settlements (including Zamárdi and Hódmezővásárhely).63 The operation of the battalions was regulated by decree number 5070/1939 ME, which was issued in accordance with paragraph 230 of the law, and the battalions were placed under the oversight of the authorized army corps headquarters.64 On June 27, Minister of Defense Bartha reaffirmed his earlier assertions and informed the army commanders of the following: “[i]ts goal in general is to ensure rearing in the national spirit and also to complete training and work that is in the public interest and is of public use. From the perspective of the army, it ensures the training of Hungarian workers and labor formations.”65 It applied to youths between 21 and 24 years of age who had been declared unfit for military service, some 6,000 people in total.

The first group began work on August 1 in Balatonzamárdi and Makó “amidst celebratory circumstances,” with cries of “to work!” These two battalions did public use projects (swamp drainage and the creation of embankments in order to transform the area into fertile land).66 The other seven did national defense work (they were made into a munitions industry squadron and got training and work at the facilities). It is quite clear that the division of labor was identical to the tasks assigned by EÖM, and indeed this is hardly surprising, since EÖM had organized the first public interest labor service battalions.67 (Béla Szinay had made the work that was done on the Zamárdi swamp part of his plans for work in 1937, at the urging of the local town clerk).68

The fact that Tarnói Kostyál became the editor-in-chief of Tábori Élet [Camp Life], the newspaper of the IX. public interest labor service battalion, also indicates the interconnections between EÖM and the public interest labor service. He was clearly given this position so that the Hungarian army would be able to use his four years of experience.69 The newspaper of the IV. camp battalion of Szigetvár, Tábori Újság [Camp News], borrowed its slogan (“Labor Service–Country Building”) from EÖM. The views of Lieutenant János Haidekker, found in the pages of Tábori Újság, also reveal this continuity:

 

The young people do this admittedly hard physical work with enthusiasm, which is even more amazing if one takes into consideration that they were deemed not suitable for military service, thus they have some kind of physical handicap or ailment. But they were not born to a Hungarian mother to fear rising early or doing hard work, digging the soil with pick and shovel. […] The labor service program is in good hands, the boys are doing good work, work the fruits of which they too will someday gather, because work done under strict, military conditions will have a beneficial influence on their dispositions and physical development as well.70

 

In 1940, the metaphor of building the country, i.e. the use of the EÖM slogan among people doing compulsory labor service, remained a popular turn of phrase. In the spring of 1940, one finds the following comments of an officer in the pages of Tábori Újság, a periodical (copies of which were made using a typewriter) of the V. battalion, which was centered in the city of Técső (today Tyachiv in the Ukraine):

 

and you, worker in the labor service program, who imagined yourself to be a person without worth, you see that you are as useful a citizen of your country as anyone. You donned your uniform, took an oath, you live a life of discipline, in a word, you are a soldier. A useful, working soldier of your poor country. Do not think there is a difference between you and your armed comrades! There isn’t! One builds a country, the other defends his homeland by armed force. No one can say which is more important.71

 

The similarly entitled periodical of the VII. public interest labor service battalion of Makó, which in 1939 and 1940 was edited and written by army officers and workers in labor service, clearly adopted the goals of EÖM:

 

And now the youth of the city and the youth of the village live side by side in a big family. We do service and work in different capacities, but with the same faith and dedication. We strive to understand and respect one another’s values, so that when we return to civilian life we can be the workers and the soldiers of the emergence of a social mentality that will be more harmonious than the mentality of today and have a strong sense of the feeling of unity.72

 

In July 1940, Tarnói Kostyál made one more attempt to become an important figure in the labor service institution. He submitted a request to KMOF for permission to produce a public interest labor service newspaper, and he asked that he be entrusted with the task of editing it. The competent divisions of the Ministry of Defense discussed the question and at first held out the promise of support. Tarnói buttressed his request with the observation that he was working as a newspaper writer and indeed as the editor of the newspaper of one of the battalions and also as a jurist, and furthermore he had made significant contributions to the very emergence of the labor service institution (and with this contention he made explicit the parallel between the Turul labor service and compulsory public interest labor service):

 

With this periodical I wish to further the cause of labor service in Hungary with the weapons of the mind so that the thousands of workers, who are performing compulsory labor for the good of the homeland, will not regard their most solemn duty as a cold obligation, but rather will be made aware of the popularity of the work they are doing, and the leaders themselves will be genuinely enthusiastic about labor service.73

Tarnói Kostyál was willing to invest 5,000 pengős of his own money in the newspaper. According to his plans, the monthly would have been published by KMOF. However, in October the chairmanship of the Ministry of Defense and KMOF changed its mind, as the idea had come up of using labor service in the future to put people classified legally as Jews (and therefore not permitted to join the armed services) to work. Given this, they felt that reports of the labor service in the press “would not be timely […] under the present circumstances.”74

The situation worsened as EÖM strove with increasing resolve to distance itself from the system of public interest (and non-combatant) labor service for Jews. According to a report submitted in May 1943 by form master for physical education and sports Román Tárczay-Felicides, “[t]he term labor service is an offense to the dignity of the university youths, because they understand the term to refer to Jewish labor service. A new name must be found [instead of EÖM], because with this name neither the voluntary labor service for university youth nor anything similar will work effectively. With regards to university labor service for females, a meeting must urgently be held.”75 No new name was ever devised, in all likelihood because by that time EÖM and the leadership of the system of compulsory labor service had already embarked down radically different paths.

Thus I am not contending that the system of voluntary labor for university students and youths of that age was a direct precursor to the system of labor service that was established by the 1939 bill on civil defense (a system which, as of the summer of 1940 and particularly following the active engagement of the country in the war, was used quite directly against the Jewish citizenry of the country, in part as a consequence of the shift to the right in the country’s political orientation). I am contending, however, that it provided a clear prototype.

It is worth considering this question in a broader context. As of the mid-1930s, new kinds of extreme right-wing parties and movements began to appear in Hungary, first and foremost under the influence of Nazi Germany. By the end of the decade, they had become a political force to be reckoned with, and in the parliamentary elections of 1939 they were the largest oppositional force. While the parties differed from one another in numerous details regarding their ideals, their ideologies all shared one important feature: they were all anti-Semitic.76 As early as 1937, Prime Minister Darányi had to face the fact that if he wished his party, the Party of National Unity, to remain in power he had to take measures to appease the increasingly significant body of anti-Semitic voters. As a consequence of the territorial revision that took place in 1938–41, largely under the auspices of Hitler, subsequent governments played the “Jewish card.” The first Jewish law, which was drafted by Darányi and accepted by parliament under Imrédy, only exacerbated this, as did the second Jewish law, passed during the tenure of Prime Minister Pál Teleki. This was followed during the war years by more racially motivated measures similar to the Nuremberg laws. These laws put an end to the equality of Hungarian citizens who were defined as Jews by the law and deprived tens of thousands of Hungarian citizens of their livelihoods.77

The institution of labor service became one of the sites of the racial war against the Jews of Hungary who had been reduced to the status of second-class citizens. Labor service gradually underwent a transformation from the military policy understanding of the institution as providing peaceful physical work for Christian citizens who had been deemed unsuitable for the armed services to a compulsory form of service. The elites of the Hungarian military leadership were deeply anti-Semitic. A transcript of pro-Nazi chief of staff Henrik Werth from April 18, 1940 contains unambiguously anti-Semitic goals: “independent of the political line, the Jewish question must be resolved administratively within the army, radically and urgently.”78 Werth also said that Jews should be used in the armed services in places where the losses would be the greatest. His statements concern efforts he had soon managed to effectuate: “a person determined to be Jewish cannot be granted any of the advantages given to members of the military, nor can a Jew be a reserve officer, a junior officer, or a non-commissioned officer.”79

In the autumn of 1940, the institution of labor service began to undergo a permanent change when the Ministry of Defense realized that it could easily use male citizens who had now been defined as Jewish by law as a work force in the labor service for military purposes. A male between the ages of 18 and 42 and defined under law at the time as Jewish was obliged to enlist in the non-combatant labor service instead of doing service in the armed forces. The inmates worked in labor camps. Initially Jewish inmates wore an armband bearing the national colors, but later they were obliged to wear a yellow armband (in the case of Hungarian citizens who had been baptized but were nonetheless regarded as Jewish by law, the armband was white).

There were three types of squadron: 1. Camp squadrons (which were mixed): Jews who were regarded as reliable. 2. Special work squadrons: Jews whose loyalty was suspected and who were regarded as unreliable. 3. Work squadrons consisting of members of national minorities. While the total number of inmates ranged from 10,000 to 20,000 between 1939 and 1943, by 1944 it had risen to 63,000. According to available sources, on July 17, 1940 there were 60 special (Jewish) workers squadrons. The military leadership planned to raise the number of inmates (in a short period of time) to 90,000 or 100,000. As a consequence of the regulations passed on August 1940, Jews who were regarded as capable of working were enlisted in camp worker squadrons, while elderly Jews and Jews in poor health were enlisted in squadrons that did non-combatant work within the borders of country. In both cases, the enlistment was for a period of three months.

The Directorate of the General Staff drew up many different plans the essential goal of which was the “radical de-Jewification” of the Hungarian armed forces. They made statutory provisions for people who were regarded as politically unreliable or not suitable for recruitment into the armed forces for health reasons and for members of national minorities. Following Hungary’s entry into the war, a series of discriminatory legal measures were taken that made the everyday lives of the compulsory labor camp inmates increasingly difficult. People did labor service in the hinterland, beyond the borders of the country, in the theater of military operations, and even on the front. The regulation concerning compulsory military service for Jews was announced in July 1942 (statute 1942: XIV). According to the law, Jews could not be members of the so-called Levente (a paramilitary organization roughly comparable with the Hitlerjugend) or join the armed forces, but could only do “non-combatant service,” which “is not worthy of a Hungarian man or youths who have grown up in Christian thinking.”80 This phrasing clearly shows that, in comparison with its initial phases, compulsory labor service had undergone a fundamental change, and its ties to EÖM, both with regards to its ideals and its function, had been broken.

Conclusion

The history of voluntary labor service and compulsory labor service split in 1941. The history of public interest and non-combatant labor service is closely intertwined with Hungary’s acceptance of an active role in World War II. Tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews served as inmates of the compulsory (or forced) labor camps, and this represents a significant aspect of the Holocaust in Hungary. With regards to the history of labor service in its different forms, as I noted at the beginning of this essay, since the 1960s research on the subject has been underway, but one could hardly claim that it has come close to exhausting the topic. The causes for this include an aversion to the use of new kinds of sources (for instance material sources) and a similar aversion to interdisciplinary methodologies, as well as the frustrating dearth of sources. The central documents of the public interest labor service were incinerated in 1944.81 It is also slightly problematic that the research projects and the works that have been published tend to narrate the events from the perspective of political history, i.e. the “perspective of the perpetrators.” Questions regarding motivations on the micro-historical level or from the perspectives of social history or the history of mentalities have thus been rarely raised.82

The history and operations of EÖM after 1941 have been given scant attention at best. The dearth of sources is even more striking and there is virtually no secondary literature on the subject. We do know, however, that during the war the camp system grew, first and foremost in the Székely Land and in the southern parts of the country (a territory overlapping but not entirely congruent with Vojvodina), where the role of men was—in a significant digression from earlier practice—restricted to non-combatant civil defense work (such as digging anti-tank ditches). The roles that were assigned to women who were doing labor service remained essentially unchanged. Labor service camps were established not far from the Székely settlements in Vojvodina in Ófutak (today Futog in Serbia), Hadiknépe (today Sirig in Serbia), Horthyvára (today Stepanovićevo in Serbia), and Hadikföldje (today Temerin-Đurđevo in Serbia) and special camps were set up in Temerin and Szabadka (today Subotica in Serbia). In these special camps “red polka-dotted maidens” collectively took part in the harvest work, together with the female voluntary civil defense labor service and the members of the local Levente.83

Following Hungary’s entry into the war, EÖM continued its operations without interruption or shift of direction. No changes took place in the leadership or in the work that was performed. As was the case with regards to the Hungarian army, however, the rules regarding EÖM underwent two changes. First, the internal regulations concerning voluntary labor service became more strict (more military in nature). Second, as of 1941 the rules concerning eligibility changed and the group of youths who could participate grew. Any student 16 years of age or older who had completed grammar school or at least the second year of middle school and who could demonstrate appropriate progress in studies and in religious ethics was allowed to enlist.

The fate of EÖM in Hungary was sealed by the occupation of the country by the German army in 1944. Though we do not know exactly why, the government under Döme Sztójay saw no reason to maintain the system, presumably in part because of the decline in the quantity and quality of the work performed and the drastically diminished number of people actually engaged in the program.84 At the same time, the Student Civil Defense Labor Service (Diákok Honvédelmi Munkaszolgálata, DHM), which was created in its place in April 1944 (in a building in Klotild Street, which had served as the seat of EÖM), bore some resemblance to EÖM. One might say it was a kind of closing chord, imbued with a simplified and more right-wing rhetoric.

The complex history of the university voluntary labor service is relevant not only to the social history and history of the youth of the Horthy era. While I may have been able, in the modest framework of this essay, to cover only a few of the most important moments in this history, I have placed existing narratives about the evolution of the institution of compulsory labor in Hungary during World War II in a new, larger context. The comparative examination of the two systems offers a foundation for new conclusions and thereby enriches the secondary literature on the history of the Holocaust.

 

Bibliography

Archival Sources

Archive of the Eötvös Loránd University

ELTE 7/c. Péter Pázmány University, Faculty of Law and Political Science, documents of the Office of the Dean

 

Archive of the Institute of Military History

HIL Elnöki osztály iratai [Institute of Military History Documents of the Presidential Division]

HIL Vezérkari Főnökség iratai [Institute of Military History Documents of the General Staff]

 

Hungarian National Archives

 

MNL OL K 149 Belügyminisztérium, elnöki osztály rezervált iratai (“Jobboldali összesítők”) [Ministry of Interior, reserved documents of the Presidential Division (“Right-wing summaries”)]

MNL OL K 429 Kozma Miklós iratai [Documents of Miklós Kozma]

MNL OL K 636 Egyetemekre, főiskolákra, tudományos intézetekre vonatkozó iratok [Documents on universities, colleges, and scholarly institutions] (1919–1944)

MNL OL K 636 Vallás- és Közoktatásügyi Minisztérium iratai [Documents of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education]

 

Library and Archive of the Péter Pázmány University Faculty of Theology

 

PPTE HK KL 1/b. Péter Pázmány University, Faculty of Theology, documents of the Office of the Dean

 

Printed Sources

 

Az 1935. évi április hó 27-ére hirdetett Országgyűlés nyomtatványai. Képviselőházi napló [Printed material of the National Assembly convened on April 27, 1935. Diary of the House of Representatives]. Vol. 18. Budapest: Athenaeum, 1938.

Az 1935. évi április hó 27-ére hirdetett Országgyűlés nyomtatványai. Felsőházi Napló [Printed material of the National Assembly convened on April 27, 1935. Diary of the Upper House], Vol. 4. Budapest: Athenaeum, 1939.

Az 1939. évi június hó 10-ére hirdetett Országgyűlés Képviselőházának Naplója [Diary of the House of Representatives of the National Assembly Convened on June 10, 1939]. Vol. 21, 1939. January 18. Budapest: Athenaeum, 1939. 378–80.

Bäumer, Gertrud. Der freiwillige Arbeitsdienst der Frauen. Leipzig: R. Boiglanders Verlag, 1933.

Dr. Bereznai, Aurél, Tibor Fehér and István ifj. Kostyál, eds. Munkaszolgálatos kézikönyv [Labor Service Handbook]. Budapest: Magyar Cserkészek Gazdasági és Kiadó Szövetkezet, 1940.

Fábry, Dániel. Munkaszolgálat [Labor Service]. Budapest: Magyar Királyi Állami Nyomda, 1938.

Holland, Kenneth. Youth in European Labor Camps. Washington: American Council on Education, 1939.

Karsai, Elek, ed. “Fegyvertelen álltak az aknamezőkön…” Dokumentumok a munkaszolgálat történetéhez Magyarországon. 2 vols. [“They Stood Unarmed on the Minefield…” Documents on the History of the Labor Service]. Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Képviselete, 1962.

Mózes, Tibor, ed. Egy “szerencsés” munkásszázad. Volt munkaszolgálatosok visszaemlékezései [A “Fortunate” Workers Squadron. The Memoirs of former Inmates of Forced Labor Units], 1942–1945. Galánta–Kápolnásnyék–Győr–Mosonmagyaróvár–Budapest: [Published by Zoltán Szirtes], 1985.

Müller-Brandenburg, Hermann. Der Arbeitsdienst fremder Staaten. Lepzig: Nationale Aufbau, 1938.

Schweizerische Zentralstelle für Freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst, ed. Arbeitsdienst in 13 Staaten: Probleme, Lösungen. Zürich–Leipzig: Orell-Füssli, 1938.

Sipos, Péter, ed. Imrédy Béla a vádlottak padján [Béla Imrédy in the Prisoner’s Box]. Budapest: Osiris–Budapest Főváros Levéltára, 1999.

Stackelberg, Roderick–Sally A. Winkle, eds. The Nazi Germany Sourcebook: An Anthology of Texts. London–New York: Routledge, 2002.

Szinay, Béla. Magyar Nemzeti Munkaszolgálat [Hungarian National Labor Service]. Budapest: Magyar Királyi Állami Nyomda, 1939.

Szita, Szabolcs, ed. Iratok a kisegítő munkaszolgálat, a zsidóüldözés történetéhez, 3 vols. [Documents on the History of the Non-combatant Labor Service and the Persecution of the Jews, I–III]. Budapest: Magyar Auschwitz Alapítvány–Holocaust Dokumentációs Központ, 2002.

Tharnói [Kostyál], László. Magyar munkaszolgálat: Munkatáborok a magyar nép és föld szolgálatában [Hungarian Labor Service: Work Camps in the Service of the Hungarian People and Land]. Budapest: Turul, 1939.

Tharnói Kostyál, László. Főiskolai önkéntes munkatábor [College Voluntary Work Camp]. Budapest: Turul, 1935.

 

The Press

 

Bajtárs [Brother-in-Arms] (1938), Balatoni Kurír [Balaton Courier] (1937, 1939, 1941), Délvidék [Southern Lands] (1942), Délvidéki Magyarság [Hungarians of the Southern

Lands] (1942), Dunántúli Hírlap [Transdanubian Newspaper] (1938), Felsőmagyarországi Reggeli Hírlap [Morning Newspaper of Upper Hungary] (1939), Függetlenség Képes Melléklet [Illustrated Appendix of Independence] (1939), Hevesvármegye [Heves

County] (1938), Hungária [Hungária] (1937), Jelenkor [The Present Age] (1937), Magyar Újság Képes Melléklete [Illustrated Appendix of Magyar Newspaper] (1939), Nemzeti Újság Képes Melléklet [Illustrated Appendix of National Newspaper] (1939), Reggeli Hírlap [Morning Newspaper] (1939), Reggeli Újság [Morning News] (1941), Somogyi Újság [Somogyi Newspaper] (1939), Szilágyság [The Szilágy Region] (1943), Tábori Újság [Camp Newspaper] (1939) OSzK H.20.672, 673., 674., Zalai Hírlap [Zala Newspaper] (1938).

 

Secondary Sources

 

Benz, Wolfgang, “Vom Freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst zur Arbeitsdienstpflicht.” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 16, no. 4 (1968): 317–46.

Braham, Randolph L. A népirtás politikája. A Holocaust Magyarországon [The Politics of Genocide: The Holocaust in Hungary]. Vol 1. Budapest: Belvárosi, 1990.

Braham, Randolph L. The Wartime System of Labor Service in Hungary. Varieties of Experience. Boulder–New York: Social Science Monographs–The Rosenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies, Graduate Center, CUNY, 1995.

Broszat, Martin. The Hitler State: The Foundation and Development of the Internal Structure of the Third Reich. London–New York: Longman, 1981.

Csapody Tamás. Bori munkaszolgálatosok [Labor service of Bor]. Budapest: Vince, 2012.

Dombrády, Lóránd: Werth Henrik: Akiről nem beszélünk [Henrik Werth: About Whom We Don’t Speak]. Budapest: Argumentum, 2005.

Dudek, Peter. Erziehung durch Arbeit. Arbeiterlagerbewegung und Freiwilliger Arbeitsdienst 1920–1935. Oplanden: Leske&Budrich, 1988.

Gyáni, Gábor. “Helyünk a holokauszt történetírásában” [Our Place in the Historiography on the Holocaust ]. Kommentár 3, no. 3 (2008): 13–23.

Heyck, Hartmut. “Labour Services in Weimar Republic and their Ideological Godparents.” Journal of Contemporary History 38, no. 4 (2003): 221–36.

Huhák, Heléna. “Lapátos hadsereg. Munkaszolgálat Magyarországon a II. világháborúban. Virtuális kiállítás” [Army with Shovels. Labor Service in Hungary in World War II]. Accessed June 2, 2015. http://musz.hdke.hu/ (2013).

Huhák, Heléna. “A magyarországi munkaszolgálat múzeumi forrásai és kiállítási reprezentációjuk” [The Museum Sources of the Hungarian Labor Service and Its Representations at Exhibitions]. Történeti Muzeológiai Szemle 14 (2015) (forthcoming).

Karsai, László. Holokauszt [Holocaust]. Budapest: Pannonica, 1998.

Mason, Timothy W. Social Policy of the Third Reich. The Working Class and the “National Community.” Providence, RI–Oxford: Berg, 1993.

Patel, Kiran Klaus. “The Paradox of Planning. German Agricultural Policy in an European Perspective, 1920s to 1970s.” Past & Present 59, no. 8 (2011): 239–42.

Patel, Kiran Klaus. Soldiers of Labor. Labor Service in Nazi Germany and New Deal America, 1933–1945. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Paksa, Rudolf. Magyar nemzetiszocialisták: Az 1930-as évek új szélsőjobboldali mozgalma, pártjai, politikusai, sajtója [Hungarian National Socialists: The New Right-wing Movement, Parties, Politicians, and Press of the 1930s]. Budapest: MTA BTK TTI–Osiris, 2013.

Rozett, Robert. Conscripted Slaves: Hungarian Jewish Forced Laborers on the Eastern Front During the Second World War. Yerusalem: Yad Vashem, 2014.

Szécsényi, András. “‘Áldásos munkát!’ Egyetemisták és főiskolások női munkaszolgálata” [‘Blessed Work!’” University and College Students in Female Labor Service]. Katonaújság 3, no. 2 (2012): 38–46.

Szécsényi, András. “A Turul Szövetség akciói: a Magyar Egészség Hete és a Magyar Nép Hete” [Activities of the Turul Coalition: Hungarian Health Week and Hungarian People’s Week]. In Vázlatok két évszázad magyar történelméből, edited by Jenő Gergely, 191–204. Budapest: ELTE BTK, 2010.

Szécsényi, András. “Fogalomtörténeti vázlat a munkaszolgálatról” [Terminological-historical Sketch on the Institution of Labor Service]. Betekintő 8, no. 3 (2014): 1–30. Accessed May 3, 2015, http://www.betekinto.hu/sites/default/files/2014_3_szecsenyi.pdf.

Szécsényi, András. “Egyetemi és főiskolai munkatáborok Magyarországon 1935–1939” [University and College Work Camps in Hungary, 1935–1939]. In Visszatekintés a 19–20. századra, edited by Gábor Erdődy, 149–65, Budapest: ELTE BTK, 2011.

Szécsényi, András. “Egyetemi munkaszolgálat Magyarországon a Horthy-korszakban.” [University Labor Service in Hungary in the Horthy Era]. Történeti Muzeológiai Szemle 10 (2011): 149–64.

Szécsényi, András. “Kozma Miklós és a munkaszolgálat” [Miklós Kozma and the Labor Service]. Modern Magyarország 3, no. 1 (2014): 104–24. Accessed April 5, 2015. http://epa.oszk.hu/02300/02336/00003/pdf/EPA02336_moma_2014_kulonszam_104-124.pdf.

Szita, Szabolcs. “A munkaszolgálat Magyarországon 1939–1945” [Labor Service in Hungary, 1939–1945]. Hadtörténeti Közlemények 117 (2004): 817–57.

Szita, Szabolcs. “Történelmi áttekintés a munkaszolgálatról (1941–1945)” [Historical Overview of Labor Service (1941–1945)]. Holocaust Füzetek 2 (1993): 26–33.

Szita, Szabolcs. Halálerőd. A munkaszolgálat és a hadimunka történetéhez, 1944–1945 [Bastion of Death. On the History of Labor Service and Military Work, 1944–1945]. Budapest: Kossuth, 1989.

Szita, Szabolcs. Holocaust az Alpok előtt [Holocaust before the Alps]. Budapest: Kossuth, 1983.

Szita, Szabolcs. Munkaszolgálat Magyarország nyugati határán. A Birodalmi Védőállás építése 1944–1945 [Labor Service on the Western Border of Hungary. Construction of the Imperial Defensive Position]. Budapest: ELTE BTK, 1990.

Ungváry, Krisztián. A Horthy-rendszer mérlege: Diszkrimináció, szociálpolitika és antiszemitizmus Magyarországon [The Horthy System in the Balance: Discrimination, Social Policy and Anti-Semitism in Hungary]. Budapest: Jelenkor, 2013.

1 Over the past few decades, Hungarian and international historical scholarship and scholars of the Holocaust have published significant source works, monographs, and numerous essays on the subject of Jewish forced labor during World War II. In addition, many memoirs written by people who worked in the forced labor camps and squadrons have been published. One should mention first and foremost the following: Randolph L. Braham, A népirtás politikája. A Holocaust Magyarországon, vol. 2 (Budapest: Belvárosi, 1990), 677–1474; Idem, The Hungarian Labor Service System, 1939–1945 (Boulder: East European Quarterly, 1997); Idem, The Wartime System of Labor Service in Hungary. Varieties of Experiences (Boulder–New York: Social Science Monographs–The Rosenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies, Graduate Center, CUNY, 1995); Tibor Mózes, ed., Egy “szerencsés” munkásszázad. Volt munkaszolgálatosok visszaemlékezései, 1942–1945. Galánta, Kápolnásnyék, Győr, Mosonmagyaróvár (Budapest: a publication of Zoltán Szirtes, 1985); “Fegyvertelen álltak az aknamezőkön…,” Dokumentumok a munkaszolgálat történetéhez Magyarországon, 2 vols., ed. Elek Karsai (Budapest: Magyar Izraeliták Országos Irodája, 1962); László Karsai, Holokauszt (Budapest: Pannonica, 1998); Robert Rozett, Conscripted Slaves: Hungarian Jewish Forced Laborers on the Eastern Front During the Second World War (Jerusalem: Yad Vashem, 2014); Szabolcs Szita, ed., Iratok a kisegítő munkaszolgálat, a zsidóüldözés történetéhez, 3 vols. (Budapest: Magyar Auschwitz Alapítvány–Holocaust Dokumentációs Központ, 2002); Idem, “A munkaszolgálat Magyarországon 1939–1945,” Hadtörténeti Közlemények 117 (2004): 817–57; Idem, Halálerőd. A munkaszolgálat és a hadimunka történetéhez, 1944–1945 (Budapest: Kossuth, 1989); Idem, “Történelmi áttekintés a munkaszolgálatról (1941–1945),” Holocaust Füzetek 2 (1993): 26–33; Idem, Munkaszolgálat Magyarország nyugati határán. A Birodalmi Védőállás építése 1944–1945 (Budapest: ELTE BTK, 1990).

2 I recently summarized my opinion on this question and pointed out the lacunae in the scholarship and the misleading interpretations that have been offered: András Szécsényi, “Fogalomtörténeti vázlat a munkaszolgálatról,” Betekintő 8, no. 3 (2014), accessed May 3, 2015, http://www.betekinto.hu/sites/default/files/2014_3_szecsenyi.pdf.

3 By the mid 1930s, the system had spread across Europe. Its deepest roots, however, were found in Switzerland, Germany, Bulgaria, Italy, and the Scandinavian countries. As surprising as it may seem, to this day there is no up-to-date scholarship on the European systems of labor service. The history of the labor service in Germany represents something of an exception to this rule, as research on the subject began to gather momentum in the 1960s.

4 Schweizerische Zentralstelle für Freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst, hrsg., Arbeitsdienst in 13 Staaten. Probleme-Lösungen (Zürich–Leipzig: Orell–Füssli, 1938).

5 The voluntary summer labor camps, in which unemployed youths and students between the ages of 16 and 24 were given work, were in operation up until the outbreak of World War II. They were under the authority of a body of the economic cabinet in charge of labor service (the Eidgenößische Zentralstelle für Arbeitsbeschaffung). See Hermann Müller-Brandenburg, Der Arbeitsdienst fremder Staaten (Leipzig: Nationale Aufbau, 1938), 62–66.

6 Ibid.

7 Kenneth Holland, Youth in European Labor Camps (Washington: American Council on Education, 1939), 279–87.

8 In some countries (Germany, Bulgaria, England, Holland, Poland, and Austria, and as of 1937 also Hungary), separate camps were established for women. However, with the exception of the camps in Germany, these camps only involved providing work for some few hundred unemployed women a year. They were insignificant in comparison to the camps for men. Holland, Labor Camps, 242–67.

9 Kiran Klaus Patel, Soldiers of Labor. Labor Service in Nazi Germany and New Deal America, 1933–1945 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005).

10 For a summary of the operative mechanisms of FAD see: Peter Dudek, Erziehung durch Arbeit. Arbeiterlagerbewegung und Freiwilliger Arbeitsdienst 1920–1935 (Oplanden: Leske&Budrich, 1988) and Wolfgang Benz, “Vom Freiwilligen Arbeitsdienst zur Arbeitsdienstpflicht,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 16, no. 4 (1968): 317–46; Hartmut Heyck, “Labour Services in Weimar Republic and their Ideological Godparents,” Journal of Contemporary History 38, no. 4 (2003): 221–36.

11 Kiran Klaus Patel, “The Paradox of Planning. German Agricultural Policy in a European Perspective, 1920s to 1970s,” Past & Present 59, no. 8 (2011): 239–42.

12 Kiran Klaus Patel, Soldiers of Labor. Labor Service in Nazi Germany and New Deal America, 1933–1945 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 64.

13 Martin Broszat, The Hitler State: The Foundation and Development of the Internal Structure of the Third Reich (London–New York: Longman, 1981), 155.

14 Patel, Soldiers of Labor, 108, 188.

15 Timothy W. Mason, Social Policy of the Third Reich. The Working Class and the “National Community” (Providence–Oxford: Berg, 1993), 125–26. In contrast, the contemporary German and Hungarian compilations of statistics emphasized the positive value of the work projects. See for instance Béla Szinay, Magyar nemzeti munkaszolgálat (Budapest: n.p., 1939), 8.

16 Heinrich Himmler took control of some of the concentration camps from RAD and put them under the authority of the SS, as indeed he said he would do at a meeting of the SS leadership in January, 1937. The network of barracks, which were Spartan in their furnishings, simply continued to be used as concentration camps, the camp at Esterwegen in Emsland, for instance, which later grew into the Sachsenhausen and Oranienburg camps. No changes were made to the task workers were expected to perform, namely draining swamps, but now most of the workers were communist and Jewish prisoners. For more, see: Roderick Stackelberg–Sally A. Winkle, eds., The Nazi Germany Sourcebook. An Anthology of Texts (London–New York: Routledge, 2002), 205–06.

17 For an excellent summary of the vast German secondary literature on the subject, I recommend, on the functioning of RAD, Patel, Soldiers of Labor.

18 Gertrud Bäumer, Der freiwillige Arbeitsdienst der Frauen (Leipzig: R. Boiglanders Verlag, 1933), 8–16.

19 Since the foundation of the mass organization in 1919, the High Command was the leading body of Turul. Chief Commanders were elected annually at the camp of delegates but were eligible for reelection. The Chief Commander could appoint members of his High Command who were responsible for specific portfolios such as, for instance, international relations.

20 László Tarnói Kostyál was one of the most agile and radically anti-Semitic student leaders in the 1930s. We know little about his life outside of his activity in the work camps and fraternal societies. He is not even mentioned in the archival documents of the state security forces. His name can be found in a number of different version in the contemporary sources. For the sake of consistency, I have used Tarnói Kostyál throughout this essay. Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára (MNL OL) K 636 VKM box 705., batch 98. A Turul Szövetség általános ügyei 1932–1936 [General affairs of the Turul Association, 1932–1936]. János Salló’s Journey to English, July 14–18, 1934.

21 MNL OL K 636 VKM box 704, batch 98. A Turul Szövetség általános ügyei 1932–1936 batch 98. 8.

22 This was the first and last time that the idea was raised of uniting the large student associations in this way, naturally under the guidance of Turul principles. MNL OL K 636 VKM box 704, batch 98. A Turul Szövetség általános ügyei 1932–1936. batch 98. Correspondence 6–7.

23 ELTE Archives, 7/c. 1935–36/3980.

24 MNL OL K 636 VKM box 704, batch 98. A Turul Szövetség általános ügyei 1932–1936. batch 98. Correspondence, 47.

25 Ibid., 16.

26 I examine these interconnections in András Szécsényi, “A Turul Szövetség akciói: a Magyar Egészség Hete és a Magyar Nép Hete,” in Vázlatok két évszázad magyar történelméből, ed. Jenő Gergely (Budapest: ELTE BTK, 2010), 191–204; Dr. László Tharnói Kostyál, Főiskolai önkéntes munkatábor (Budapest: Turul, 1935).

27 For a more detailed discussion see András Szécsényi, “Egyetemi és főiskolai munkatáborok Magyarországon 1935–1939,” in Visszatekintés a 19–20. századra, ed. Gábor Erdődy (Budapest: ELTE BTK, 2011), 149–65.

28 András Szécsényi, “‘Áldásos munkát!’ Egyetemisták és főiskolások női munkaszolgálata,” Katonaújság 3, no. 2 (2012): 38–46. Regarding the critical assessments, see “Munkatábor-ankét az egyetemi Körben,” Hungária, February 9, 1937, and Péter Veres, “Ankét – A fiatal magyar értelmiség és a falu,” Jelenkor 2, no. 1–2 (1937): 12. At the same time, in the spring of 1939 the Arrow Cross Party saw it as a potential tool in the creation of a “Jew-free workers’ state.” MNL OL K 149 BM Jobboldali összesítők [Right-wing Summaries]. Number 11,225. 423–26.

29 1937 decree number 4.400 of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education. 1938 decree number 2.500 of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education. 1939: II civil defense bill of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education; 1939 decree number 3.100 of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education. VKM; 1944 decree number 8.830 of the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education. EÖM stood for Egyetemi és Főiskolai Hallgatók Önkéntes Munkaszolgálata.

30 For a summary, see András Szécsényi, “Egyetemi munkaszolgálat Magyarországon a Horthy-korszakban,” Történeti Muzeológiai Szemle 10 (2011): 149–64.

31 MNL OL K 636 VKM box 704, batch 98. A Turul Szövetség általános ügyei 1932–1936. batch 98. Correspondence, 2.

32 Béla Imrédy (1891–1946) was an economist and banker, and he briefly served as prime minister (1938–1939). He is associated with the first Jewish law passed in Hungary. Following his forced resignation, he founded an extreme right wing, anti-Semitic party (the Party of Hungarian Revival), which became part of the government coalition in the spring of 1944, following the occupation of Hungary by the German army. He was sentenced to death and executed in 1946. On Imrédy, see: Péter Sipos, ed., Imrédy Béla a vádlottak padján (Budapest: Osiris–Budapest Főváros Levéltára, 1999).

33 László Tharnói [Kostyál], Magyar munkaszolgálat. Munkatáborok a magyar nép és föld szolgálatában (Budapest: Turul, 1939), 32–33.

34 MNL OL K 429 Kozma Miklós iratai [Papers of Miklós Kozma], microfilm box number 3,931: Kozma Miklós jelentése a RAD munkatáborairól, 1936. december [Miklós Kozma’s Report on the RAD Work camps, December 1936], 45–50. For more on Kozma’s role and his trip to Germany in a wider context, see András Szécsényi, “Kozma Miklós és a munkaszolgálat,” Modern Magyarország 3, no. 1 (2014): 104–24, accessed October 13, 2015, http://epa.oszk.hu/02300/02336/00003/pdf/EPA02336_moma_2014_kulonszam_104-124.pdf.

35 MNL OL K 429 Kozma Miklós iratai, microfilm box number 3,931. Adatgyűjtemény [Collection of Data] 1936–1940, 101.

36 Az 1935. évi április hó 27-ére hirdetett Országgyűlés nyomtatványai. Képviselőházi Napló, vol 18 (Budapest: Athenaeum, 1938), 604–05.

37 MNL OL K 429, Kozma Miklós iratai, microfilm box number 3,933, 132.

38 He was also the staff captain of the so-called Vitéz Seat. “Vitéz Szinay Béla altábornagy vitézi törzskapitány: ‘nem halnak meg, örökké élnek, akik a hazáért halnak!’ [Vitéz Béla Szinay lieutenant general Vitéz staff captain: ‘One who fights for the homeland does not die, but lives forever!’],” Hevesvármegye, June 15, 1938, 2.

39 Hadtörténeti Intézet Levéltára (HIL) A Magyar egyetemi és Főiskolai Munkaszolgálat Főparancsnoksága. 1938 eln. B. osztály, 23269. 1–2. German–Austrian territories (németosztrák területek) referred to the territories of the inter-war Austrian state here.

40 “Fokozatosan valósítják meg a kötelező munkaszolgálatot” [Gradually they are making compulsory labor service a reality], Dunántúli Hírlap, August 7, 1939, 5.

41 HIL A Magyar egyetemi és Főiskolai Munkaszolgálat Főparancsnoksága. 1938 eln. B. osztály, 23269., 3–10.

42 “Szombaton bevonult ötezer munkaszolgálatos” [On Saturday, 5,000 labor service workers arrived], Felsőmagyarországi Reggeli Hírlap, July 14, 1939, 7.

43 “Nagyarányú közmunkákat valósít meg a kormány a munkatábor-rendszer révén” [The government is completing ambitious public works projects with the work camp system], Zalai Közlöny, August 7, 1938, 2.

44 In the rest of this essay I refer to the institution as compulsory labor service or non-combatant labor service.

45 Originally, the parliamentary committee—again following the German model—wanted to include women in the compulsory labor service as well, but in the end they refrained from doing this. Indeed, initially the committee had not wanted to limit labor service to men between the ages of 21 and 24 and deemed suitable for service, but rather had wanted to broaden this group as well. MNL OL K2 Képviselőház és Nemzetgyűlés általános és elnöki iratai [General and presidential documents of the House of Representatives and the National Assembly]. Bundle 563, 123. A honvédelemről [On civil defense].

46 As of early 1939, the Ministry of Defense created a Labor Service and Labor Issues Group, which dealt with issues involving the public interest labor service and other workers’ formations that came under the oversight of the military. It was led by the KMOF. The KMOF had a voice in the restructuring of the university and college student associations, which had been under discussion since 1939. He informed the Ministry of Defense of his ideas. HIL I/116. Az ifjúság honvédelmi nevelésének és testnevelésének országos vezetője naplója [Journal of the national leader of civil defense training and physical education for youths], August 30, 1941; September 20, 1941.

47 “Munkatáborok Magyarországon” [Labor camps in Hungary], Bajtárs, January 14, 1938, 4.

48 Dr. Aurél Bereznai, Tibor Fehér, and ifj. István Kostyál, eds., Munkaszolgálatos kézikönyv (Budapest: Magyar Cserkészek Gazdasági és Kiadó Szövetkezet, 1940), 12.

49 Dániel Fábry, Munkaszolgálat (Budapest: n.p., 1938), 1–22. This booklet specified six functions of compulsory labor, which overlapped in part with the functions of the volunteer systems: national defense, ethical rearing, and sanitation, economic, social, and military functions.

50 Szinay, Magyar Nemzeti Munkaszolgálat, 26.

51 In addition to the expansive presentation mentioned above (the text of which was published), the commander-in-chief of EÖM made two other reports in December 1939 for the Ministry for Religious Affairs and Public Education in which he again examined the relationship between EÖM and the compulsory labor service and made ascertainments that harmonized with the conclusions he had previously drawn. MNL OL K 636 VKM 898. box, 61. batch. Nemzeti Munkatáborok ügyei [Issues pertaining to the National Work Camps]. 1937–1941. Szinay Béla főparancsnok jelentése [Report of commander-in-chief Béla Szinay], 1939, 5–17.

52 Képviselőházi Napló, January 20, 1939, vol. 21, 372–77.

53 HIL Vezérkari Főnökség [Directorate of the General Staff], 1939. 1/a. 3415/elnöki o. [presidential division], 519–22, 277/1237–1256. microfilm, the regulation of labor service [no page number given].

54 HIL Vezérkari Főnökség, 1939. 1/a. 21488/elnöki o. 1–4. Deliberations on compulsory labor service; HIL Vezérkari Főnökség, 1939. 1/a. 3959/elnöki o. 1–18. Deliberations on compulsory labor service [no page number given].

55 Foreign Ministry decree number 5070/1839 on the regulation of labor service in the public interest (May 12, 1939). This decree, the previous plan, and the minutes of the meeting of the council of ministers are cited in Karsai, “Fegyvertelen,” 64–71.

56 HIL Vezérkari Főnökség 1939. 1.a. 4038/elnöki o., 277/1305–1328. microfilm. Meeting on the subject of labor service in the public interest, 1–4.

57 Ibid. and HIL Vezérkari Főnökség 1939. 1.a. 4003/elnöki o., 277/1305–1328. microfilm. Meeting on the subject of labor service in the public interest. 1–4.; HIL Vezérkari Főnökség 1939. 1. 4070/elnöki o., 277/1305–1328. microfilm. 1–5. Meeting on the subject of labor service in the public interest; HIL Vezérkari Főnökség 1939. 1. 4109/elnöki o., 277/1305–1328. microfilm. Meeting on the subject of labor service in the public interest, 1–5.

58 Tharnói, Magyar munkaszolgálat, 1–64.

59 Munkaszolgálatos kézikönyv, 116–17.

60 From then on, every year in the second half of August institutions of higher education had to inform pupils who fell within the age limits set by the Ministry of Defense in its instructions of their obligation to enlist. In other words, in 1939 they had to inform pupils who had been born in 1919 of their obligation to do labor service and in 1944 they had to inform pupils who had been born in 1923 of their obligation. The lists of people who were called on to enroll are usually missing from the university archives or are fragmentary. The most complete lists are found in the Library and Archive of the School of Theology at Péter Pázmány University (PPTE HK HL). Pázmány Péter Tudományegyetem, Hittudományi Kar, Dékáni Hivatal iratai, box 66–67.

61 1940 decree number 6,570. ME on establishment of executive measures connected with the organization of women’s volunteer work in civil defense (December 15, 1940); the 1940 decree number 1,080. ME on the organization of women’s volunteer work in civil defense.

62 “A Közérdekű Önkéntes Munkaszolgálat ünnepélyesen megkezdte a munkát,” Magyar Újság Képes Melléklete, August 6, 1939, 2.

63 HIL Vezérkari Főnökség, 1939, 32 487/elnöki osztály. 10., 4. Közérdekű munkaszolgálatra való behívás [Conscription into labor service in the public interest].

64 The structure of a battalion was similar to the model in the German RAD, which had territorial units and battalion units.

65 HIL Vezérkari Főnökség, 1939, 4167/elnöki osztály, 95 045. sz., 1. Közérdekű munkaszolgálat megindulása [The launch of labor service in the public interest].

66 “Az első kötelező munkaszolgálat a Balatonnál” [The first compulsory labor service on Lake Balaton], Balatoni Kurír, July 27, 1939, 2; “Az első kötelező munkaszolgálat Somogyban” [The first compulsory labor service in Somogy], Somogyi Újság, July 29, 1939, 1.

67 HIL A M. Kir. Honvédelmi Minisztérium 1939. működése. Jelentés [The functioning of the Hungarian Ministry of Defense in 1939. Report]. HM 1940 elnöki o. I. tétel, 49343, 90–124.

68 [No author given], [no title], Balatoni Kurír, June 9, 1937, 6.

69 This publication [OSzK H 62.742] and the other issues of Tábori Újság can only be found in the National Széchényi Library, and not in their entirety. In what follows I indicate the issues to which I am referring.

70 János Haidekker, “A legújabb magyar honvédsereg” [The newest Hungarian army], Tábori Újság, 4–5/1939, 1. [OSzK H 20.673.].

71 József Beinschrott, “Egy év után…!” [One year later…!], Tábori Újság, 3/1940, 1. [OSzK H 20.674.].

72 István Schneider, “A munkaszolgálat” [The labor service], Tábori Újság, 1939, [no page number given]..

73 HIL 1940 elnöki. o. II. tétel, 36531. Munkaszolgálatos folyóirat megindítása [The launch of a labor service periodical], 1–9.

74 Ibid.

75 HIL I/116. Az ifjúság honvédelmi nevelésének és testnevelésének országos vezetője naplója, May 18, 1943, 3.

76 See Rudolf Paksa, Magyar nemzetiszocialisták: Az 1930-as évek új szélsőjobboldali mozgalma, pártjai, politikusai, sajtója (Budapest: MTA BTK TTI–Osiris, 2013).

77 For a recent inquiry, which adopts a critical perspective, see Krisztián Ungváry, A Horthy-rendszer mérlege: Diszkrimináció, szociálpolitika és antiszemitizmus Magyarországon (Budapest: Jelenkor, 2013).

78 Braham, Népirtás, 297. Henrik Werth (1881–1952) was an officer of the Hungarian General Staff of German descent. From 1938 to September 1941, he was the head of the Hungarian General Staff. He was known for his ties to the National Socialists and for his pronounced anti-communism. He was one of the most prominent supporters of Hungary’s entry into the war on Germany’s side and against the Soviet Union. He was convicted of war crimes in 1948, and he died in 1952 in Soviet captivity. Lóránd Dombrády, Werth Henrik: Akiről nem beszélünk (Budapest: Argumentum, 2005).

79 Ibid.

80 On the labor service in Bor, see Tamás Csapody, Bori munkaszolgálatosok (Budapest: Vince, 2012). The book also constitutes a fine handbook on the secondary literature on the labor service in Bor. On the labor service in the western part of the country in 1944 and 1945, see Szabolcs Szita, Holocaust az Alpok előtt (Budapest: Kossuth, 1983) and Szabolcs Szita, Birodalmi védőállás.

81 For instance, since the 1990s not a single scholar has thoroughly and systematically researched and analyzed the interviews that were done by the SHOAH Visual Foundation and compared them with the primary sources.

82 Gábor Gyáni is justified in his criticism of this state of affairs: Gábor Gyáni, “Helyünk a holokauszt történetírásában,” Kommentár 3, no. 3 (2008): 21. For a good counter example, see Heléna Huhák, “Lapátos hadsereg. Munkaszolgálat Magyarországon a II. világháborúban. Virtuális kiállítás,” accessed June 2, 2015, http://musz.hdke.hu/ and Heléna Huhák, “A magyarországi munkaszolgálat múzeumi forrásai és kiállítási reprezentációjuk,” Történeti Muzeológiai Szemle 14 (2015) (forthcoming).

83 “Az ifjúság az új magyar kenyér szolgálatában” [The youth in the service of the new Hungarian bread], Délvidék, July 14, 1942, 4; , “Piros pettyes lányok működnek a székely telepeken” [Red polka-dotted maidens at work in the Székely settlements], Délvidék, August 21, 1942, 6.; “Aratnak a leventék. Az ifjúság az új kenyér szolgálatában” [The Levente are harvesting. Youth in the service of the new bread], Délvidéki Magyarság, July 11, 1942, 5; “Szabadkán is megszervezik a női önkéntes honvédelmi munkaszolgálatot” [Women’s Voluntary Civil Defense Labor Service is being organized in Szabadka as well], Délvidéki Magyarság, July 8, 1942, 4; “Pirospettyes leány súlyos balesete Temerinben” [Serious accident involving a red polka-dotted maiden in Temerin], Reggeli Újság, August 1, 1941, 3.

84 1944 decree number 8,830. VKM az Egyetemi és Főiskolai Hallgatók Önkéntes Nemzeti Munkaszolgálatának megszüntetéséről [On the termination of the University and College Student Voluntary National Labor Service].

pdfVolume 4 Issue 3 CONTENTS

Gábor Szegedi

Stand by Your Man

Honor and “Race Defilement” in Hungary, 1941–441

The practice of race defilement in Hungary began following the passage of the 1941 Marriage Law, a comprehensive law on marriage that introduced mandatory premarital health checks, marriage loans and the prohibition of marriage between Jews and non-Jews. In contrast with Nazi Germany, in Hungary non-Jewish men were exempted from the provisions of the law, so only Jewish men could be convicted and only if they had a liaison with “honorable” women. The vague non-legal term “honorable” provided the authorities with the opportunity to limit sexual and other contact between “Jews” and “non-Jews” and also to exert control over female bodies through policing and surveillance, as female “honor” was in most cases crucial in order to determine the course of the proceedings. This paper uses the theoretical framework of the history of emotions to reconstruct the types of “honor” that come to light from an analysis of the papers of these court cases and their importance for sexual politics in Horthy-era Hungary.

Keywords: Racial defilement, honor, anti-Semitism, prostitution, love

Introduction

In Emotions in History: Lost and Found Ute Frevert gives a panoramic history of the concept “honor,” her main claim being that this “lost emotion” was intrinsic to upholding social stratification and gender difference in pre-1945 Western cultures. The custom of duels enabled men of the middle and upper classes to save or redeem their honor in case it was under threat, whereas lower class men were not given access to this organized way of taking revenge on people who had allegedly violated their honor. While working class men could still protect their honor, violently, with their bare fists, women’s honor tended to be deeply sexualized. It was closely linked to their sexual “purity” and put them in positions of passivity, as they did not possess any means of retaining or recovering their honor themselves, but needed male family members as protectors to do that for them. Moreover, lost premarital virginity was the kind of loss of honor that could not be redeemed. Once lost, this dishonor marked a woman forever.2 This resonates with what Luisa Passerini writes in New Dangerous Liaisons: Discourses on Europe and Love in the Twentieth Century, namely that transgressions in love can be “dangerous for the oppressive aspects of the existing social and cultural order.”3 In Europe transgressions in love have been historically varied, but Passerini can point to an important aspect of the idea of romantic love: that transgressions are especially dangerous if they involve non-Europeans. Moreover, “love in inter-racial relationships was considered particularly impossible and therefore doomed to a disastrous end.”4 Both Frevert and Passerini aim to historicize emotions, an aspect of history that, due to its seemingly volatile nature, has long been neglected.

In this paper on honor and race defilement in Hungary of the Horthy era, I am going to use a similar theoretical framework. I will draw on Barbara Rosenwein’s definition in particular, according to which emotional communities were “by and large the same as social communities—families, neighborhoods, syndicates, academic institutions, monasteries, factories, platoons, princely courts.” Rosenwein suggests that research on these communities should seek for “systems of feeling” to see “the modes of expression that they expect, encourage, tolerate and deplore.”5 Rosenwein’s conception of her research subject closely resembles William Reddy’s idea of emotional regimes, that is “the set of normative emotions and the official rituals, practices, and emotives that express and inculcate them; a necessary underpinning of any stable political regime.”6 Reddy claims that as emotions are “associated with the dense network of goals that give coherence to the self,” it is essential for a community to provide a “coherent set of prescriptions about emotions.”7 Reddy has also introduced further concepts for the study of emotions, such as “emotional refuge” and “emotional liberty,” the former referring to the emotional safe spaces or outlets where those who feel oppressed by the dominant emotional regime can properly express their emotions. Reddy believes that the scrutiny of emotional regimes can be politicized by bringing in the concept of “emotional liberty.” In other words, tyranny can be detected (and critiqued) by examining the pressures that are put on individuals living in a certain emotional regime. If there is strict emotional discipline, then the individuals whose emotional build-up differs from the norm can potentially become subject to physical violence, forced exile, excommunication, etc. or, alternatively, their protests against the norms can take extreme forms.

The author of the most comprehensive monograph on the history of race defilement in Nazi Germany,8 Alexandra Przyrembel, has recently called for the use of the analytic categories of emotional history in analyses of anti-Semitism and, more specifically, race defilement (Rassenschande):

(…) with racist anti-Semitism, hostile emotions were created towards the Jews, which, even if with the opposite sign, could be pursued in the rulings of the courts of the National Socialist justice system on a discursive level. It is through this emotional coding that racial anti-semitism gets its real strength, and not the contemporary biological concepts of purity.9

Przyrembel mentions three tenets of German history-writing that dealt with the National Socialist persecution of Jews from the perspective of collective emotions. One of these, introduced by Michael Wildt,10 dealt with the concept of “honor,” which was given particular significance under National Socialism and which excluded the Jews from “German honor.” The second one focused on a regime of “moral emotions” or “anti-Semitic passions” that Germans were supposed to feel, a mixture of “guilt, shame, resentment and indignation,” these being enforceable and enforced by the regime. Thirdly, Patricia Szobar presented so-called “sexual stories” and their performative effect in race defilement. While studies on Nazi Germany have already produced a range of inquiries in emotional history, Hungarian historiography has dealt only marginally with race defilement and as of yet no analysis has focused on its emotional aspects.11

In this paper, I will discuss, similarly to Szobar, “sexual stories” and their performative effects in Hungarian race defilement court practice. The main questions relate to the concept of honor and how, through the usage of this term, emotional norms were created, reinforced, or challenged by the various actors involved. If we follow Przyrembel’s call, what do we learn about the various emotions and the politics revolving around these emotions when looking at the documents of the various Hungarian courts? I will first briefly discuss the background, i.e. sexual politics in interwar Hungary, and then analyze the various connotations of “honor” for various groups (women, Jews) and for the nation in the last years of Horthy-era Hungary.

Sexual Politics, Sex Education: a Background

In order to improve moral standards on the street and in public spaces in general it is forbidden: (…) to use loud, coarse language or filthy expressions or to make a lewd move or gesture, which may violate the good taste and ethical standards of others. (…) to address an honorable woman (girl or married woman) in a public space with the aim of becoming acquainted against her will or in an inopportune manner. (…) the police are obliged to (…) provide the most comprehensive protection for the public and the woman or adolescent who is in need of protection.

Decree No. 151.000/1927 of the Interior Minister: The protection of public morals12

There was a striking “proliferation of discourse” with regards to sexuality in Hungary after World War I. The number of publications on sex education for young people was in the hundreds, most of the authors being Christian (often linked directly to the Catholic or Calvinist Churches) and representing the dominant sexual ethos, an excellent example of which we find in various “decency regulations,” one of which is quoted above. The sexual normalcy advocated in these texts is not very different from Catholic sex education elsewhere in Europe: Austrian, Polish or German Catholics had similar conceptions of sexual norms, what could be considered deviant, and what was expected from youths.13

The works of Hungarian authors Tihamér Tóth, Ferenc Kiss, Péter Olasz and József Koszterszitz all employ a rhetoric of guilt and are all oriented around “purity,” which is contrasted with “sin.”14 The practices that were to be avoided were numerous: masturbation, homosexuality, any form of premarital or extramarital sex, and consumption of pornography (which was fairly broadly defined). Béla Bangha15 and Ottokár Prohászka,16 two of the most influential Catholic ideologues of the 1920s, had a great deal to say about sexuality, including something they saw as specifically “Jewish sexuality.” These two “dedicated warriors, moreover, program setters for the politics labeled as ‘Christian national’”17 became role models for a middle class that “got drunk”18 on anti-Semitism and also a far right that lauded their racial arguments. Due to their standing within the Catholic Church of Hungary and the respect they enjoyed in Christian national public discourse, their texts importing age-old sexual stereotypes on the lewdness of Jews played a crucial role in setting the scene for Catholic sex education as well.

In addition to emphasizing, often in very abstract and vague terms, that Christian youths needed to remain “pure” (purity being the keyword of Christian sex education) until marriage, it was important to provide them with guidance on how this could be achieved, mostly by listing what and who were to be avoided. Women and adolescent youths (both male and female) were the two groups that were to be protected primarily from the degenerative effects of “excessive” sexuality. These two groups appeared in the sex education material as potential victims, who had to have personal willpower, but also needed special, external protection in the form of well-enforced laws and regulations fending off threats. The sexual dangers allegedly lurking around every corner were embodied in many different forms, including those coming from the inside. However, I would argue that the majority of the authors in this Christian-national setting primarily emphasized external threats that posed a danger for the in-group and argued in support of containing these external threats. Keeping the threat groups on the periphery by segregating them from the majority was recurrently recommended as the primary aim of sexual politics. Prostitutes were the first group, while Jews and, more specifically, Jewish men were the second. Prostitutes were primarily considered a direct health threat, whose scope of activities had to be limited in order to keep the young men of the nation (and their future wives and children) healthy and free of sexually transmitted diseases. The case with Jews is more complicated. They appeared in much of the sex education either overtly or covertly as the possessors of a specific “Jewish spirit,” the representatives of capitalism who also made profit off of sex and thus constituted a more abstract danger. However, Jewish men also represented sexual excess in their bodies; they appeared as bad examples of sexual perversions, as well as bodies that were to be avoided by “honorable” Christian women.

In Christian-national sex education the link between Jews and the exploitative nature of capitalism appears with the concept of sexual capitalism. The authors who spoke up firmly in support of “full sexual purity” until marriage for youth were willing to see adolescents as helpless victims endangered by those who profited from the illicit sexual activities in which these youngsters would engage. In most parables Christian boys were too young to know and too alone to resist. They had to be warned not to become easy prey for sex profiteers. In these texts Jews often appear as seducers; their mere presence on the street, in the city, and in intellectual life was cast as a threat to the innocence and purity of young Christian men and women. Jews were linked directly and indirectly to the production of pornography, pro-sex science (sexology and Freudian psychoanalysis being “Jewish sciences”), and excessive and perverse sexuality (including masturbation and homosexuality). They were also characterized as pimps who attracted girls with money.19

Honor: Three Incarnations

Honor was a constitutive part of the 1935 Nuremberg Law that dealt with marriage and sexuality. It was in fact called the Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor.20 Sections 1 to 3 prohibited intermarriage, sexual relations outside marriage and Jews employing non-Jewish female domestic help. Section 4 forbade Jews to display “national colors.” Instead they were limited to “Jewish colors.”21 Thus, on the one hand there is a biological concept based in a racist anthropology according to which contamination would occur if “pure” Germans were to have children with Jews, and this would lead to the degeneration of the next generation of Germans.22 On the other, we see the idea of a community of German honor, equally powerful, that is meant to exclude Jews symbolically and which requires a more substantial exclusion that goes beyond the formal requirements of anti-miscegenation. Honor was what non-Jewish Germans stood to lose if they were to sleep with Jews, not or not only their biological “purity.”

It thus should come as no surprise that Przyrembel found a court that in a 1936 race defilement case extended the understanding of the race defilement clause well beyond closing down avenues for the conception of mixed-blood children. The court referred to the unity of the 1935 Law, which, in addition to putting up an obstacle to insemination (protecting German blood that is), also aimed to protect German honor. For this reason the court’s interpretation of the prohibition included any type of intimate physical contact, in addition to intercourse.23 Przyrembel documented the fact that in Nazi Germany race defilement went way beyond the legal punishment of sexual affairs: it aimed at a segregation of the Jewish population from regular contact with the rest of the German population, and this included friendships, good neighborly relations, or simple gestures of compassion. This became most evident in the denunciations of the population where those who had “previously made purchases in the Jewish shops, lived together with Jews or were in other business contact with Jews”24 were especially suspicious, and putting these “friendly Germans” under threat served to isolate Jews sexually and socially. People were expected to feel hatred and disgust toward Jews, so individuals who maintained any type of positive contact with them were by default suspicious of race defilement. The Hungarian law of 1941, like its German counterpart from 1935 or for that matter the 1941 Jewish Codex of Slovakia, foreshadowed a mass of denunciations, the isolation of Jews from non-Jewish society and the public humiliation and persecution of mixed couples. There is a substantial difference, however, between the wording of the German and the Hungarian race defilement clause. In Germany, “German honor” had to be protected, in addition to blood, so all extramarital sex was banned. In contrast, in Hungary it was “honorable women” who were made off limits for Jewish men. In practical terms this meant that Jewish women could have sex with non-Jewish men and only Jewish men were threatened with a criminal indictment. Furthermore, in terms of the politics of honor, it allowed for scrutiny of the sex lives of Jewish men and Christian women. It led to a constant defining and redefining of what “female honor” meant, while Christian male honor remained unscrutinized. The anti-Semitic sex education texts by notable intellectuals from interwar Hungary show that sexual anti-Semitism got strong backing from the Hungarian Christian national State and its supporters. It should thus come as no great surprise that by the time Hungary entered World War II on Nazi Germany’s side, anti-Semitic legislation was ready to give formal expression to these well-publicized views. Subsequent to the passage of two major laws (the First Anti-Semitic Law and the Second Anti-Semitic Law) that aimed to contain “Jews” in Hungary in an economic-social sense, in 1941 a new marriage law was adopted that introduced sexual bans. It was also known as the “Third Anti-Semitic Law,” a law on marriage that replaced the 1894 law, introducing, in addition to the anti-Semitic passages, mandatory premarital health checks and marriage loans for eugenically “fit” couples. It is worth examining the wording of the anti-Semitic clauses in Law No XV of 1941, which introduced the concept of race defilement into Hungarian law:

9. § Non-Jews are not allowed to marry Jews (…)

15. § A Jew, who has sexual intercourse with a honorable, non-Jewish woman of Hungarian origin or gets or tries to get an honorable, non-Jewish woman of Hungarian origin to engage in intercourse with him or with another Jew.25

The same category of the “honorable woman” appears in Decree No. 151.000/1927 of the Interior Minister (The Protection of Public Morals). It was the honor of the sexually pure woman that needed to be protected, and with Jews constructed as a threatening group, it was not enough to educate teenagers to keep away from Jews and to prohibit Jews from approaching “honorable” women on the streets, Jews also had to be kept away with more punitive measures.

What exactly did the term “honorable” mean in the context of Hungary? How did the courts deal with such a vague, non-legalistic term, and how was this honor constructed and reconstructed by various actors in the race defilement cases? Can we limit the discussion of honor to women, or did the honor discourses apply to other members of society?

Female Honor

“The woman becomes visible in society primarily through her body, and if she does not fit the norms, she is put under strict regulations,” wrote Zsuzsa Bokor in her discussion of the Hungarian pre-World-War I and interwar discourse on prostitution and eugenics.26 This statement, however, is just as true of post-1941 Hungary and the prevailing concept of race defilement during the war. Female bodies were on display, as they had to undergo the test of honor. The “examination” in many cases involved a range of male expert or non-expert opinion: physicians were asked to ascertain virginity or determined whether or not a woman had any sexually transmitted diseases; the defense often tried to prove that a female witness was not a woman of honor in order to get the defendant acquitted and thus alleged that the body of the woman involved was “unruly”; other men (neighbors, family members, other sexual partners, real or potential) were asked to indicate whether they had information concerning the woman’s honor. One might conclude, as László Josefovits did, the author of the 1944 legal booklet Fajgyalázás [Race Defilement], that the legislator made an omission by not properly defining “honorable woman” when passing the 1941 Marriage Law. This could have been due to the fact that in Hungary prostitution was legal and those who wanted to become prostitutes legally had to register with the authorities. This move, however, had a no-point-of-return moment, as once a woman had registered herself as a prostitute, it was extremely hard for her to return to “honorable” professions or to a marriage partner who would have been able to provide financial security. Most women did not want to risk these, and so the number of registered prostitutes was fairly low. While there were a few thousand registered prostitutes, the authorities believed that many more worked as “clandestine prostitutes.”27 The term “clandestine prostitute” was used by police authorities and was, like the term honor, a very flexible notion used to discipline and assert control over the bodies of females who did not fit the expected norm (e.g. walked alone late at night, had several sexual partners, etc.).28 This may have been because the moral police had already been struggling with the problem of boundaries when defining “prostitute” that the government could not simply put “registered prostitute” in the race defilement clause, as it would have created injustice (within a system of injustice) and also practical complications. If all Jewish men paying for sex had been forced by the heavy hand of the law to turn to registered prostitutes, these prostitutes would have been too busy to provide for other clients, hence non-Jewish men would have been forced to turn to “clandestine prostitutes” en masse. On the other hand, this would have been an easy solution that would have drastically limited Jewish men’s contact with non-Jewish women. However, it was probably too narrow a category for “dishonorable woman,” and this would not have left room for the policing and surveillance of women “on the margins.” It seems, therefore, that the legislator left the definition of honor open and free-floating. Because they did not have a clear legal concept, the police, the attorneys, the defendants, and, most importantly, the judges were encouraged to ask for additional information on the past emotional and sexual history of the woman involved. This additional knowledge made it possible to exert greater control over these unruly female bodies and emotions. In his aforementioned booklet, Josefovits dealt separately with the issue of female honor and quoted a number of court cases in which such dishonor was underlined by the fact that the women in question had acquired sexually transmitted diseases in one of their many encounters. Having extramarital sex and being infected with a sexually transmitted disease certainly constituted transgressions of sexual normality. As Sander Gilman has repeatedly shown, for a long time sexually transmitted diseases were the “glue” that connected Jews and prostitutes in the public imagination. In some cases mention is made of the detail that the encounters took place “on the highway” or “at the counter of the cinema,” which, based on the 1927 law on public morals, were public spaces and thus not sites where decent women could be addressed.29 Josefovits quoted a ruling of the Supreme Court (Kúria), which established a definition of dishonor that in various court cases was later used as a standard: “A woman who, without the slightest hesitation or resistance that would indicate female shame and good morals, upon mere prompting is ready to have an intimate encounter, cannot be considered honorable from a race protection point of view.”30

Since only honorable women could be accused of the crime, the vagueness of the concept of female dishonor also enabled acts of resistance; there were certain cases in which women were able to use their dishonor to their or their lover’s advantage. The opposite was possible as well. If a woman had a reason to hold a grudge against a Jewish man, she could try to fight for her honor; going for self-declared dishonor was, however, a much more common strategy. The law, like the Nazi German one, stipulated that only the man could be convicted of an act of “defilement,” a detail that exemplifies contemporary ideas about the active and passive roles of men and women, respectively, in sexual contact. Since the forced registration of women as prostitutes was also forbidden, the stakes for a self-claimed dishonor were rather moderate. I found only a single instance in which, subsequent to the affirmation of dishonor, a woman was sent to the moral police (erkölcsrendészet) for “administrative measures.” It was a case in which the woman and three witnesses, including her own mother and the defendant, all claimed that she had had sexual intercourse with several men for money.31 Such “administrative measures” amounted to a day or a couple of days of detention and possibly a medical check-up, a humiliating procedure all in all, even if not comparable to months or years of imprisonment (the maximum one could get for race defilement was 3 years, or 5 years in certain cases).

Thus, one must take into consideration that in many cases women would be motivated to define themselves as dishonorable, for instance a woman who claimed, “it seems I am someone who just goes off with anyone at a whistle,”32 or another who said “when I am on the street and a man asks me to have intercourse, I go with him to have intercourse for money.”33 In one case the defense attorney in the same case tried to argue that she had already been penalized for abortion. He probably hoped that given the strict moral denouncement of abortion, this would establish dishonor, but it did not. In the same case the woman admitted to having had sex occasionally with men who paid her, but added that she liked them as well, and so the court qualified her conduct as honorable.

Stories of love and despair were the types of narratives that could convince the court of one’s high morality if a woman’s honor was at stake. In the numerous cases in which it was clear that the woman did not have many lovers or had not accepted money in exchange for sex, the question of honor was cleared up easily. But for women who came from poor families and were likely to have accepted financial compensation for sexual favors, honor could still be saved if they were shown to have been what I have labeled as “in despair” or “in love.”

Despair was very often constructed using the stereotypes mentioned in anti-Semitic texts by Bangha, Prohászka and others: the village girl versus the Jewish seducer. According to this narrative, poor girls from rural areas who came to big towns to find work were especially susceptible to the temptation/danger posed by Jewish men. As this danger was external to them, their honor could and had to be saved. Despair was not necessarily measured on the basis of what one did, but focused rather on “character,” which was in turn based on assumptions rooted in Christian national popular culture. In fact, when the courts discussed the character of the “village girl” and the “seductive Jews,” trying to look for a story of personality leading up to the deed, their work resembled what Michel Foucault refers to as the “psychological-ethical double of the offense.”34 This, Foucault claims, went hand in hand with the appearance of the psychological expert opinion, which analyzed the psychological profile of the accused, and from the eighteenth century on, the judiciary gradually started to rely heavily on these expert opinions. The “double” is a delegalized version of the deed. It likens the person to his crime. In other words, the commission of a crime is characterized as the natural outcome of the alleged criminal’s irregular personality, which also found manifestation in extravagant, noncriminal behavior.35 In the race defilement cases, this double seems to appear without the need for psychological expert opinion. The judiciary often seemed ready to indulge in the construction of psychological profiles of both criminal and victim, and the “psychological expert knowledge” was found in the works of anti-Semites.

Despair was especially credible if the woman showed signs of hesitation (as opposed to “without slightest hesitation”), since that proved that she was not well-versed in the prostitution business and was possibly simply defenseless.36 One such case was that of a 24-year-old factory worker girl who initially refused to go with a Jewish man for 5 pengő. When he raised the price to 10 pengő, she agreed. In the appeals court’s explanation of their verdict (1 month and 28 days prison) they made the following claim:

it can be established that accused knew very well that T.J. was not a prostitute, because one does not need to do advance courting of a prostitute. The moral police found nothing on T.J. in its investigation, and as a factory worker she has a normal profession, but the 18–20 pengő she earns is so little that—already excited by the hugs and kisses of the accused—she did not have the fortitude to reject the sum, which was so big compared to her earnings (….) T.J. is a girl who came to Budapest from a village not much before this incident, and these are the people whom, due to their lack of experience, the law primarily wants to protect for the sake of racial purity.37

Both the concept of hesitation and the narrative of the village girl have an important place in the Budapest Appeals Court’s argumentation. Members of this court, namely Dezső Ottrubay, Ernő Lengyel, and Elek Pálffy, otherwise did not appear markedly anti-Semitic in their decision-making. In dozens of other cases they mitigated the sentences of the Budapest District Court, acquitting a large number of men who had been convicted based on insubstantial evidence. There is another case worth mentioning in this context, when the Budapest District Court’s ruling, which was quite severe (one year of imprisonment), began with a passage that resembled an excerpt from a sentimental novel: “F.G. factory worker was employed in the Kárpátia sewing factory as a seamstress until September 26, 1941. She then lost her job, and on October 8, 1942, without any income, she bought ¼ kilos of cheap black grapes with the last of her money and was eating this for lunch on a bench in Mária Terézia square, reading a book.”38

The ruling continued with the story, according to which a 68-year-old man approached her and sat down beside her. Allegedly, they had chatted for one and a half hours, and in the course of their talk the 21-year-old girl had told him about her financial distress. He had offered her 6 pengős to have intercourse with him and, “after lengthy persuasion,” she had accepted the offer. In the court hearing the man claimed that the girl had approached him and offered her services, while the girl presented the version that was accepted as the truth by the court. This case shows that “personality” did in fact matter, and in this case of an allegedly sex-hungry old Jewish man versus an innocent, young village girl, the representatives of power sided with her in terms of credibility and honor.

It was, however, not just the courts and the police who determined female honor. Women themselves could also get actively involved in the process. A successful and highly intelligent attempt to manipulate the system was made by Mrs. V., a 25-year-old waitress, who was married but was found during a night police raid in bed with a Jewish colleague of hers. Initially, it looked like relationship based on mutual love. The man and the woman were of the same social class, and they both confessed to the police that they had had a continuing relationship. The man (Mr. M.), even though it would certainly have meant having to spend months in prison if not years, maintained this version of their relationship, but the women retracted on the day of the court hearing:

Mr. M.: I understand the charge and I plead guilty. I had a relationship with Mrs. V. for 4 years, and on December 12, 1941 in the morning, when the detectives, who were investigating another case, appeared in the rented room in which I live, they found me in bed with Mrs. V. By that time I had been living together with her for two months, and we had a relationship based on love (…)

Mrs. V.: As far as I know, the defendant was cognizant of the fact that I am not an honorable woman. I had been taken into custody several times after police raids and I had been in a youth detention center as well. This happened because on some occasions I was caught red handed when I received male guests. I am not registered as a prostitute. I only received male guests on occasion, from whom I accepted money. (…)

Defendant (Mr. M.) in response to the Prosecutor’s question: I knew that Mrs. V. was not to be considered a decent woman. If I remember well, I gave her money in exchange for intercourse as well, but I don’t remember how much.39

Thus, Mr. M. quickly understood Mrs. V.’s intentions and helped her establish her own legal status as a woman of dishonor. However, at the same time she positioned herself quite well in this “system of female dishonor,” as she painstakingly explained that she had only had “temporary male guests” (átmenő férfivendégek). She limited their number to two and added that for months she had not had sex with them. That is, she presented an image of herself according to which she was not a health or a “public morals” threat, and thus she had a chance of avoiding any kind of administrative measures for clandestine prostitution. Her intervention was successful partly because records on her were found by the moral police and Mr. M. was acquitted a couple of months later.40 What I call “love”—in court cases one finds phrases like “I love him” (szeretem) and “I liked them” (kedveltem)—could take several forms. In most cases, however, it referred to the fact that the woman might have had motivations that were not purely materialistic or carnal. Giddens contends that in romantic love relationships, which over the course of the twentieth century rose to a place of unprecedented social prominence, “an element of sublime love tends to predominate over that of sexual ardor,” adding that “love breaks with sexuality while embracing it.”41 That is, if the usual dishonorable conduct the goal of which was money or sexual satisfaction was to a certain extent elevated to this “sublime” level, this may well have changed the whole story, including the perception of female honor. It is true that if a woman’s honor was satisfactorily established in the eyes of the court, this was usually bad news for a Jewish defendant. In certain cases, women very clearly tried to save their lovers by making up fictional clients (usually in vain). However, taking into account the importance of retaining honor, especially for women in middle-class couples, declarations of love (especially if they were mutual) can be seen not as a way of creating greater problems for the defendant, but as expressions of defiance to the law, which tried to serve by force relationships that were founded upon intimate feelings. Below are some cases from court decisions that touched upon this rather vague issue. In one case, the defense underlined that the Christian woman was in an adulterous, extramarital relationship, but the court dismissed their claim, contending that, “an extramarital liaison conducted with a single man and with no financial implications, purely based on attraction, cannot be termed dishonorable from an implementation point of view, even though it is in conflict with good morals.”42

This was a ruling the court had some trouble justifying, as in light of contemporary sexual mores an adulterous relationship with a Jewish man was certainly not an honorable deed. In a “Solomon’s decision,” they scolded her for this relationship, but found a way to distinguish her from the prostitutes whom they believed the makers of the law had sought to target with allegations of “dishonor.” Another case was somewhat similar: a woman was categorized as an “ex-clandestine prostitute,” and she had had issues with the police for some time for having worked as a clandestine prostitute. However, when she met the Jewish man, she decided to give up her previous life as a prostitute and remain faithful to him. The court, probably motivated by anti-Semitic convictions, acknowledged that he “converted” her into an honorable woman and at the same time gave him a 4-month prison sentence for sleeping with a Christian woman of honor.43 In another case a woman admitted to having had sexual relations with several men, but she contended that she was honorable, since according to her, “I have not had intercourse for income with anyone ever and I would not be prepared to do this. I only had sex out of love, when I liked the man.”44 The court of first instance accepted her claim and decided that she was indeed honorable.

Jewish Honor

Unsurprisingly, there was considerable variety in the forms of sexual conduct and sexual proclivity revealed by the race defilement proceedings, and these forms of conduct and desire were not always in line with contemporary stereotypes of Jewish sexuality. The types of relationships, the sexual habits and practices, the confessions and acts of various actors in some cases rather seem to have worked against the schematic stereotypes of the authorities. Like “female honor,” Jewish sexuality was a construct molded by various expectations and norms, and it worked more or less as a superimposition of a “Christian national” morality on Jewish men. In other words, the more Jewish men conformed to the ideal of “Christian purity” or “true love,” showing devotion to their (honorable) partner, the less likely they were to be subject to harsh treatment. Calling it “Jewish honor” might seem misleading at first glance, but I would argue for retaining the expression with the above meaning, i.e. as an honor “awarded” to some Jews and refused to others.

I will start with a case that could have been written personally by Prohászka or Bangha, as it was so much in line with anti-Semitic stereotypes. Gy. N., a conductor from Budapest, was, like many other people of Jewish origin after 1939, fired from his job. He found refuge in the orchestra of the mining town, Mátranovák, where he pretended to be Roman Catholic (although his religion was “Israelite” according to official documents). He soon met a 17-year-old girl, the daughter of a miner. A court ruling describes the meeting, in which “he started leading the girl on by standing in front of her when she approached with her bicycle.” Even though the ruling acknowledges that the meeting “was not against the will of the girl, because she did not go elsewhere to ride her bike,” there is a suggestion of force in the phrasing: “in the end, the accused grabbed the girl’s bike and made her stop and get off, and then he introduced himself.”45 Gy. N. was a married man, and he spoke about this to the girl, but he did not inform her that he was Jewish. As the ruling notes, “he even went to the church with her and made the sign of the cross there. Moreover, when there was talk about Jews, he too scolded them. Also, even though he did not make a formal promise that he would marry her, he talked about divorcing and making her ‘a very happy girl.’”46 It was in light of this information that, the court notes, the girl repeatedly agreed to have intercourse with him. There is mention of a trip to Budapest, where he was supposed to introduce her to his (Catholic) parents, but instead he took her to a hotel where he “got the young girl to do perverse things (fajtalanság, which literally translates as “contrary to the race”),” which probably referred to oral sex, on the basis of the use of the expression in other cases. The liaison turned into a scandal once it became public, and some local men wanted to beat up the conductor. He ended the affair, but then started a new one, again with a Christian woman, once more “hiding his identity.” In retrospect, at court he claimed that he wanted to emigrate and marry the woman in question in America. The court’s ruling becomes most indignant in its tone when it discusses female honor and how this honor was affected as a result of his conduct:

If the accused had had honorable intentions with R.Zs., if he had loved her seriously and honestly, he would not have approached her in such a deceitful and conscienceless way, as being a learned and well-read person he must have known that on the one hand his Jewish origins could be revealed very easily, and on the other, if his Jewish identity were revealed, this would bring shame on R.Zs. and dramatically reduce her chances of finding a husband, thus it could completely ruin her future.47

As for the 17-year-old girl’s honor, they arrived at the following conclusion:

with this, she started her ride down the slope, and afterward it was easier just to follow the accused than to stop and turn back, and this is how he took the girl with him down the slope to the state of moral debauchery that obviously felt like home for him (perversity (fajtalanság) in the Budapest hotel, etc.).48

Lastly, the ruling included a general legal consideration on female honor:

It is a constitutive part of the crime one is charged with that the woman, with whom the accused had sexual intercourse, is honorable, but in addition to this, from the point of view of the gravity of the crime, it is important to determine the moral value that the woman had before the act of intercourse and the extent of the moral devastation cause by the accused’s deed.49

Without much effort, one can spot all the negative stereotypes regarding Jewish sexuality and how they were subsequently connected to seduction and to pushing innocent village girls down the slippery slope from which there was no return. No wonder then that the conductor received the most severe of all the sentences that I found in the material of the Supreme Court, 18 months in prison, upheld by both appeals courts. The fact that having had intercourse with a Jewish man would “decrease any woman’s value” is notable. Thus, a Jewish man’s honor would have entailed stepping away from Christian girls in order to maintain their “market value.” There are numerous cases in which having obstructed a girl’s access to “normal life” was cited as an aggravating circumstance: “for the sake of a friendship with an honorable Hungarian girl, that is for egoistic reasons, he tried to stop the impending marriage of a young Hungarian couple with all his means, and as part of this he tried to stop a wayward girl from finding the right path again.”50

Two other rulings scolded Jewish men for having remained intimately associated with a girl for a longer time: “the defendant (...) committed the crime over an extended period of time, and with this deed he seriously impeded the fulfillment of the natural female role of R.T. and her search for a place in non-Jewish society via marriage.”51 And “aggravating circumstances are the extended time period and that the defendant committed the crime with a married woman, inhibiting her from fulfilling her female role based on her origins, either by making up with or legally divorcing her husband.”52 That is, if the woman was unmarried, being with a Jewish man would mean both shame and a cul-de-sac, and if she were to marry him, similarly this would have been a deviation from her “natural role.” However, in the above cases the relationships were relatively fresh and the girls clearly had other options (a Christian suitor or husband). Other rulings show that consistency and exclusiveness were mitigating circumstances, as in the case of a couple who had been together since 1930. They could not get married, as the woman already had a husband who had, however, disappeared abroad, thus depriving her of the chance to obtain a divorce. The Budapest District court sentenced him to four months imprisonment, which was upheld by the appeals court, but the Supreme Court reduced it to one month. The fact that they had sex even after the Marriage Law took effect was evidenced by a witness considered credible by the court, and the medical expert refuted their main argument that she had been ill and unable to have sex. The court of second instance did not accept the contention that “the sexual relationship, with regular intercourse, that was upheld up to now would have transformed into an ideal, spiritual bond,” but it did regard the “spiritual connection (lelki kapcsolat) that was rooted in long years of a love relationship” as a mitigating circumstance. The Supreme Court added in its ruling that this mitigating circumstance mentioned by the appeals court “carries such great weight in favor of the accused that the original sentence seems disproportionately severe.”53 The appeals court reduced the sentence to two months.

The various ideas concerning Jewish sexuality, female honor and Christian national sexual morality could emerge as factors in one and the same case as well. A Jewish man met a non-Jewish woman in the early 1920s, and they moved in together in the mid-1930s. They planned to marry, but were unable to arrange it; first the man’s father opposed it and, after his death, the woman’s birth certificate could not be found. After 1941, there were obvious legal obstacles. They both claimed to be in love with each other, but the Budapest District Court refused to take this into account:

(…) if the accused loved and loves the aggrieved party (the girl – G.Sz.) as much as he says, the objection of accused’s father should not have been a serious obstacle to marriage, and if this was the real reason why the wedding did not take place, then the accused’s deed confirms the racial overconfidence, according to which a non-Jewish woman is only good for an extramarital relationship, for the satisfaction of sexual instincts, and not for the establishment of a legal, family relationship.54

This explanation and the ruling that sentenced the man to one year in prison shows that the judges of this district court did not take into account what in the previous case had been a significant mitigating circumstance. The overt anti-Semitism present in the ruling was topped by the claim that the accused had “irreparably distracted her from fulfilling her female role according to her origin.”55 She was at the time 44 years old, so this referred to the fact that she was already beyond the age at which women are or were commonly held to be capable of bearing children. The man was also scolded for his “decided criminal will, with which he not only repeatedly committed the crime during the proceedings, but explicitly decided to repeat it in the future.”56 The court of second instance dismissed all aggravating circumstances in its ruling (one month in prison), as they believed that the woman had not been prevented from fulfilling her female role, a future violation of the law could only be the basis of another criminal investigation and not the one in question, and as regards the “explicit decision to repeat the deed,” they believed that this was “rather a result of internal despair than evil passion (indulat).” Furthermore, according to their ruling, the fact that “discontinuing their life together [had] created serious difficulties for the accused” was a mitigating circumstance.57 This was in fact one of the cases in which both the woman and the man openly confessed their relationship and also their love and did not change their confessions, even though this would unquestionably put him at risk. He said that he “had been and was cognizant of the legal ramifications, but after having known each other for almost a lifetime they have become so used to each other and they loved each other so much that they could not and did not want to live without each other.”58

She also mentioned the duration of the liaison. According to the police report, she said

for me he is not a lover but a husband. I am not responsible for the fact that his parents did not give their consent for us to marry as we had planned. I cannot give him up, because I love him and no other man will be born who would respect me as much as he does.59

National Honor

One of Father Koszter’s post-1941 writings, Sátán tőrvetése (The Intrigue of Satan), perfectly encapsulates the stereotypes connecting money, Jewish sexuality and female dishonor:

The kept women, maitresses who live off the pockets of their wealthy accomplices, are the victims of wretched voluptuaries; while their lives seem carefree from the outside, actually they are bleak, joyless and hopeless. These women will never become a “wife” and “mother,” the holy dream of a real woman. These are the ones who, since the passing of the 1941 Marriage Law, have converted to Judaism by the hundreds in order to continue to secure for themselves the money of their “friends.”60

It logically followed that women who had consciously remained or engaged in sexual or matrimonial relations with Jews were doing it for money: they could only be prostitutes. If they were honorable women, then they did not belong to the Jews. Either they had been deceived or they were not yet fully cognizant of the dangers Jewish men posed and had to be shown a way back to “normality.”

But what kind of code of honor needed to be protected here? What was the normality, the “national honor” that was to be saved by these race defilement regulations? Again, the various actors had different ideas of what was at stake, but it is possible to delineate certain recurring patterns. Firstly, there is the idea of winning, of gaining the upper hand. If national honor is maintained and promoted by Christian national men, then public life, including the most respected professions, the media, public administration (all that makes a man proud of himself) must be in the hands of non-Jews. In this respect the 1941 Marriage Law is very much in line with the so-called First and Second Anti-Semitic Laws from 1938 and 1939, which limited the employment of Jews in certain professions and aimed at an “economic changing of the guards.” However, by 1941 changing of the guard meant that Jewish men had to give back “their” women (the women who were the prerogative of “Christian” men) as well. One case in which these various anti-Semitic laws for a “changing of the guard” worked together was that of a 53-year-old, rather well-off Budapest lawyer, who was convicted and given the maximum penalty of three years in prison by the court of first instance. The aggravating circumstances of the ruling have a particularly loaded language, even for this kind of court:

(…) the fact that the accused is married, that it happened repeatedly, that he committed the deed as a lawyer, and that partly in order to satisfy his lust, party for his own protection he contaminated spiritually a whole family and D.E., who is nearly still a child whose moral value depreciated to such an extent that she claimed that she was a prostitute without thinking, almost as if she were boasting.61

The lawyer was then acquitted by the appeals court, as they regarded the woman as dishonorable, and he was allowed to return home. However, as becomes clear on the basis of his petition for compensation, he lost his job as a lawyer because, subsequent to the first ruling, his name was automatically deleted from the list of chamber-approved lawyers. As a previous anti-Semitic Law had introduced a quota for the admittance of new Jewish lawyers to the Chamber, he did not stand a chance of being readmitted. Thus, in a case of sexual conduct in which he was finally acquitted, he still lost his profession and an accusation of race defilement de facto helped further the economic changing of guard. As for the disappointed Christian lover, race defilement cases provide some similar stories. One was that of a sailor, who traveled a great deal and whose wife had a Jewish lover. As the rulings states, “the married couple had constant fights because of the accused.”62 It was the husband who reported the affair in 1942 to the police in person, saying “I was informed that he has been having an affair with my wife since 1940. My wife has repeatedly said this winter that she would not leave him, she would rather break up with me and moreover, she wanted to convert to Judaism.”63 At the court hearing he said he was on bad terms with the Jewish man because he “nosed himself up (feltolakodott)” to his wife, but that he was nevertheless able to give an unbiased statement as a witness.64 The sentence was then reduced with each appeal, the initial ruling of 18 months first became one year and finally the Supreme Court reduced it to six months, indicating that it was not the Jewish man who initiated the liaison but the woman. He himself claimed that after 1941 he had “begged the woman to go back to her husband,” that is, in this case race defilement provided an opportunity for the disappointed husband to “reclaim” his lost wife from a Jewish man who, clearly under the pressure of the law, was willing to give up the affair.65 We can observe many of the same themes when looking at the ways in which some people reported Jews to the police. One such case was that of M.E., a house-painter, who was reported by another handyman, probably a rival, for living together with a Christian woman:

The foreign national M.E. defiles the Hungarian race and laughs merrily when there is talk about want of material, as his bottles are full of paint and varnish. If someone goes to him, he is ready to take any job, painting, coating, for less money, because he wants to oust the Christian workers by providing services without paying taxes.66

This letter indicates quite clearly that the man in question was much less concerned with sexual-biological purity than he was with getting rid of economic competition. In terms of national honor, I have cited these three examples as illustrations of the connection between the post-1938 anti-Semitic regulations in Hungary and the ways in which they contributed to a system that enabled a “changing of the guard.” National honor at the time was to be preserved by replacing the Jewish intelligentsia with non-Jews in all possible spheres of society. This happened with various degrees of success in different walks of life, and there are no numbers to prove that Christian men were able to “get” the women they loved or the women who had had sexual contact with Jews. However, this was certainly part of the game: Hungarian national honor after 1941 implied not only the silencing of Jews in the public arena and the pressuring and expulsion of Jews from their professions and businesses. It also meant that they were to lose contact with the women they loved if these women were regarded as belonging rightfully to the nation.

Conclusion

What do the racist sexual politics of the Horthy-era teach us about the uses of concepts of sexual purity and honor? Firstly, they exemplify the legal codification of what Ute Frevert framed in terms of the gendered nature of emotions. As the race defilement cases exhibit, female honor was irrevocably tied to sexuality, and it was defined by a patriarchal middle class. The suspicion of dishonor arose if women had more than one sexual partner, if they were believed to have engaged in sex in exchange for material gain or if they were ready to have sex with men they did not know without showing “proper female shame.” Female honor was decided upon by male authorities. In the race defilement cases courts composed of men were entrusted with the authority to determine whether a woman was honorable or not. These decision-makers were ready to grant female honor if the women in question fit a certain profile that made them look vulnerable and in need of protection. This has been demonstrated by some police reports and court rulings and their reliance on certain stereotypes which found confirmation, as it were, in contemporary sex education texts. A stereotype that reappeared consistently was that of the naïve, uneducated and inexperienced poor village girl, who encountered an older, Jewish seducer and was helpless against his tricks. I used the terms love and despair above to capture other common ideas that could be used to persuade officials that a woman was honorable. Despair was often linked to the village girl stereotype, and it referred mostly to the coercion that supposedly resulted from her dire economic situation. Love, on the other hand, gave a spiritual meaning to an otherwise materialistically motivated sexual encounter, so if a woman made a plausible demonstration of affection, her honor could be saved. I have not discussed Jewish female sexuality in this paper as, in contrast to German race defilement, the Hungarian law did not penalize sexual contact with Jewish women and therefore the archival sources I have consulted did not address Jewish female sexuality. The sex education materials focused more on Jewish male seducers but occasionally the sexuality of Jewish women was mentioned too. A study of how the personal life of female “Jews” changed in the early 1940s is, however, a challenge that will have to be taken up in the future.

Secondly, I tried to see what codes of honor were applied to the Jewish men who were the primary targets of this legal provision. Even though their honor was not as specifically spelled out in the law as that of their female partners, circumstances did matter. If, according to the agents of power, they showed signs of love and were deeply attached to their partner, it was possible for them to receive a relatively mild sentence. There was much more understanding on behalf of the courts for couples who had been living together for years and possibly even had children than for those men who could be made to resemble the stereotype of the “Jewish seducer.” I offered an example of one such “seducer,” who, to use Foucault’s concept of the psychological-ethical double, was already living in sin, coming from an urban-bohemian milieu and supposedly having caused his counterpart, the “village girl,” to begin to slide down a moral slope of no return. This “character,” so it was believed, was about to commit sexual violations as predetermined by his lifestyle. Jewish honor also included being humble and not standing in the way of a woman’s honor and her fulfilment of her alleged role, which implied eventually marrying a Christian man. If a Jewish man were to keep a woman “out of circulation” for too long by being her lover or by threatening her partnership with a Christian man, he would fall into a less honorable category. Naturally, the honor of Jews was not under scrutiny in this manner if they kept away from Christian women.

Thirdly, I linked the race defilement provision with other anti-Semitic legislation in Hungary and argued that the notion that Christian men had the property-rights over the nation was part of an abstract notion of “national honor.” National honor implied that they alone should have access to good jobs, to the ownership of capital, to public spaces, and the friendship and love of honorable women. As part of the changing of the guard, their rivals were to be restrained and remain humbled.

If other regulations served to deprive Jewish men of their economic rights, the anti-Semitic sexual provision stripped them of full sexual citizenship. The requirements connected to female honor put a wall around the sexual choices of certain groups in the emotional regime(s) of the Horthy era. One’s emotional liberty was seriously limited by the race defilement regulation, which forbade hundreds of thousands of Jewish men from approaching or continuing relationships with non-Jewish women, and in turn all non-Jewish women were closely monitored in order to ensure that they would not to engage in such illicit liaisons.

As with other anti-Semitic laws, what mattered was not just the number of the convicted and acquitted or the severity of their penalties. Stripping them of their honor as men (as part of the social construct of manhood), limiting their range of options, and policing and controlling female honor (i.e. sexuality) were all part and parcel of this regulation. Honorable Hungarian non-Jewish men wanted all honorable women to be their own virgin brides and loyal wives, whereas the love of a Hungarian woman for a “Jew” or any kind of rebellion against the legally buttressed order of things was to be punished with the full force of the law.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

1000 év törvényei. 1941. évi XV. tc. a házassági jogról szóló 1894:XXXI. törvénycikk kiegészítéséről és módosításáról, valamint az ezzel kapcsolatban szükséges fajvédelmi rendelkezésekről [The Laws of a Millennium. Law 1941:XV on the Supplement and Amendment to the 1894:XXXI Law on Marriage, and on the Necessary Racial Defense Measures Connected with it]. Accessed October 5, 2015. http://www.1000ev.hu/index.php?a=3&param=8168.

Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék.

“A m. kir. belügyminiszternek 151.000/1927 B.M. számú körrendelete: a közerkölcsiség védelme” [General Order of the Royal Hungarian Minister of the Interior Number 151.000/1927 B.M.: The Defense of Public Morality] Belügyi Közlöny [Domestic Affairs Bulletin] 32 (1927): 327–32.

Gesetz zum Schutze des deutschen Blutes und der deutschen Ehre. Accessed October 5, 2015. http://www.documentarchiv.de/ns/nbgesetze01.html.

Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 183, K583.

Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 112, K583.

 

Secondary Sources

Bangha, Béla. Katolicizmus és zsidóság [Catholicism and Judaism]. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1939.

Bokor, Zsuzsa. “Nők a nemzetben, nemzet a nőkben: a Magyar Egyesület a Leánykereskedelem Ellen eugenikai olvasata” [Women in the Nation, the Nation on Women: the Eugenic Reading of the Hungarian Society against Girl Trafficking]. Socio.hu 4, no 2 (2015): 86–100. Accessed July 21, 2015. http://www.socio.hu/uploads/files/2015_2/bokor.pdf.

Foucault, Michel. Abnormal: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1974–75. London: Verso, 2003.

Frevert, Ute. Emotions in History: Lost and Found. Budapest: CEU, 2011.

Gárdonyi, Máté. “Az antiszemitizmus funkciója Prohászka Ottokár és Bangha Béla társadalomképében” [The Function of Anti-Semitism in the Image of Society of Ottokár Prohászka and Béla Bangha]. In A holokauszt Magyarországon európai perspektívában [The Holocaust in Hungary from a European Perspective], edited by Judit Molnár. Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2005.

Giddens, Anthony. The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love and Eroticism in Modern Societies. Cambridge: Polity, 1992.

Gilman, Sander. “The Jewish Murderer.” In idem. The Jew’s Body. New York: Routledge, 1991.

Josefovits, László. Fajgyalázás: az 1941: 15. t. c. 15.§-ának büntetőbírósági joggyakorlata [Miscegenation: the Legal Application in Criminal Court of Paragraph 15 of Law No. XV of 1941]. Budapest: Bethlen, 1944.

Koszterszitz, József, Ádám György et. al. Nos Rector...a magyar főiskolai hallgatók könyve [Nos Rector… the Book of the Hungarian College Students]. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1943.

Koszterszitz, József. “Sátán tőrvetése” [The Intrigue of Satan] in idem. Tiszta férfiúság az egyetemeken [Pure Manhood at the Universities]. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1944.

Lugosi, András. “‘Sztalin főhercege’. Kohn báró vacsorái a Falk Miksa utcában a fajgyalázási törvény idején” [“Archduke of Stalin.” The Dinners of Baron Kohn in Falk Miksa Street at the Time of the Miscegenation Law]. FONS 17, no. 4 (2010): 527–76.

Márai, Sándor. Napló 1943–44 [Diary, 1943–44]. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1990.

Molnár, Antal. “Bangha Béla, az engedelmes lázadó” [Béla Bangha, the Obedient Rebel]. História 33 (2011): 43–46.

Olasz, Péter. A mai férfi életútja [The Path of Life of the Man of Today]. Satu-Mare: Corvin Nyomda, 1926.

Passerini, Luisa, Liliana Ellena, and Alexander C.T. Geppert, eds. New Dangerous Liaisons: Discourses on Europe and Love in the Twentieth Century. New York: Berghahn, 2010.

Prohászka, Ottokár. “A zsidó recepció a morális szempontjából” [The Reception of the Jews from a Moral Perspective]. In Prohászka Ottokár összegyűjtött munkái [The Collected Works of Ottokár Prohászka], edited by Antal Schütz. Vol. 22. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1929.

Przyrembel, Alexandra. “Rassenschande.” Reinheitsmythos und Vernichtungslegitimation im Nationalsozialismus. Schriftenreihe des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 190. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003.

Przyrembel, Alexandra. “Ambivalente Gefühle: Sexualität und Anti-Semitismus während des Nationalsozialismus.” Geschichte und Gesellschaft: Zeitschrift für Historische Sozialwissenschaft 39, no. 4 (2013): 527–55.

Reddy, William M. The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001.

Rosenwein, Barbara H. “Problems and Methods in the History of Emotions.” Passions in Context: Journal of the History and Philosophy of the Emotions 1, no. 1 (2010): 1–32. Accessed June 3, 2015. http://www.passionsincontext.de/uploads/media/01_Rosenwein.pdf.

Schreiber, Emil. A prostitúció [Prostitution]. Budapest: Pátria, 1917.

Szegedi, Gábor. “Tisztaság, tisztesség, fajgyalázás: Szexuális és faji normalizáció a Horthy-korban” [Purity, Honor, Miscegenation: Sexuality and Racial Normalization in the Horthy Era]. Socio.hu 5, no. 1 (2015). Accessed October 2, 2015, http://www.socio.hu/uploads/files/2015_1/szegedi.pdf.

Tóth, Tihamér. A tiszta férfiúság [Pure Manliness]. Budapest: Stephaneum, 1920.

Zimmermann, Susan. “Nemiség, tisztesség és szegénység. A nőkkel és a prostitúcióval kapcsolatos vita és politika Bécsben és Budapesten a századfordulón” [Gender, Honor, and Poverty. The Debate and Politics on Women and Prostitution in Vienna and Budapest at the Turn of the Century]. In Rubicon 6, no. 8 (1998). Accessed October 5, 2015. http://www.rubicon.hu/magyar/oldalak/nemiseg_tisztesseg_es_szegenyseg_a_nokkel_es_a_prostitucioval_kapcsolatos_vita_es_politika_becsben_e/.

1 I would like to thank the Vienna Wiesenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies (VWI) for the research fellowship that generously supported my research on race defilement in interwar Hungary. Many thanks to Zuzanna Dziuban and to the editor of this issue, Ferenc Laczó, for their insightful comments.

2 Ute Frevert, Emotions in History: Lost and Found (Budapest: CEU Press, 2011), 87–149.

3 Luisa Passerini, Liliana Ellena, and Alexander C.T. Geppert, eds., New Dangerous Liaisons: Discourses on Europe and Love in the Twentieth Century (New York: Berghahn, 2010), 3.

4 Ibid., 1.

5 Barbara H. Rosenwein, “Problems and Methods in the History of Emotions,” Passions in Context: Journal of the History and Philosophy of the Emotions 1, no. 1 (2010): 11, accessed June 3, 2015, http://www.passionsincontext.de/uploads/media/01_Rosenwein.pdf.

6 William M. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: A Framework for the History of Emotions (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 129.

7 Ibid., 61.

8 Alexandra Przyrembel, ‘Rassenschande’. Reinheitsmythos und Vernichtungslegitimation im Nationalsozialismus, Schriftenreihe des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 190 (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2003).

9 Alexandra Przyrembel, “Ambivalente Gefühle: Sexualität und Anti-Semitismus während des Nationalsozialismus,” Geschichte und Gesellschaft: Zeitschrift für Historische Sozialwissenschaft 39, no. 4 (2013): 533. (My translation, as are all others.)

10 Michael Wildt, Volksgemeinschaft als Selbstermaechtigung: Gewalt gegen Juden in der deutschen Provinz 1919 bis 1939 (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition, 2007).

11 András Lugosi published an article on a Budapest race defilement case in 2010, and I wrote one for socio.hu earlier this year. Both articles are in Hungarian. See: András Lugosi, “’Sztalin főhercege.’ Kohn báró vacsorái a Falk Miksa utcában a fajgyalázási törvény idején,” FONS 17, no. 4 (2010): 527–76 and Gábor Szegedi, “Tisztaság, tisztesség, fajgyalázás: Szexuális és faji normalizáció a Horthy-korban,” Socio.hu 5, no. 1 (2015), accessed October 2, 2015, http://www.socio.hu/uploads/files/2015_1/szegedi.pdf.

12 “A m. kir. belügyminiszternek 151.000/1927 B.M. számú körrendelete: a közerkölcsiség védelme,” Belügyi Közlöny 32 (1927): 327–28.

13 For a comparison see: Lutz D.H. Sauerteig and Roger Davidson, eds., Shaping Sexual Knowledge: A Cultural History of Sex Education in 20th Century Europe (London–New York: Routledge, 2009).

14 See for example: Tihamér Tóth, A tiszta férfiúság (Budapest: Stephaneum, 1920); Péter Olasz, A mai férfi életútja (Satu-Mare: Corvin Nyomda, 1926); József Koszterszitz, “Sátán tőrvetése,” in Tiszta férfiúság az egyetemeken, ed. József Koszterszitz (Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1944).

15 Béla Bangha (1880–1940), Jesuit monk and editor of the most important quality periodical run by Catholics, Magyar Kultúra (which was founded in 1912), worked to establish a strong Catholic-Christian press (e.g. by establishing the Central Press Agency, a Catholic publishing house for press and other publications) in order to counterbalance the “liberal-Jewish” press, which in his view was contributing to the “judaization” of the Hungarian middle class.

16 Ottokár Prohászka (1858–1927), bishop of Székesfehérvár and member of the pro-Horthy govern­ment party after 1919, was one of the key politicians responsible for the Numerus Clausus Law in 1920, which capped the number of Hungarian “Jews” (defined partly racially) to be accepted at universities at 6 percent of the total number of students accepted. It was Prohászka who suggested that the original motion, which concerned limiting the number of women at universities, be amended. For an excellent overview of the Numerus Clausus Law and its adoption see: Mária M. Kovács, Törvénytől sújtva. A numerus clausus Magyarországon, 1920–1945 (Budapest: Napvilág, 2012).

17 Máté Gárdonyi, “Az antiszemitizmus funkciója Prohászka Ottokár és Bangha Béla társadalomképében,” in A holokauszt Magyarországon európai perspektívában, ed. Judit Molnár (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2005), 193.

18 To cite Sándor Márai’s diary, “the Hungarian middle class became insane and got drunk on the Jewish question.” See: Sándor Márai, Napló, 1943–44 (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1990), 156.

19 For a detailed analysis of sex education and sexual politics in interwar Hungary, see Szegedi, “Tisztaság, tisztesség, fajgyalázás”.

20 The opposite of honor (Ehre) was dishonor or disgrace (Schande). The Hungarian term “fajgyalázás” referred to “gyalázat”, which bears a meaning very similar to Schande.

21 Gesetz zum Schutze des deutschen Blutes und der deutschen Ehre. Accessed October 5, 2015, http://www.documentarchiv.de/ns/nbgesetze01.html.

22 One prominent example is Arthur Dinter’s bestselling 1920 novel, Die Sünde wider das Blut (The Sin against the Blood), which did a great deal to spread the misinterpretations of biological principles that were used to underpin anti-miscegenation.

23 Przyrembel, Rassenschande, 169.

24 Ibid., 210.

25 1000 év törvényei. 1941. évi XV. tc. a házassági jogról szóló 1894:XXXI. törvénycikk kiegészítéséről és módosításáról, valamint az ezzel kapcsolatban szükséges fajvédelmi rendelkezésekről. Accessed October 5, 2015, http://www.1000ev.hu/index.php?a=3&param=8168.

26 Zsuzsa Bokor, “Nők a nemzetben, nemzet a nőkben: a Magyar Egyesület a Leánykereskedelem Ellen eugenikai olvasata,” Socio.hu, 4, no. 2 (2015): 96, Accessed July 21. 2015, http://www.socio.hu/uploads/files/2015_2/bokor.pdf.

27 In a 1917 book the police prostitution expert Emil Schreiber reported 2,600 registered prostitutes in Budapest in 1916. He cited some experts who believed that in Berlin clandestine prostitution was tenfold compared to the number of the women registered. He refused, however, to make any such estimate with regards to the situation in Hungary. Emil Schreiber, A prostitúció (Budapest: Pátria, 1917), 151.

28 For more on this practice see: Susan Zimmermann, “Nemiség, tisztesség és szegénység. A nőkkel és a prostitúcióval kapcsolatos vita és politika Bécsben és Budapesten a századfordulón,” Rubicon 6, no. 8 (1998), accessed October 5, 2015, http://www.rubicon.hu/magyar/oldalak/nemiseg_tisztesseg_es_szegenyseg_a_nokkel_es_a_prostitucioval_kapcsolatos_vita_es_politika_becsben_e/.

29 “A m. kir. belügyminiszternek 151.000/1927 B.M. számú körrendelete: a közerkölcsiség védelme,” Belügyi Közlöny 32 (1927): 327–28.

30 László Josefovits, Fajgyalázás: az 1941: 15.t.c. 15.§-ának büntetőbírósági joggyakorlata (Budapest: Bethlen, 1944).

31 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3174, Case 11471/1942.

32 Josefovits, Fajgyalázás, 15–17.

33 Ibid.

34 Michel Foucault, Abnormal: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1974–75 (London: Verso, 2003), 16.

35 See Ibid., 19.

36 In all likelihood, many of these women had few choices. In my analysis of race defilement court cases I do not wish to express any kind of justification for or approval of the kind of economic coercion that compelled young working class girls to provide sexual services for a couple of pengős. Rather, I wish to emphasize how the metaphor of the defenseless girl was used by men of power to help construct a specifically negative image of “Jewish sexuality.”

37 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3234, Case 3859/1943.

38 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3176, Case 11624/1942.

39 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3004, Case 12444/1941.

40 Ibid.

41 Anthony Giddens, The Transformation of Intimacy: Sexuality, Love and Eroticism in Modern Societies (Cambridge: Polity, 1992), 40.

42 Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 183, K583.

43 Ibid., batch 112, K583.

44 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3151, 9246/1942.

45 Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 112, K583.

46 Ibid.

47 Ibid.

48 Ibid.

49 Ibid.

50 Ibid.

51 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3161, Case 10226/1942.

52 Ibid., Box No. 3172, Case 11196/1942.

53 Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 183, K583.

54 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3170, Case 10992/1942.

55 Ibid.

56 Ibid.

57 Ibid.

58 Ibid.

59 Ibid.

60 József Koszterszitz, ”Sátán tőrvetése,” in Tiszta férfiúság az egyetemeken (Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1944), 37.

 

61 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék, Box No. 3151, 9246/1942. This is in fact the same case in which the woman was deemed honorable by the first court on the basis of her claim that she had only had sex with men she loved. See 22.

62 Hungarian National Archives (MNL OL) Papers of the Kúria (Supreme Court), Item 69, batch 183, K583.

63 Ibid.

64 Ibid.

65 Budapest Metropolitan Archives (BFL) VII-5-c-, Budapesti Királyi Törvényszék.

66 Ibid., Box No. 3172, Case 11195/1942.

pdfVolume 4 Issue 3 CONTENTS

Regina Fritz

Inside the Ghetto: Everyday Life in Hungarian Ghettos1

 

The first ghetto was established in Hungary on April 16, 1944, about one month after the German invasion of the country. Within eight weeks, the Hungarian gendarmerie and police, together with the German Sondereinsatzkommando, had detained more than 400,000 Hungarian Jews in over 170 ghettos. There were significant differences between the individual ghettos in Hungary with regard to housing, provisions, the ability to make contact with the “outside world,” the extent of violence, etc. The living conditions depended to a great extent on how the local administrations implemented the measures for ghettoization and how the non-Jewish population reacted to the creation of the ghettos. In addition, ghettoization in the annexed territories differed in many perspectives from ghettoization in the core of Hungary. It was not only more brutal, but also much less structured. The paper investigates the formal differences between the individual Hungarian ghettos and describes the widely differing situations experienced in them. On the basis of personal documents and the preserved estates of ghetto administrations, I offer a portrayal of daily life inside the ghettos in the capital and in cities and smaller towns in rural parts of Hungary.

 

Keywords: Hungary, Jews, persecution, ghetto, daily life, oral history, diary, DEGOB, 1944–45, Holocaust.

Introduction

On April 18, 1944, Olga and Ilona Iczkovitcs told their brother Elemér about their forced relocation to a ghetto.

 

According to official regulations, along with other Jews, we have to leave our homes maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—we just don’t know yet. The tentative destination is Beregszász. We are allowed to bring one package weighing 50 kilos. All three of us are setting out on our way with strong spirits, hopeful and healthy. Should fate have it that we won’t meet again, we hope you may be truly happy.2

Two days earlier, on April 16, 1944, about a month following the German occupation of Hungary and twelve days before the official government ruling on “ghettoization,” the first ghetto was established in the annexed region of Carpathian Ruthenia. By early June 1944, more than 400,000 Jews were concentrated in over 170 ghettos,3 so that, with the exception of Budapest, the ghettoization of Jews in Hungary was practically completed within a matter of weeks. From mid-June 1944 onwards, the Jews of Budapest were required to move into specific “yellow houses” in the vicinity of factories, rail stations, and other possible targets of allied air strikes. Only in November 1944, months after the majority of Hungarian Jews had been deported and murdered, were two closed-in ghettos established in Budapest, the “Large” Ghetto and the “International” Ghetto.4

Most ghettos outside the capital existed only briefly, as the ghetto residents were transported to special collection camps in the county capitals within a matter of weeks. After two weeks at most, the vast majority of them had been sent to the concentration and extermination camp Auschwitz-Birkenau. In exceptional cases, Hungarian Jews were deported to the Austrian camp Strasshof/Nordbahn.5

Concentration and deportation was organized by deportation zones, which corresponded mainly to the gendarmerie districts. With some exceptions, the Jews living in the territories Hungary annexed between 1938 and 1941 were deported first. The Jews living in the core parts of the country (post-Trianon Hungary) followed. The deportations were supposed to be concluded with the Jews of Budapest, however, Regent Miklós Horthy put a stop to the deportations before the Jews of Budapest would have fallen victim to them. He did so in reaction to growing international pressure and also due to his realization that the war had been lost following the landing of Allied troops at Normandy and the continuing advances of the Red Army.6 After Romania switched sides politically and militarily, Horthy installed a new government under Géza Lakatos, which secretly accepted an armistice agreement with the Soviet Union. Following the broadcast of this agreement on Hungarian radio, the German government forced Horthy and the Lakatos government to resign on October 15, 1944. Ferenc Szálasi, the leader of the Hungarian Arrow Cross party, took over the government and restarted the deportation of the Hungarian Jews. Between November 6 and December 1, 1944, over 76,000 Hungarian Jews were handed over to the German Empire. This number included forced laborers from Hungarian factories, labor servicemen from the Hungarian army, and Budapest Jews who had survived the first wave of deportations in the first half of 1944.7

Due to the fact that the rural ghettos of Hungary existed only for a matter of weeks, internal ghetto institutions and cultural life could not develop as distinctive aspects of ghetto life, as they had in other ghettos across Europe, especially in Poland.8 Although there was first evidence of administrative structures, religious life, organization of health and preventive care in the Hungarian case too, only the “Large” Ghetto of Budapest had a somewhat more developed administration.9 For historians wishing to analyze life and life worlds (Lebenswelt)10 in the Hungarian ghettos, the limited number of sources about the daily life inside them poses a serious challenge. Military operations also led to the destruction or loss of files. Because of this, everyday life in the Hungarian ghettos has rarely been made the subject of scholarly inquiry.11

However, as stressed by historian Saul Friedländer, Jewish perceptions, actions, and reactions to persecution are an integral part of the history of National Socialism.12 Accordingly, the study of everyday life in the Hungarian ghettos also constitutes a relevant scholarly subject. The following study aligns with the recent series of publications, which have increasingly explored Nazi ghettos from the perspectives of everyday life.13 The aim of these studies was to supplement historical research, which for a long time had focused on the perpetrator’s perspective, with the victim’s point of view. The “perceptions, agency, and reactions [...], in addition to the interactions [of the persecuted, note R.F.] with the rest of the population” thus became the central part of the analysis.14 These researches emphasize efforts made to regain a sense of normality in the chaos of everyday life in the ghetto. Endeavors to maintain friendships and family relationships, celebrate holidays, organize cultural, religious, and social institutions are also at the heart of these inquiries, as are internal conflicts in the ghetto or interactions with the outside world. The intention is not, as was in the past, to analyze ghetto history backwards, proceeding in our attempts to understand it from its outcome, i.e. by focusing on the subsequent annihilation of prisoners in the concentration and death camps, even if the context of persecution cannot be ignored. Instead, the studies consciously address the lives and activities of the persecuted and characterize the communities in the ghettos as heterogeneous societies.15 As noted by historians Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber, “ghettos should not be seen only as places of persecution and murder, but also as places of life, albeit restricted, and moreover, as a coming together of different worlds.”16

The few surviving diaries and pieces of correspondences from the Hungarian ghettos are uniquely valuable sources that help document events and daily life during the period of persecution in the involuntarily ghettoized community.17 In addition to the documents produced by the organs of local administration, the daily reports from the various ghettos that were published by Hungarian historians Judit Molnár and Kinga Frojimovics18 and the reports from the “Large” Ghetto in Budapest also provide insights into everyday life in Hungarian ghettos. The small amount of source material from the time period can be supplemented with recollections recorded after 1945. The perspectives of those inside the Hungarian ghettos have been articulated not only in interviews recorded decades after the events,19 but also immediately after the war. One of the most valuable early postwar collections is that of the National Relief Committee for Deportees (DEGOB). Recorded between March 1945 and June 1946, the files in this collection document the personal stories of about 5,000 survivors.20 Although the project’s focus was documentation from the post-deportation period and the experiences in the National Socialist camp system, in almost every protocol survivors also spoke about the ghettoization process and everyday life in the Hungarian ghettos.21

Drawing on these sources, in this essay I investigate the diversity of the ghettos and analyze the differences in ghetto experiences. To what extent could the Jewish inhabitants of the ghettos influence and give structure to their daily life? Was it possible to adhere to religious commandments or arrange forms and patterns of cultural life? What influence did internal or “imported” conflicts have on the life of the ghetto inhabitants? How was violence exercised and experienced in the different ghettos, particularly by the Hungarian gendarmerie? How did the living conditions change over the course of the weeks? And, last but not least, how did the ability or the inability to make contact with the “outside world” influence ghetto life?

“It’s impossible to get used to this life.” On the Diversity of the Ghettos

Edmund Veesenmayer, Hitler’s personal plenipotentiary in Hungary, sent a telegram to the German Foreign Office on April 23, 1944:

 

The ghettoization work began on April 16 in the Carpathian region. 150,000 Jews have been seized. It’s expected that this action will be completed by the end of next week. An estimated 300,000 Jews. Subsequently, similar operations in Transylvania and further border provinces near Romania are being planned. Still a further 250,000 to 300,000 Jews to capture. Then, those counties adjacent to Serbia and Croatia, and, finally, the inland ghettoization, finishing up in Budapest.22

Over the course of the following weeks, Veesenmayer regularly reported to the Foreign Office on the gradual ghettoization and the deportations, that followed. In a bureaucratic style, he relayed the number of captured persons and noted “incidents,” such as escape attempts or suicides. Because they don’t contain any information about daily life or living conditions, these reports shed no light on the many disparities among ghettos established in Hungary during the spring and summer of 1944. However, the ghettoization in the annexed territories differed from that in the core of the country because it was carried out in a more ferocious and less organized manner. This becomes apparent when the documents from regional administrations are considered, alongside egodocuments.

In many villages of the annexed territories, the authorities skipped a “multiphase ghettoization” altogether. Instead, the Jewish inhabitants were quickly gathered in collection camps in which, because of their provisional nature, conditions were especially dreadful. On the other hand, in the country’s core, where the ghettoization happened at a later time after the authorities had become more familiar with the procedure, the Jews living in the larger cities were moved to designated areas, which were usually isolated from the rest of the city. Jews from the villages and small towns were temporarily housed in synagogues and other Jewish community institutions in their hometowns. Later, the Hungarian and German authorities moved them to ghettos of nearby larger cities. One or two weeks before deportation, the Jews were finally concentrated in collection camps.

In the case of Hungary, the location of ghettoization and the conditions in each ghetto depended mostly on decisions made by regional administrators.23 Prior to the establishment of the ghettos, there were administrative consultations regarding questions of location, supply, and equipment. The few surviving minutes taken at such meetings document the broad scope of action the local decision-makers had on questions concerning ghettoization. Thus, a note written by the Debrecen Council demonstrates vividly the radicalizing or deradicalizing affect that the local authorities could have on the centrally regulated ghettoization measures.24 On May 8, 1944, a confrontation between Mayor Sándor Kölcsey and prefect Lajos Bessenyei erupted over the implementation of the individual steps of ghettoization in Debrecen. The former took a more moderate position. Kölcsey was firmly against barricading the ghettos and also insisted that the Jews should be allowed to bring along all necessary items. What’s significant here is that Kölcsey substantiated his viewpoint with aesthetic and pragmatic argumentation, and not with any kind of philanthropic reasoning: “We have more practical solutions here and can close off the streets. He [Kölcsey, note R.F.] is averse to using wooden planks, first of all, because they are ugly [...]. Secondly, the planks might be useful for national defense.” Finally, the Jewish population in Debrecen ended up being housed in a ghetto located in the city center instead of the barracks built specifically for them outside the city (as first proposed); the lack of building materials was cited as the reason.

While ghettoization in Debrecen was carried out in accordance with the decision of the city authorities, due to protests by the local non-Jewish population, similar plans made for other cities often failed. On the one hand, some protesters laid claims to the homes of Jews, which were often located on projected ghetto premises. On the other, some gentiles complained that they would have to vacate their houses or apartments, which were in the area designated for the ghetto.25 These grievances often led to implementing more radical ghettoization plans than originally intended. Therefore, the area initially planned for many ghettos was further reduced, or the ghetto was set up on the fringe of residential areas, in warehouse-like conditions located in either abandoned factories or commercial buildings.26 However, in some places, such as Hódmezővásárhely, the Jews were actually allowed to stay in their own homes until deportation. In Budapest, the authorities at first decided that the Jewish population would be housed in houses marked with a yellow star throughout the entire urban area. The authorities rejected building a closed-in ghetto up until November 1944, as they had come to believe rumors, which had also been spread by the Budapest Jewish Council,27 that only non-Jewish neighborhoods would be bombed.

Overall, Hungarian historian László Csősz has distinguished five types of ghetto:

1. Complete resettlement. Accommodation outside residential areas in warehouse-like conditions in factories or farm buildings;

2. Separate residential neighborhoods, usually in former Jewish quarters;

3. Accommodation in individual buildings, not necessarily joined, marked with a yellow star;

4. Rejection of the establishment of a closed-in ghetto.28

Csősz characterizes Model 5, for instance the ghettos in Kassa, Ungvár, and Munkács as a combination of the first and second models. In these cities, local Jews were housed in a closed-off district within the city, while Jewish people from the surrounding region had to move to a collection camp, usually located on the outskirts of the city. However, there were also several other cases in which the Jewish population was divided into various groups. For example, in the Beregszász ghetto, Jews over 60 years of age were housed separately.29 In Bonyhád, there were separate ghettos for Orthodox Jews and Neolog Jews.30 Furthermore, in some ghettos the Jews who had converted to Christianity were housed separately, which occasionally also meant that they had somewhat better living conditions.31

The filth, lack of toilets and washing facilities, problems with supplies, loss of private space, confinement, harassment by the police, and uncertainty about the future were all deeply imprinted on the memories of most survivors. These factors affected people differently in the different ghettos. In particular, the type of housing seems to have had a key impact on experiences of the ghettos. Survivors from Kassa who were housed in the local brick factory recalled their experiences thus:

 

The wind was blowing terribly, it was cold, and the brick factory didn’t even have walls. The first days were miserable. There was no toilet. There was no water. There was not even space to unload our baggage or take a moment’s pause, so we just got to work. We built walls, but we slept on the ground. Whoever could manage to get hold of some straw did so.32

Those forced to move into houses designated for Jews within city perimeters lived under relatively better conditions. Although an average of 6 to 7 people had to share a single room, the survivors from Kassa accentuated the differences: “Life was better here, because they were able to live in apartments and move about more freely. Once in a while, a person might even have a minute alone to himself; he didn’t always have to think, eat, drink, or sleep collectively.”33 The dense concentration of people in a paltry space was a common characteristic of ghettos in the annexed territories. The lack of space was the most extreme in these ghettos, with an average of 1m2 per person. In a large portion of the heartland (meaning Trianon Hungary) the proposed standard was 4m² per person, although in many ghettos people in the end only had half that space.34 On May 19, 1944, a Jewish woman wrote a letter to her sister, describing the situation in the Miskolc ghetto:

 

As I mentioned, we sleep seven people to a small room. The seven beds take up so much of the space in the room that we are hardly able to move about. You can imagine how much daily life is compromised for my dear Irén, for whom her beloved home was everything. It’s impossible to get used to this life. It feels like prison.35

The internments were led by the Hungarian police and gendarmerie, representatives of the Sondereinsatzkommando functioned under the leadership of Adolf Eichmann as a “consulting institution.”36 The Jews of the individual counties usually had 3–12 days to relocate to the designated areas. In some places, however, they were only given a mere matter of hours for this purpose. For instance, in Munkács the officials decided on a strict limit of 10 hours. The procedures began in Munkács at 4:30 AM. The gendarmerie chased the local Jews from their beds and beat them up on the way to the ghetto.37

Most ghettos had a prescribed limitation on how much luggage could be brought along. In practice there were differences between the individual ghettos, as was true with regards to whether a ghetto was open or completely isolated. In some ghettos, especially those in the annexed territories, the ghetto residents possessed only the garments they wore on their bodies. In other ghettos, the Jews were allowed to bring along as many belongings as they were able to carry into the ghetto. This was the case in Debrecen,38 for example, where the county prefect at first rejected such a proposal from the mayor, maintaining that it would amount to “sanatorium accommodation.”39 In some villages Jews were even allowed to bring furniture into the ghetto.40 In general, however, only 50 kg worth of luggage was permitted.

As a consequence of the hasty creation of the ghettos, many areas of daily life were only provisionally organized. The living conditions were especially atrocious in the ghettos and collection camps in the annexed territories, where the percentage of destitute Jews was higher than in the core parts of the country and the transitional character of the ghettos and camps was the most blatantly obvious. In some cases, the Jews in these ghettos had to live out in the open, and the severe lack of water made the situation arduous. In a letter to Bishop László Ravasz dated May 5, 1944, the notary public in Marosvásárhely bemoaned the conditions in which the Jewish residents were housed next to an abandoned brick factory:

 

There were only three or four rooms available, full of shattered windows, and there was little more than a few open sheds. This means the huge group [of Jews, note R.F.] is forced to camp outside, exposed to the elements. They are not even provided with basic sanitary facilities. There is a lack of toilets and drinkable water, and the food supply does not work yet. Infants, small children, and the aged are left out in the windy, cold nights with no roof over their heads (completely unprotected).41

 

In the Munkács ghetto there were no bathing facilities either, and the inhabitants had to wash themselves in a nearby swamp.42 Moreover, many ghettos had an inadequate supply of food and medication. Although most ghettos had a communal kitchen, there was very little in the way of food or ingredients on hand. Many people were reliant on the food rations they had brought along. One survivor of the Huszt ghetto concluded that “[t]here was, indeed, a communal kitchen in the ghetto, but whoever relied on that could just go ahead and starve.”43 The Orthodox Jews in the Carpathian-Ukraine and in northeastern Hungary were hit especially hard by the supply problem. The Hungarian authorities began rounding up Jews in this region on April 16, 1944, the final day of Pesach. Because the religious Jews were minding the Jewish laws of not storing any leavened foods at this time, the Orthodox Jews, as a result, had no bread rations to take with them to the ghetto. This had massive consequences for the food situation in these ghettos.

Most ghettos were fenced in and put under outside surveillance by policemen or the gendarmerie.44 Ghetto life was organized by a local Jewish Council.45 In addition, numerous ghettos had a ghetto police. Ghetto residents relied not only on the institutional structures provided.46 They also organized aspects of communal and daily life on their own. In her journal, Éva Heyman described the Nagyvárad ghetto thus:

 

We chose Marica’s mother, Aunt Klári Kecskeméti, to be in charge of the inhabitants of our room. Everybody has to obey her. In the dark she gave a speech, and even though I was almost asleep, I understood that we all have to take care that everything is kept clean, because that is very important, and that we all have to think of one another, since all the people in the room are relatives and friends.47

House Commanders, in charge of orderliness, cleanliness, and discipline, were elected in many other ghettos too.48 Understandably, the internal administrative structure was most developed in the “Large” Ghetto in Budapest, which existed for seven weeks (the longest time among Hungarian ghettos). The ghetto was divided into ten districts, each of which was headed by a district leader who in turn was supported by a deputy. They were appointed by the Jewish Council and they were responsible for providing ghetto residents with food, organizing the fire response unit, leading a registration system, holding judicial powers, and being responsible for children who were living without their parents in the ghetto. Additionally, there was a Postal Service, which, because of organizational challenges, was able to process very few letters. Within each district, every building had a “building commander.” Apartments had an “apartment commander.” Order in the “Large” Ghetto was upheld by a ghetto police, the most important task of which was to prevent the theft of food and heating material.49

In general, the Hungarian ghetto inhabitants were mostly children, adolescents, older people, sick people, and women, because most Jewish men had been called to serve in the Hungarian labor service before and during the process of ghettoization.50 According to a report from Kisvárda, “55 percent of the people currently in the ghetto are women over 40 years old. The rest are children and elderly people; young men are not to be found at home, or only to a very minor extent.”51

In the cramped quarters of the ghetto, social and religious tensions flared up between rich and poor, young and old, and religious and secular Jews. Despite numerous difficulties, efforts were still made to follow religious commandments and maintain religious customs. Religious issues were crucial, especially in the ghettos in the annexed territories, where the number of strictly traditional, Orthodox Jews was relatively high. However, even in the core parts of the country conflicts erupted between Orthodox Jews and Neolog Jews, as well as between those who had converted to Christianity but were regarded by the authorities as Jews according to the anti-Jewish laws. A survivor of the Szolnok ghetto recalled an example of such a conflict on his first Shabbat in the ghetto, where attempts were made to organize the event in a former outdoor kitchen, but the required separation of men and women was not feasible. The conservative community argued that people should try to make the best out of the situation and pray together, but the ultra-Orthodox men left the room on the grounds that Jewish commandments were absolute and must be obeyed regardless of the circumstances.52

Even cooking together could lead to disagreements. A Debrecen ghetto survivor recalled how the ultra-Orthodox families would not cook in the communal kitchens because they were not kosher.53 Consequently, some ghettos arranged their own kosher kitchens.54 The differences were often exacerbated in the ghettos when high-profile Jews (members of the Jewish Council, doctors, or pharmacists) received better accommodations or were housed in a separate ghetto.

 

“The ghetto became the police’s favorite activity.” Suffering Violence in the Ghetto

Not only were the general conditions in the ghettos and collection camps in the first ghettoization zones often more disastrous than in parts of post-Trianon Hungary, in many instances, the police also treated the ghettoized population more callously. After the war, a survivor from the Mátészalka ghetto remembered: “They punched one fellow, because his yellow star wasn’t sewn on properly, and they beat another, because he had his hands in his pockets. They found mistakes all the time.”55 Often, the men and, eventually, women too were given meaningless work simply to keep them busy. In one instance, they had to dig pits and later fill them back in.

Beatings were a daily routine in the Munkács ghetto, too:

 

The ghetto became the police’s favorite activity. They entered whenever they felt like it and roughed us up. Sometimes, they would take us to the river and force us to get in, to make a header. Obviously, it was no big deal for the young lads, but they made the old and sick people do the same thing.56

 

Orthodox Jews, who notably stood out in the crowd because of their appearance, seem to have suffered an especially high number of acts of violence. For instance, there were countless attacks on strictly religious Jews in the Munkács ghetto. One survivor reported that Orthodox men were repeatedly abused on their way home after evening prayer.57 Many survivors remembered what was called “Black Saturday” in the Munkács ghetto. As the ghetto’s Orthodox men made their way to the synagogue early in the morning, they were intercepted by Germans, who took 200 of them off to work. The men were forced to remove doors from houses, carry out all of the objects that were in the synagogue, and then wash the floor of the synagogue with the tallit. The Germans severely abused them the whole time.58 A female eyewitness remembered: “On this day, they gathered all the Jewish men and boys, took them to the synagogue, and had them disassemble all the seating and furniture with their bare hands—without any tools. And they were forced to chant Jewish prayers at the same time.”59 The degree of the cruelty of the gendarmes and the police often depended on whether they had had any social relationships with Jews before ghettoization. The local policeman and gendarmes who knew some of the Jews tended to help out or behave more neutrally. Commando units from other localities carried out their tasks with more merciless severity.60

Many survivors vividly recalled the vicious interrogations conducted by the gendarmes and the acts of torture that were used in order to gain information about hidden valuables. Jews who were considered wealthy were interrogated with exceptional violence, as noted in a Salgótarján ghetto report received by the Jewish Council in June 1944:

 

It has been reported that during the night of May 31 in the Salgótarján community, several affluent Jews were investigated in the main school building. Their inspection began with the most abominable savageries. 50 gendarmes from other communities questioned men and women. They broke their bones, forced them to take off their shoes, punched them on their barefoot soles, and pierced them with needles, all to extort confessions whether they’d concealed any assets with certain Christians.61

 

Women were subjected to humiliating strip searches in the course of which midwives probed all bodily cavities in search of cached goods. The procedure was traumatizing for many women: “Personally, I have never felt such panic as I did in those artillery barracks. I was always afraid there before hand and knew it was my turn to be brought into the torture chamber.”62 Several people actually died as a result of the brutal interrogations.63 The surge in brutal treatment made daily life in the ghettos significantly more burdensome.

There were also raids in the course of which the few possessions of the ghetto residents were looted by gendarmes, police officers, or other non-Jews. In a unique way, the diary of 13-year-old Éva Heyman illustrates the increasing decline of living conditions in the ghetto. The quiet optimism expressed in her first journal entry64 was soon replaced with fear and despair concerning the situation:

 

I have no idea how things are going to be now. Every time I think: This is the end, things couldn’t possibly be worse, and then I find out that it’s always possible for everything to get worse, and even much much worse. Until now we had food, and now there won’t be anything to eat. At least we were able to walk around inside the Ghetto, and now we won’t be able to leave our house. Every child could wash up in warm water in the bathtub, and now they’ve taken the wood from the basement, and we won’t be able to heat water to wash in any more. (…) Until now Mariska [the family’s gentile housekeeper, note R.F.], was even able to come to us and we always had food, and now I really don’t know what we’re going to eat.65

As portrayed in this diary, many factors contributed to the worsening of the general situation in the ghetto. In many places, the already difficult living conditions in the ghetto deteriorated further, particularly as a consequence of the ongoing raids by the gendarmes. In the Kassa ghetto, for example, according to a survivor’s report she was to bring with her two pieces of clothing, a pair of shoes, two weeks’ worth of groceries, two blankets, and two pillows.66 Most of these items, however, were taken by gendarmes in the course of “house searches,” after which only a few articles of clothing were left for the ghetto inhabitants.67 Even in the Kaposvár ghetto, where the Jews were permitted to bring an unlimited amount of their property with them, there was a rampage that began on June 5, 1944. Over the course of several days, a group of about 25 men captured furniture, carpets, clothing, and other assets.68

The rising number of people being sent into the ghetto aggravated the situation further, leading to overcrowding. In some towns, the ghetto area was even reduced after the authorities or individuals laid claim to buildings located in the ghetto areas.69 Furthermore, permission to leave the ghettos was increasingly restricted in many cases. Reports sent from the Gyöngyös ghetto are, therefore, typical of many ghettos:

 

After the first two weeks, the situation in the ghetto has deteriorated drastically. Unless the errand is absolutely justified, exiting the ghetto has been banned completely. They have taken away all money over 50 Pengő from everyone’s money supply. They have taken away all extra clothes and underwear. There is undeniably a shortage of food.70

 

The approximately 70,000 residents of the “Large” Ghetto in Budapest, established in November 1944, were not spared violent assaults either. Reports sent to the Budapest Jewish Council describe single acts of repeated violence being carried out. For example, the Council received reports on December 16 from several House Commanders:

Several apartments in the building at 10 Rumbach Street were robbed on the night of November 13, and three armed men stole cash (3,500 Pengő), etc. and have taken wedding rings. The same robbers struck again the night of November 15 and stole money and other valuables from other apartments. [...] The night of the 15th, the apartment at 11 Kazinczy Street, first floor, door one, was robbed of money and clothes by two thugs. [...] On the 16th, several members of the Arrow Cross showed up in uniform at 30 Klauzal Street and seized money, medicine, and clothing.71

 

In addition to the numerous raids, there were incidents of sexual assault, abductions, and arbitrary shootings of Jews in Budapest. Thousands were shot while outside the ghetto72 or massacred in attacks on Jewish hospitals located on the ghetto’s periphery by members of the Arrow Cross,73 many of whom were no more than 15 years of age.74

Jews who considered themselves successfully assimilated into Hungarian society experienced the harsh treatment in the ghettos as a profound identity crisis. Many well-assimilated Hungarian Jews lived in post-Trianon Hungary, and they had been confident for a long time that the conservative-aristocratic leadership of Hungary would protect them from expulsion or mistreatment.75 They were proven wrong by the willing collaboration of the Hungarian authorities, the brutality of the gendarmerie, and the widespread apathy of the population concerning the subsequent deportations: “The local Christian population looked on with laughter at our disparagement, and even today, I cannot forget that,” summed up one survivor after the war.76

Thus, persecution signified a rupture of national identity for many. Especially affected were members of the middle class, often converts who possessed little to no Jewish identity and believed themselves to have successfully integrated into Hungarian society. Again and again, survivors recalled comrades who assumed that they had somehow been imprisoned by mistake and refused to accept the fact that in the eyes of the state they were Jewish. Ibolya G., who had been raised in the Christian faith, consulted a priest in a desperate letter from May 1944: “Frankly, I could never have imagined that something like this could happen. I still can’t comprehend it, but if that’s just the way it is, why does it concern me, even though I’ve never had anything to do with Jews?”77

A “Closed Society”? Relations with the “Outside World”

Although the living conditions declined in many ghettos, there were also ghettos in which the situation improved with progressive strides for a certain time. This was the case primarily in ghettos in which the initial situation was especially appalling. In some such cases, the ghetto administration was able to devise institutions which regulated supplies. But other factors could also lead to improvements in some ghettos, especially if there were possibilities to be in contact with the outside world. Although most ghettos were fenced in, not all of them were hermetically sealed. In many ghettos, residents were permitted to leave at certain times. In some ghettos younger men and women were even assigned work, such as in the Tab ghetto:

 

Everyone 50 years of age or younger had to work. We were assigned to agricultural or construction work. We even built the Levente Home.78 [...] We were put up at jobs in the various pastures nearby. We worked from Monday morning until Saturday evening, and on Saturday we returned home by car in the evening. The work was hard, but we were not so badly off. The supplies were generally very good in the farm yards.79

The same sentiment was echoed by the notary in the Tab ghetto, Endre Kovács, who made the following observations after the city’s liberation by the Soviet army:

After the ghetto’s establishment, I asked permission from the county notary Nádasdy if they [the Jewish ghetto inhabitants, note R.F.] might be used in the fieldwork. I received the directive that yes, under observation, this would be okay, because there was a shortage of workers, and manpower was necessary. In response, I assigned the Tab landowner Zénó Welscherscheimb, landowner Gusztáv Götzen, and other landowning Jews, including myself, to agricultural work […].80

As demonstrated by this statement, ghetto inhabitants were exploited for labor due to the general scarcity of workers during the war. Many mayors and officials, therefore, believed that closing the ghettos completely was problematic, because the war economy would thereby lose a valuable workforce. Most people in the ghettos were apparently sent to do agricultural work. Some of them worked for the military81 or were kept busy in mines. The working conditions in the individual workplaces varied greatly. In some places, workers were treated well and taken care of, while in other places, workers were regularly mistreated and beaten. Getting an opportunity to work outside the ghetto thus had its dangers and advantages. For example, it was a means of smuggling food into the ghetto and thereby improving one’s own circumstances.82 Occasionally, survivors could even recall that workers were paid in cash, such as in the Pécs ghetto, where workers were assigned to forestry tasks. They received 4.60 Pengő per day, while the women who worked in the garden nursery got 3.60 Pengő.83 Money on the other hand could be used to purchase groceries at a public market.

Work could also give some moral support and help people win back a sense of dignity. Many people felt that the hours of idle waiting were especially excruciating because they tended to make a person feel completely useless. A survivor from the Budapest ghetto recounted: “I didn’t want just to vegetate there [in the ghetto, remark R.F.] and stare at all the indignity, so I volunteered for kitchen work, because they said young people can join in, as there were already enough older folks. I signed myself up right away, and I was so glad to be able to work from morning until afternoon […].”84 Some people hoped that by working, they would draw attention to their own economic usefulness, and some believed they might, in this way, escape deportation.

It is noteworthy that in some places Jews were allowed to continue practicing their original professions, indicating the urgent need for their expertise. This was most evident in the medical profession. Specifically, city governments consented to allowing many Jewish doctors and pharmacists to continue practicing, as British historian Tim Cole illustrated with an example in the Körmend ghetto.85 The Jewish doctor there was allowed to leave the ghetto each day to visit his patients, despite the fact that Jews had been officially prohibited from treating non-Jewish patients. Nonetheless, due to the insufficient number of non-Jewish professionals, the latter regulation was often disregarded. After all, Jewish doctors made up the majority of the medical profession in Hungary.

There were other examples of professional continuities too. In Körmend, for instance, a plumber and an electrician were allowed to keep pursuing their professions.86 In the city of Békéscsaba, even the bank manager left the ghetto on a daily basis to keep doing his work.87 A letter from the Miskolc ghetto refers to a parallel situation: “I have approval to go to the studio every day as long as I am able to carry out my trade. For my lunch, I send someone to the ghetto, and I only go back home to the ghetto in the evening.”88

Leaving the ghetto was a privilege also granted to members of the Jewish Council. Furthermore, in many ghettos people were named who exited the ghetto daily at officially regulated times to purchase food at the public market. Therefore, the conclusion drawn by Christoph Dieckmann and Babette Quinkert applied in the case of Hungary. According to Dieckmann and Quinkert, “a hermeneutical sealing off and sweeping surveillance […] [of the ghetto, note R.F.] were not the rule.”89 The “openness” of many ghettos resulted in numerous encounters between Jews and non-Jews which continued to take place even following the establishment of the ghettos. Accordingly, the Jewish involuntary community in the Hungarian ghettos cannot be considered an entirely closed society.

Jews and non-Jews continued to come into contact after the ghettoization of the former also because in some ghettos the local non-Jewish population was permitted to continue living in homes within ghetto boundaries. Furthermore, in many ghettos residents were allowed to receive letters and packages, and non-Jewish workers continued to have access to and come into the ghetto. Such workers included debt collectors, chimney sweeps, plumbers, construction workers, and those responsible for reading gas, water, and electricity meters.90

In a few cases, non-Jewish acquaintances were allowed to enter the ghetto, such as in Jászberény and Sepsiszentgyörgy.91 Thus, many Hungarian ghettos were unusually permeable and offered time and time again possibilities for interactions between Jews and non-Jews, as well as the chance to smuggle food into the ghettos. In many ghettos, non-Jewish sellers offered their wares to ghetto dwellers in front of the ghetto gate up until May and June of 1944, when regulations were tightened to restrict such exchange.92

Though there was a chance in many ghettos to maintain contact with the non-Jewish population, it was not always possible to take advantage of these opportunities. Ultimately, the non-Jewish population was not always friendly to the involuntary community of ghettoized Jews, nor were they always willing to help.

In fact, a segment of the Hungarian population benefited from ghettoization, as demonstrated by historians Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági.93 The economic marginalization and subsequent deportation of 5 to 6 percent of the population facilitated the division of 20-25 percent of the entire population’s assets.94 The Hungarian government was keen to take advantage (i.e. possession) of “Jewish wealth” to stabilize the Hungarian economy.95 Meanwhile, by means of break-ins, the occupation of apartments, or other methods, substantial parts of the population grabbed assets. The failure of carefully planned government organization structures led to a chaotic rush by people in local administrations, members of the organs of German occupation, and private individuals to fill their own pockets.96 As illustrated above, exploitation continued in the ghettos as well. Some individuals even tried using official channels to obtain Jewish assets. On May 30, 1944, the newspaper Dunántúli Hétfő reported:

 

What an unbelievable commotion at the housing office, and how much they’ve disturbed the housing department officials in their work with all these personal appointments and telephone queries! Everyone wanted to get their apartment at the same time. They had their eyes on a certain apartment and a few days’ delay was already a ‘scandal’ in one applicant’s opinion.97

Generally, the “Jewish properties” were first handed over to people whose homes were located within the ghetto boundaries. To appease the complaints regarding evictions, the authorities promised these people bigger and better apartments. Countless apartments were also given to military personnel, police, and administrative officials. Thus, ghettoization and deportation provided material benefits to a segment of the Hungarian gentile population.98 A survivor commented:

The non-Jewish people responded with glee to every decree passed, because they were getting closer to their goal: appropriating Jewish assets. One example was the master baker named J.B. I had not even walked through the door frame when he showed up immediately and moved into my house right before my very eyes.99

 

Humiliation, theft, and active collaboration were everyday practice. Nevertheless, indifference seems to have been the most widespread reaction to ghettoization. Survivors of the Munkács ghetto reported: “We didn’t notice that the Christians behaved especially hostilely towards us. You could even say they were indifferent and couldn’t be bothered to notice us.”100

Individual gentiles sometimes reacted empathetically and offered their help (especially to friends and acquaintances). There were constant reports in the press at the time according to which non-Jewish people were smuggling food into the ghettos. Correspondingly, survivors also testified, for instance in the Ungvár ghetto, about how non-Jews brought bread and milk into the ghetto.101 Occasionally, there were also efforts to hide Jews, but these attempts were mostly to save friends or relatives, and when discovered by the authorities, such acts were severely punished.

Although the possibility to profit from the deportations increased the general acceptance of the radical anti-Jewish policies, as soon as the predicted economic upswing failed to materialize, there was quick social disappointment. In fact, conditions deteriorated in some sectors, such as in the case of healthcare or the procurement of general supplies, because so many doctors, pharmacists, producers, and consumers had been deported. The ever heavier allied bombing also made it more and more obvious to people that the war had been lost. Thus, many gentiles witnessed the radicalization of persecution with unease.102 Edmund Veesenmayer reported to the Foreign Office already before ghettoisation:

 

Although the Hungarian authorities are diligently trying to be convincing, the people do not completely agree with how the Jews are treated by the Germans, it must be noted on the part of the Einsatzkommando that the action taken against the affluent Jews repeatedly triggers many remarks of approval from the Hungarians. There is, however, no understanding from the population for the sporadically occurring public mistreatment of Jews or the unauthorized clearing out of Jewish shops by members of German military organizations. In these instances, they [the general public] exhibit immediate compassion for the poor Jews [italics in original, note R.F.]103

The Arrow Cross’s public acts of violence in the Hungarian capital in October 1944, including the shooting of Jews along the banks of the Danube River, eventually led more people to contribute to relief actions.104

Escape, Religious Conversion, Suicide

To avoid deportation, some Jewish men and women decided to flee, convert, or commit suicide. The overall number of people who escaped was quite low, even though every opportunity to leave the ghetto amounted to a chance to escape. Many people mentioned contemplating escape in their recollections, but they eventually decided against it, often out of consideration for their families. There are numerous claims in the DEGOB protocols resembling the following excerpt: “Several people had fled the ghetto, and I, too, wanted to escape, but out of consideration for my parents, I distanced myself from that plan.”105

Those living along the Romanian–Hungarian border were most likely to attempt to escape, taking advantage of the chance to flee into Romania, but many such attempts failed partially due to lack of support from the non-Jewish population. Many Jews who tried to escape or hide were denounced by gentiles and arrested: “Many tried to hide out in the bunkers in the mountains, and if they were not driven out again by hunger, then they were exposed immediately by the Christians.”106

When faced with ghettoization, M.L., a 19-year-old mechanic living in Uglya, tried to hide in a nearby forest:

 

I managed to conceal myself for a considerable length of time, but ultimately, the Swabian farmer K.J. discovered and then betrayed me. The police soon came to fetch me and take me to the Nyíregyháza collection camp, where I stayed for 2 1/2 weeks. Afterwards, they loaded me into a train and sent me to Auschwitz.107

 

Some Jews also tried hiding somewhere in the ghetto to avoid deportation. In the ghettos of Nagyvárad, Kassa, and Munkács, authorities discovered people who were still in hiding in the ghetto two weeks after the deportations,108 as mentioned in a related telegram from Edmund Veesenmayer:

 

According to a report from the Cluj/Klausenburg KDS, 28 Polish Jews hiding in burrows in the woods of Tiszabogdany were arrested by the Hungarian gendarmerie. 2 of the Jews had guns with them. Furthermore, 15 Jews were discovered in a basement in the former ghetto of Grosswardein, where they had immured themselves. In the Munkács ghetto, 11 Jews who’d cached securities and gold items totaling a value of 150,000 Pengő were also arrested. Recently, in Kaschau, 30 to 40 Jews who had also tried to hide were arrested and will join the next transport.109

Several Jews tried to save their families and themselves by using false papers and making bribes. Many considered traveling to Budapest and going undercover in the big city, but these efforts were complicated by regulations denying Jews an official license to travel.110

Convinced it would spare them from being deported, many Jews chose to convert. Hopelessness and disillusionment drove many people to take their own lives. For instance, the Székesfehérvár ghetto announced that there had been several suicides, mostly among people who had converted from Judaism decades earlier.111 Likewise, the landowner S.G., who had joined the Reformed Church in 1920, shot herself on the day she was ordered into the Tab ghetto.112

Inhabitants in some ghettos tried to find a way to delay their deportation or even stop it altogether.113 People who had survived the Aknaszlatina ghetto reported: “We wanted to trigger a typhus epidemic so they wouldn’t be able to take us away. We did this by drinking black coffee with salt, which made us feverish. This is how we managed to defer our deportation for two weeks.”114 The Aknaszlatina ghetto inhabitants were only able to delay their deportation, but in the end could not prevent it. On May 20 and 23, 1944, they were sent to the Birkenau camp.115

The Dissolution of the Ghettos

On May 30, 1944 Éva Heyman noted in her diary:

 

The people of Block One were taken away yesterday. All of them had to be in their houses in the afternoon. We’ve been locked up in here a long time, but now even those with special passes aren’t allowed to go out any more. We even know already that we can take along one knapsack for every two persons. It is forbidden to put in it more than one change of underwear; no bedding. Rumor has it that food is allowed, but who has any food left? The gendarmes took everybody’s food away when they took ours. It is so quiet you can hear a fly buzz. Nobody cries […] Dear diary, everybody says we’re going to stay in Hungary; the Jews from all over the country are being brought to the Lake Balaton area and we are going to work there. But I don’t believe it. That train-wagon is probably awful, and now nobody says that we’re being taken away, but that they are deporting us.116

Éva Heyman’s diary ends with this entry. On June 3, she was deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where she was murdered on October 17.

The collections camp, where the Jewish population from the ghettos outside the capital was resettled, was the last stop before deportation from Hungary:

 

We had been in the ghetto for four weeks. One morning at 7 o’clock, the police rammed in the doors with the butts of their rifles, stormed in the homes, and chased everyone outside. After forcing the people out and literally tearing adults and children from their beds, they beat them like horses. This was the most horrible part of the whole deportation. The Germans struck the same way, going house to house, and together with the gendarmerie, they drove us all to the marketplace, where we stood in rows of five. Then, we made our way to the brickyard.117

 

The mass deportations in Hungary began on May 14, 1944.118 By early July 1944, 437,400 people had been deported. The Budapest Rescue Committee bought the freedom of approximately 1,700 prisoners who were subsequently transported to Switzerland. 18,000 Hungarian Jews were sent to the Vienna region to do forced labor. However, the majority of the deportees (about 320,000) were killed in gas chambers shortly after their arrival at Auschwitz-Birkenau, for instance Olga and Ilona Iczkovics, whom I cited at the beginning of this essay. Before their departure from the Beregszász ghetto, they had hidden their handwritten letter to their brother Elemér with a request for whoever discovered it to forward it to Elemér. As a gesture of gratitude, they had enclosed an earring and a ring. “Dear Stranger,” they wrote in an accompanying note, “I beg you, please do not tear up this letter for my brother Elemér Ickovics (he is now on the Eastern front, and his camp number is K673). Instead, please make sure this letter together with the two notes get to him once he’s come back home. Otherwise, please return the letter to its hiding place, keeping the earring and ring for yourself.”119 Elemér probably never received the letter from his sisters. He never returned from the labor service, and a central database of Shoah victims categorizes him as disappeared. 28-year-old Olga and 26-year-old Ilona, together with their 49-year-old mother, Etel, never returned from deportation either. They are considered missing since their arrival in Auschwitz-Birkenau on June 1, 1944. They were most likely selected immediately for murder in one of the gas chambers upon their arrival or died within a few days or months from malnutrition or disease.

After the deportations in the spring and summer of 1944, the only ghetto remaining on Hungarian territory was in Budapest, where the Jewish population lived in yellow houses and later in the “Large” or “International” Ghetto. The “Large” Ghetto was liberated by Soviet troops on January 17 and 18, 1945. The conditions in the ghetto had already deteriorated drastically a few days earlier as a result of Soviet troops having surrounded the city. The journal of Erzsébet Fóti offers a moving description of this. On January 14, 1945, she was transferred from a protected house into the ghetto. Two days later she wrote:

 

Today I got a slice of bread and a little jam. We had a horrible night because of the heavy bombing, such as we’ve never experienced before. The windows in every room were broken, and we were all lying on the ground. My hair is lice-infested. There’s no water. We each receive a milk bottle full of water each day, and that is supposed to be enough, and for washing, too!

The next day, she continued: “Today a fight broke out in the street nearby. There are fights again on Wesselényi Street. Many people have been shot. There is nothing to eat. I am going crazy with hunger. Hungry. Hungry. I’m cold. I can’t write anymore, nor can I even feel my fingers.”120

Conclusion

As Tim Cole remarked in one of his essays, “Although the ghettoization of Hungarian Jews in 1944 can be seen as the implementation of policies of ‘concentration,’ there are significant differences in experiences of ghettoization between Hungary and other nations in East Central Europe as well as within Hungary and within individual cities in Hungary.”121 With particular clarity, the survivors’ recollections and contemporary reports portray the divergent situations in the Hungarian ghettos. The situation in each ghetto depended on a variety of factors, such as the type and place of accommodation, the amount of food rations brought along and the behavior of the police. The living conditions not only varied from ghetto to ghetto, but also in one and the same ghetto the situation could deteriorate or improve by and by.

The Hungarian administration not only had a significant impact on the living conditions, but could even prevent ghettoization in some places, such as in Hódmezővásárhely. But instead of trying to deescalate the situation, many mayors and prefects endorsed more extreme policies. Officials, gendarmes and police who acted more mildly were repeatedly denounced and often suspended.122 For instance, prefect Lajos Bessenyei demanded that the more moderate mayor of Debrecen, Sándor Kölcsey, resign after the May 8, 1944 meeting concerning the ghettoization of the local Jewish population. In a confidential letter to Kölcsey, the prefect told him that his resignation would be initiated “for fundamental reasons which must not be ignored,” but Kölcsey would be allowed to resign voluntarily. A few days later, the local press reported on Kölcsey’s decision to retire.123

Overall, in most cases the living conditions in the ghettos in the annexed territories were strikingly worse than the condition in the ghettos in the heartland. In these parts of the country, which were less developed than the territories in Trianon Hungary, the administration and the gendarmerie both carried out policies in a much more extreme manner. Because these ghettos were the first to be established, they were more significantly affected by the chaos and lack of structure.

The opportunity to interact with the “outside world” could significantly improve living conditions. It is worth noting that the establishment of the ghettos did not mean an interruption in economic and social relations between Jews and non-Jews. Interaction with the “outside world” remained very much possible. It is thus necessary to revise the notion of the ghetto as an area of complete isolation. Ghettos did not amount to parallel societies. Moreover, in some cases, professional continuities were apparent even post-ghettoization. Thus, the Hungarian government’s intention to exclude Jews from the Hungarian economy was not fully realized until the deportations. Although the Holocaust in Hungary was motivated not only ideologically but also economically, the concept of “work” provides a perfect example of the clash between anti-Semitic ideology and economic pragmatism. It is precisely this contradiction that may have influenced a substantial number of Hungarian Jews to doubt the threat of deportation. There were rumors in many ghettos that ghetto residents would be sent to do agricultural labor. Names of different towns circulated as possible destinations which without exception were within Hungary.

Overall, the living conditions people endured in the weeks immediately prior to their deportation sometimes made the difference between life and death when they arrived at the railway platforms of Auschwitz-Birkenau.

 

Translated from the German by Catherine Novak-Rainer

 

Bibliography

Bergen, Doris L., Anna Hájková, and Andrea Löw. “Warum eine Alltagsgeschichte des Holocaust?” In Alltag im Holocaust. Jüdisches Leben im Großdeutschen Reich 1941–1945, edited by Andrea Löw, Doris L. Bergen, and Anna Hájková, 1–12. Munich: Oldenbourg, 2013.

Bolgár, Dániel. “Asszimiláció és integráció a modern Magyarországon” [Assimilation and Integration in Modern Hungary], PhD diss., Eötvös Loránd University, 2014.

Bősze, Sándor. “Zsidósors Tabon 1944-ben” [Jewish Fate in Tab], in Tabi Kilátó. Tab: Tabi Polgármesteri Hivatal, 2000.

Braham, Randolph L. The Politics of Genocide: Holocaust in Hungary. 2 vols. New York: Columbia University Press, 1981.

Braham, Randolph L. The Politics of Genocide. The Holocaust in Hungary. Condensed Edition. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2000.

Braham, Randolph L. “Rettungsaktionen: Mythos und Realität.” In Ungarn und der Holocaust. Kollaboration, Rettung und Trauma, edited by Brigitte Mihok, 15–40. Berlin: Metropol, 2005.

Braham, Randolph L., ed. The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust in Hungary, 3 vols. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2013.

Cole, Tim. Holocaust City. The Making of a Jewish Ghetto. London–New York: Routledge, 2003.

Cole, Tim. “Ebenen der ‘Kollaboration’. Ungarn 1944.” In Kooperation und Verbrechen. Formen der “Kollaboration” im östlichen Europa 1939–1945, edited by Christoph Dieckmann, Barbette Quinkert, and Tatjana Tönsmeyer, 55–77. Göttingen: Wallstein, 2003.

Cole, Tim. “Writing ‘Bystanders’ into Holocaust History in More Active Ways: ‘Non-Jewish’ Engagement with Ghettoisation, Hungary 1944.” Holocaust Studies 11, no. 1 (2005): 55–74.

Cole, Tim. “Multiple and Changing Experiences of Ghettoization. Budapest, 1944.” In Life in the Ghettos During the Holocaust, edited by Eric J. Sterling, 145–59. New York: Syracuse, 2005.

Cole, Tim. “Building and Breaching the Ghetto Boundary: A Brief History of the Ghetto Fence in Körmend, Hungary, 1944.” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 23, no. 2 (2009): 54–75.

Cole, Tim. Traces of the Holocaust. Journeying in and out of the Ghettos. London–New York: Continuum, 2011.

Csősz, László. “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok. A vészkorszak Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok megyében” [Perpetrators, Witnesses, Victims. The Holocaust in Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok County]. PhD diss., University of Szeged, 2010.

Csősz, László, and Regina Fritz. “Ein Protokoll.” S.I.M.O.N. Accessed October 16, 2015. http://simon.vwi.ac.at/images/Documents/Events/Nur1Quelle/Nur1Quelle.pdf.

Dean, Martin. “Regional Patterns of Ghettoization in the Annexed and Occupied Territories of the Third Reich.” In Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, edited by Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber, 37–51. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013.

Dieckmann, Christoph, and Babette Quinkert. “Einleitung.” In Im Ghetto 1939–1945. Neue Forschungen zu Alltag und Umfeld, edited by Christoph Dieckmann and Babette Quinkert, 9–29. Göttingen: Wallstein, 2009.

Friedländer, Saul. “An Integrated History of the Holocaust. A Reassessment.” In Konstellationen. Über Geschichte, Erfahrung und Erkenntnis, edited by Nicolas Berg, Omar Kamil, Markus Kirchhoff, and Susanne Zepp, 157–65. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, 2011.

Fritz, Regina. “Gewalterfahrung verarbeiten: Kontextbezogene Berichte von Budapester Juden über Pfeilkreuzlermassaker.” In Krieg, Erinnerung, Geschichtswissenschaft, edited by Siegfried Mattl, Gerhard Botz, Stefan Karner, and Helmut Konrad, 323–41. Vienna: Böhlau, 2009.

Hájková, Anna. “The Prisoner Society in Terezín Ghetto, 1941–1945.” PhD diss., University of Toronto, 2013.

Hansen, Imke, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber. “Fremd- und Selbstbestimmung im Kontext von nationalsozialistischer Verfolgung und Ghettoalltag.” In Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, edited by Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber, 7–23. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013.

Hansen, Imke, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber, eds. Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013.

Heyman, Éva. The Diary of Éva Heyman. Jerusalem: Yad Vashem, 1974.

Horváth, Rita. “A Magyarországi Zsidó Deportáltakat Gondozó Országos Bizottság (DEGOB) története” [The History of the National Relief Committee for Deportees in Hungary (DEGOB)], MAKOR 1 (1997).

Horváth, Rita. “Jews in Hungary after the Holocaust. The National Relief Committee for Deportees, 1945–1950.” The Journal of Israeli History 19, no. 2 (1998): 69–91.

Horváth, Rita. “‘A Jewish Historical Commission in Budapest’: The Place of the National Relief Committee for Deportees in Hungary [DEGOB] among the Other Large-Scale Historical-Memorial Projects of She’erit Hapletah after the Holocaust (1945–1948).” In Holocaust Historiography in Context. Emergence, Challenges, Polemics & Achievements, edited by David Bankier and Dan Michmann, 475–96. Jerusalem: Berghahn, 2008.

Kadar, Agnes. “Historical Position of the Hungarian Jewry and Untold Ghetto Accounts.” In Life in the Ghettos during the Holocaust, edited by Eric J. Sterling, 43–65. New York: Syracuse, 2005.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. Self-financing Genocide: the Gold Train, the Becher Case and the Wealth of Hungarian Jews. Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. “‘Racionális’ népirtás Magyarországon” [“Rational” Genocide in Hungary], Budapesti Könyvszemle 2 (2003): 219–27.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. Hullarablás. A magyar zsidók gazdasági megsemmisítése [Robbing Corpses. The Economic Annihilation of Hungarian Jews]. Budapest: Hannah Arendt Egyesület–Jaffa, 2005.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. “Theorie und Praxis. Die ökonomische Vernichtung der ungarischen Juden.” In Ungarn und der Holocaust. Kollaboration, Rettung und Trauma, edited by Brigitte Mihok, 55–71. Berlin: Metropol, 2005.

Kovács, Éva, András Lénárt, and Lujza Anna. “Oral History Collections on the Holocaust in Hungary.” S.I.M.O.N., October 14, 2014. Accessed October 16, 2015. http://simon.vwi.ac.at/index.php/working-papers/43-kovacs-eva-lenart-andras-szasz-anna-lujza.

Laczó, Ferenc. “‘I could hardly wait to get out of this camp even though I knew it would only get worse until liberation came.’ On Hungarian Jewish Accounts of the Buchenwald Concentration Camp 1945–46.” Hungarian Historical Review 3 (2013): 605–38.

Lappin-Eppel, Eleonore. Ungarisch-jüdische Zwangsarbeiter und Zwangsarbeiterinnen in Österreich 1944/45. Arbeitseinsatz – Todesmärsche – Folgen. Münster–Hamburg–Berlin–London: LIT, 2010.

Löw, Andrea. Juden im Getto Litzmannstadt. Lebensbedingungen, Selbstwahrnehmung, Verhalten. Göttingen: Wallstein, 2006.

Mayer, László, comp. Források a szombathelyi gettó történetéhez. 1944. április 15 – 1944. július 30. [Sources on the History of the Ghetto of Szombathely, April 15, 1944 – July 30, 1944]. Szombathely: Vas Megyei Levéltár, 1994.

Molnár, Judit. Zsidósors 1944-ben az V. (szegedi) csendőrkerületben [Jewish Fate in 1944 in the V (Szeged) Gendarmerie District]. Budapest: Cserépfalvi, 1995.

Molnár, Judit. Csendőrök, hivatalnokok, zsidók. Válogatott tanulmányok a magyar holokauszt történetéből [Gendarmes, Civil Servants, Jews. Selected Essays on the History of the Hungarian Holocaust]. Szeged: Szegedi Zsidó Hitközség, 2000.

Molnár, Judit. “The Foundation and Activities of the Hungarian Jewish Council, March 20– July 7, 1944.” Yad Vashem Studies 30 (2002).

Molnár, Judit, and Kinga Frojimovics, ed. Gettómagyarország 1944. A Központi Zsidó Tanács iratai [Ghetto Hungary 1944. Documents of the Central Jewish Council]. Budapest: Magyar Zsidó Levéltár, 2002.

Murányi, Gábor. “‘Hallottam, amikor azt válaszolta: Alles ins Gas!’ A Deportáltakat Gondozó Bizottság jegyzőkönyvei 1945-ből” [“I heard when he answered, ‘all in the gas!’” Reports of the Relief Committee for Deportees], Phralipe 11–12 (1990): 32–41.

Szita, Szabolcs. Verschleppt, verhungert, vernichtet. Die Deportation von ungarischen Juden auf das Gebiet des annektierten Österreich 1944–1945. Vienna: Werner Eichbauer, 1999.

Ungváry, Krisztián. The Siege of Budapest: One Hundred Days in World War II. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006.

Vági, Zoltán. “Endre László politikai pályája 1919–1945” [The Political Career of László Endre]. PhD diss., Eötvös Loránd University, 2003.

Vági, Zoltán, László Csősz, and Gábor Kádár. The Holocaust in Hungary. Evolution of a Genocide. Washington D.C.: AltaMira Press, 2013.

 

1 I especially thank the J. and O. Winter Fund, City University of New York for supporting my research for this essay. Parts of this essay were published in: Regina Fritz, “Divergierende Ghettoerfahrungen – Alltag in den ungarischen Ghettos,” in Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, ed. Imke Hansen et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 346–68.

2 Letter from Olga and Ilona Iczkovitcs to Elemér Iczkovitcs, April 18, 1944, Holocaust Memorial Center (HDKE) 2011.917.2.

3 László Csősz talks about 350 ghettos and collection camps. Cf. László Csősz, Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok. A vészkorszak Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok megyében (PhD diss., University of Szeged, 2010), 74. Approximately 200 of them were intended as collecting points, such as synagogues or schools, and the Jewish people from smaller villages were meant to stay in them for several days prior to their transport to a larger ghetto.

4 The “Large” ghetto was surrounded by a wooden fence. Up to 70,000 people lived in it. In the “International” ghetto around 15,000 people were housed. Cf. Randolph L. Braham, The Politics of Genocide. The Holocaust in Hungary. Condensed Edition (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2000), 189–93. About the ghettoization of Budapest see Tim Cole, Holocaust City. The Making of a Jewish Ghetto (London–New York: Routledge, 2003).

5 On the details of the events that followed, see Frojimovics–Kovács in this issue.

6 Pope Pius XII, President Roosevelt, and the Swedish king intervened during the Hungarian deportations.

7 Cf. Christian Gerlach and Götz Aly, Das letzte Kapitel. Der Mord an den ungarischen Juden 1944–1945 (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 2004), 10 and 366f. Regarding the labor input of Hungarian Jews in the area of current-day Austria, see especially Eleonore Lappin-Eppel, Ungarisch-jüdische Zwangsarbeiter und Zwangsarbeiterinnen in Österreich 1944/45. Arbeitseinsatz – Todesmärsche – Folgen (Münster–Hamburg–Berlin–London: LIT, 2010) and Szabolcs Szita, Verschleppt, verhungert, vernichtet. Die Deportation von ungarischen Juden auf das Gebiet des annektierten Österreich 1944–1945 (Vienna: Werner Eichbauer, 1999).

8 Tim Cole, “Multiple and Changing Experiences of Ghettoization. Budapest, 1944,” in Life in the Ghettos During the Holocaust, ed. Eric J. Sterling (New York: Syracuse, 2005), 146.

9 The ghetto of Budapest had a postal service, for instance.

10 Cf. Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, ed. Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013).

11 The works of Tim Cole represent an exception: Tim Cole, “Building and Breaching the Ghetto Boundary: A Brief History of the Ghetto Fence in Körmend, Hungary, 1944,” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 23 (2009): 2, and Tim Cole, Traces of the Holocaust. Journeying in and out of the Ghettos (London–New York: Continuum, 2011). The scholarship on the Hungarian ghettos, which has grown considerably since the 1990s, has focused primarily on Hungary’s collaboration with the German occupiers. Cf. Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok”; Judit Molnár, Zsidósors 1944-ben az V. (szegedi) csendőrkerületben (Budapest: Cserépfalvi, 1995); Judit Molnár, Csendőrök, hivatalnokok, zsidók. Válogatott tanulmányok a magyar holokauszt történetéből (Szeged: Szegedi Zsidó Hitközség, 2000); Randolph L. Braham, The Politics of Genocide: Holocaust in Hungary, 2 vols. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981). A good overview is provided in Randolph L. Braham, ed., The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust in Hungary, 3 vols. (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2013).

12 Cf. Saul Friedländer, “An Integrated History of the Holocaust. A Reassessment,” in Konstellationen. Über Geschichte, Erfahrung und Erkenntnis, ed. Nicolas Berg, Omar Kamil, Markus Kirchhoff, and Susanne Zepp (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck&Ruprecht, 2011).

13 Relevant studies are available for Theresienstadt and the Polish ghettos. See, for example, Anna Hájková, “The Prisoner Society in Terezín Ghetto, 1941–1945” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 2013). See also Andrea Löw, Juden im Getto Litzmannstadt. Lebensbedingungen, Selbstwahrnehmung, Verhalten (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2006) as well as the anthology Lebenswelt Ghetto, ed. Hansen, Steffen, and Tauber.

14 Doris L. Bergen, Anna Hájková, and Andrea Löw, “Warum eine Alltagsgeschichte des Holocaust?,” in Alltag im Holocaust. Jüdisches Leben im Großdeutschen Reich 1941–1945, ed. Andrea Löw, Doris L. Bergen, and Anna Hájková (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2013), 3.

15 Cf. Hansen, Steffen, and Tauber, “Fremd- und Selbstbestimmung.”

16 Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber, “Fremd- und Selbstbestimmung im Kontext von nationalsozialistischer Verfolgung und Ghettoalltag,” in Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, ed. Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 9.

17 Cf. the diaries of Éva Heyman and Erzsébet Fóti.

18 They were published in: Gettómagyarország 1944. A Központi Zsidó Tanács iratai, ed. Judit Molnár, and Kinga Frojimovics (Budapest: Magyar Zsidó Levéltár, 2002).

19 The different interview projects with Hungarian survivors are summarized in Éva Kovács, András Lénárt, and Lujza Anna, “Oral History Collections on the Holocaust in Hungary,” S.I.M.O.N., October 14, 2014, accessed October 16, 2015, http://simon.vwi.ac.at/index.php/working-papers/43-kovacs-eva-lenart-andras-szasz-anna-lujza.

20 For the history of DEGOB, see Rita Horváth, “A Magyarországi Zsidó Deportáltakat Gondozó Országos Bizottság (DEGOB) története,” MAKOR 1 (1997). See also Rita Horváth, “Jews in Hungary after the Holocaust. The National Relief Committee for Deportees, 1945–1950,” The Journal of Israeli History 19 (1998): 2; Rita Horváth, “A Jewish Historical Commission in Budapest: The Place of the National Relief Committee for Deportees in Hungary [DEGOB] Among the Other Large-Scale Historical-Memorial Projects of She’erit Hapletah After the Holocaust (1945–1948),” in Holocaust Historiography in Context. Emergence, Challenges, Polemics & Achievements, ed. David Bankier and Dan Michmann (Jerusalem: Berghahn, 2008) and Gábor Murányi, “‘Hallottam, amikor azt válaszolta: Alles ins Gas!’ A Deportáltakat Gondozó Bizottság jegyzőkönyvei 1945-ből,” Phralipe 11–12 (1990). Cf. also Ferenc Laczó, “‘I could hardly wait to get out of this camp even though I knew it would only get worse until liberation came.’ On Hungarian Jewish Accounts of the Buchenwald Concentration Camp 1945–46,” Hungarian Historical Review 3 (2013). The DEGOB protocols are available in the Hungarian Jewish Archive in Budapest. Most of them are available online at www.degob.hu.

21 After all, one of the missions of the DEGOB was to document Jewish life before the destruction of Jewish communities in Hungary.

22 Telegram of Edmund Veesenmayer from April 23, 1944, Political Archive of the Foreign Office, R 29793.

23 The process of ghettoization also differed in other countries from place to place. Martin Dean notes: “Since detailed arrangements were left to the local authorities, the process of establishing ghettos was extremely decentralized and drawn out over more than two years.” He concludes: “The process of ghetto establishment varied considerably from region to region and was not the result of a series of coordinated orders issued in Berlin.” Martin Dean, “Regional Patterns of Ghettoization in the Annexed and Occupied Territories of the Third Reich,” in Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, ed. Imke Hansen, Katrin Steffen, and Jochen Tauber (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2013), 37, 49. It is worth mentioning that these ghettos were established in the annexed or occupied territories by the German administration. Hungary, on the other hand, could keep a high level of autonomy even after German occupation, thus the decision-making rested with the Hungarian administration. Cf. Gerlach, Aly, Das letzte Kapitel, 13.

24 Hajdú-Bihar County Archives, Debrecen, IV.B. 1406.b., box 365, 21.838/1944. See also László Csősz, and Regina Fritz, “Ein Protokoll,” S.I.M.O.N., accessed October 16, 2015, http://simon.vwi.ac.at/images/Documents/Events/Nur1Quelle/Nur1Quelle.pdf.

25 Cf. Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 42 and 92.

26 Ibid., 79.

27 Cf. statement of the Budapest Jewish Council Chairman Samu Stern, DEGOB 3627.

28 Cf. Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 75.

29 See the daily report from the Beregszász ghetto from May 1, 1944, reprinted: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 57. It states: “The people of Beregszász are in the barrel factory near Reisman and Neufeld; the people from the province are in the brickyards of Kont and Vály. The 60 years of age and older are living in a separate street.”

30 Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 148.

31 The reason for separation differed from ghetto to ghetto. In some cases the Catholic Church intervened in support of the separation of the converted Jews.

32 Protocol with Ms. V.R., Ms. J.J., Ms. J.E., Ms. K.P. and Ms. K.E., taken on August 2, 1946, DEGOB 2591.

33 Ibid.

34 Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 79.

35 Letter from May 19, 1944, Hungarian Jewish Archives D 6/2.

36 Szita, Verschleppt, verhungert, vernichtet, 21. The Sondereinsatzkommando, made up of around 150–200 men, was in charge of deporting Hungarian Jews. Zoltán Vági claims this number also included secretaries and chauffeurs. Cf. Zoltán Vági, “Endre László politikai pályája 1919–1945” (PhD diss., Eötvös Loránd University Budapest, 2003), 150 f.

37 See the protocol with Ms. N.J., recorded on July 16, 1945, DEGOB 1533.

38 See the protocol with Ms. L.S. from November 3, 1945, DEGOB 3490.

39 Hajdú-Bihar Country Archives, Debrecen, IV.B. 1406.b., box 365, 21.838/1944.

40 Hence, the Jewish families of Celldömölk were each allowed to take along a wardrobe and a table into the Jánosháza ghetto. Residents of the Keszthely ghetto were allowed to bring beds and chairs. See the daily report from Celldömölk from May 17, 1944 and in Keszthely, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 61 and 87.

41 Ráday Archives, A-1-c Elnöki iratok 1944.

42 See the protocol with Ms. N.J., recorded on July 16, 1945, DEGOB 1533.

43 See the protocol with Ms. F.B, w.Y. (most likely in the summer of 1945), DEGOB 2800.

44 The gendarmerie was responsible for maintaining civil order outside the cities, whereas the police was in charge in the cities.

45 About the Hungarian Jewish Council see a.o. Judit Molnár, “The Foundation and Activities of the Hungarian Jewish Council, March 20 – July 7, 1944” Yad Vashem Studies 30 (2002), accessed October 15, 2015, http://www1.yadvashem.org/download/about_holocaust/studies/molnar.PDF and Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics.

46 See the camp order in the Kassa collection camp from April 24, 1944, Nógrád Country Archives XV. 24. 9.

47 Diary entry from May 5, 1944 in: Éva Heyman, The Diary of Éva Heyman (Jerusalem: Yad Vashem, 1974), 89. Please note if using this source that the original diary is not available, so the extent to which Éva’s mother intervened editorially in the diary’s publication is unclear.

48 See the daily report from the Kisvárda ghetto from May 8, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 91.

49 Cf. Braham, The Politics of Genocide, vol. 2, 856–58.

50 Thus, when deportations commenced, labor service, which had already claimed the lives of many men before the German occupation, in some instances became a lifesaver.

51 Report from Kisvárda on May 8, 1944, MZSL D 8/1.

52 Cited in: Agnes Kadar, “Historical Position of the Hungarian Jewry and Untold Ghetto Accounts,” in Life in the Ghettos during the Holocaust, ed. Eric J. Sterling (New York: Syracuse, 2005), 50.

53 Cf. Ibid., 55.

54 See, for example, the Szarvas und Tiszafüred ghettos, Daily report from the Szarvas ghetto on May 23, 1944 and from the Tiszafüred ghetto on May 14, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 128 and 139.

55 See the protocol with Ms. R.N., taken on July 14, 1945, DEGOB 1781.

56 See the protocol with Mr. M.J., taken on August 7, 1945, DEGOB 2234.

57 See the protocol with Ms. F.T., taken on June 22, 1945, DEGOB 123.

58 See the protocol with Ms. B.B. und Ms. B.J., taken on July 13,1945, DEGOB 1459; as well as the protocol with Ms. N.J., taken on July 16, 1945, DEGOB 1533.

59 Protocol with Ms. N.J., taken on July 16, 1945, DEGOB 1533.

60 Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 101.

61 Report from the Salgótarján ghetto from June 12, 1944, Hungarian Jewish Archives D 8/1.

62 See the protocol with Ms. SZ.E., taken on November 15, 1945, DEGOB 3543.

63 See, for instance, the protocol with Ms. K.M. and Ms. H.J., taken on July 20, 1945, DEGOB 1743: “The wealthier people were summoned daily by the police. They were interrogated by means of beating and torture to confess where they’d hidden any assets. Several died as a result of these interrogations […].”

64 “I cuddled up with Marica and the two of us—believe or not, dear diary—were happy. Strange as it seems, everybody belonging to us was here together with us, everybody in the world whom we loved.” Diary entry from May 5, 1944, Heyman, The Diary of Éva Heyman, 88 f.

65 Diary entry from May 10, 1944, ibid., 90 f.

66 See the protocol with Ms. F.M. und Ms. F.B., taken on June 22, 1945, DEGOB 84.

67 Ibid.

68 See the protocol with Ms. SZ.E., taken on November 15, 1945, DEGOB 3543.

69 See, for example, the Bajna ghetto, where the hospital and nursing home were reintegrated from the ghetto, as desired by the German military. See the daily report from the Baja ghetto from May 25, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 51.

70 Daily report from May 31, 1944 from the Gyöngyös ghetto, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 74.

71 Report from December 16, 1944, HDKE, 2011.398.10.

72 The Hungarian historian Krisztián Ungváry mentions 2,600-3,600 people shot along the banks of the Danube River. Cf. Krisztián Ungváry, The Siege of Budapest: One Hundred Days in World War II (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 290.

73 Cf. the massacres in the hospitals in the Maros street and in the Városmajor street. Regina Fritz, “Gewalterfahrung verarbeiten: Kontextbezogene Berichte von Budapester Juden über Pfeilkreuzlermassaker,” in Krieg, Erinnerung, Geschichtswissenschaft, ed. Siegfried Mattl, Gerhard Botz, Stefan Karner, and Helmut Konrad (Vienna: Böhlau, 2009).

74 See Gerlach and Aly, Das letzte Kapitel, 369.

75 Randolph L. Braham, “Rettungsaktionen: Mythos und Realität,” in Ungarn und der Holocaust. Kollaboration, Rettung und Trauma, ed. Brigitte Mihok (Berlin: Metropol, 2005), 17 f.

76 Protocol with Mr. G.E., taken on June 23, 1945, DEGOB 90.

77 Letter from Ibolya G. to the priest Dr. Sándor N., from May 10, 1944, Ráday Archive, A-1-b Püspöki iratok 1944.

78 A document from June 22, 1944 also refers to the construction of the Levente Home: “they [the Jews, note R.F.] are employed in small groups, mainly to build the Levente Home in Tab,” Somogy County Archive, Tab 8285/1944, cited in Sándor Bősze, “Zsidósors Tabon 1944-ben,” in Tabi Kilátó (Tab: Tabi Polgármesteri Hivatal, 2000).

79 Protocol with S.R., taken on July 27, 1945, DEGOB 2830.

80 Protocol of district notary Endre Kovács from September 6, 1944 regarding the complaint filed against him, Somogy County Archives, Tab 7447/1944, cited by Bősze, “Zsidósors Tabon.”

81 This is how the Jewish men of Huszt were put to work building a highway and fortification. In Szécsény, except for those under 14 years of age and the elderly, all others were forced to work in a military depot. See the daily report from the Huszt ghetto on May 3, 1944 and from the Szécsény ghetto from May 19, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 80 and 134.

82 For instance, opportunities to work outside the ghetto improved the situation in the Kassa ghetto. See the daily report from the Kassa ghetto from May 9, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 84.

83 See the daily report from the Pécs ghetto from May 26, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 119.

84 Interview with Lóránt Istvánné, February–March 2004, Interviewer: Anna Földvári, accessed October 16, 2015, http://www.centropa.hu/object.93cd65e0-af5c-4ec1-b641-1141de5fca23.ivy?full=true.

85 In some villages, doctors and pharmacists were even allowed to stay in their own homes and didn’t have to move into the ghetto, like in Kaposvár. See the daily report from the Ghetto Kaposvár from May 14, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 85.

86 See Cole, “Building and Breaching the Ghetto Boundary.”

87 See the protocol with Ms. E.K., taken on September 14, 1945, DEGOB 3216.

88 Letter from May 19, 1944, Hungarian Jewish Archives D 6/2.

89 Christoph Dieckmann, Babette Quinkert, “Einleitung,” in Im Ghetto 1939–1945. Neue Forschungen zu Alltag und Umfeld, ed. Christoph Dieckmann and Babette Quinkert (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2009), 15.

90 See the ghetto order from the Szombathely ghetto from May 16, 1944, reprinted in: Források a szombathelyi gettó történetéhez. 1944. április 15. – 1944. július 30., comp. László Mayer (Szombathely: Vas Megyei Levéltár, 1994), 34.

91 For the former, see Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 88. For the latter, see the daily report from the Sepsiszentgyörgy ghetto from May 31, 1944, reprinted in: Gettómagyarország, ed. Molnár and Frojimovics, 125.

92 There were, however, counterexamples. In the Szolnok ghetto, the chief of police forbade visits and the sending or receiving of letters. In the Aknaszlatina ghetto, going out into the street or leaving one’s courtyard was prohibited. Contact with the “outside world” gradually became restricted over time in most of the ghettos. Also, the number of people allowed to leave or enter the ghetto decreased. E.g. stricter ghetto regulations adopted on June 1, 1944 forbade anyone from leaving the Szombathely ghetto. Even people who previously had been allowed to visit public markets to purchase food were no longer allowed out. Cf. the ghetto regulation for the Szombathely ghetto from June 1, 1944, reprinted in: Források a szombathelyi gettó történetéhez, 52.

93 Cf. primarily Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, Self-financing Genocide: The Gold Train, the Becher Case and the Wealth of Hungarian Jews (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004) as well as Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, Hullarablás. A magyar zsidók gazdasági megsemmisítése (Budapest: Jaffa, 2005).

94 Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, “Theorie und Praxis. Die ökonomische Vernichtung der ungarischen Juden,” in Ungarn und der Holocaust. Kollaboration, Rettung und Trauma, ed. Brigitte Mihok (Berlin: Metropol, 2005), 56. About the problems regarding the contemporary statistics and the handling of them see the discussion between Dániel Bolgár and Krisztián Ungváry. Cf. also Dániel Bolgár, Asszimiláció és integráció a modern Magyarországon (PhD diss., Eötvös Loránd University, 2014).

95 See also Anders Blomqvist in this issue.

96 See Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, “‘Racionális’ népirtás Magyarországon,” Budapesti Könyvszemle 2 (2003).

97 Források a szombathelyi gettó történetéhez, 51.

98 Cf. Tim Cole, “Ebenen der ‘Kollaboration.’ Ungarn 1944,” in Kooperation und Verbrechen. Formen der “Kollaboration” im östlichen Europa 1939–1945, ed. Christoph Dieckmann, Barbette Quinkert, and Tatjana Tönsmeyer (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2003), 73. See also Tim Cole, “Writing ‘Bystanders’ into Holocaust History in More Active Ways: ‘Non-Jewish’ Engagement with Ghettoisation, Hungary 1944,” Holocaust Studies 11 (2005): 1.

99 Protocol with Mr. K.A., taken on June 22, 1945, DEGOB 91.

100 Protocol with Ms. S.O., Ms. S.H. and Ms. J.H., taken on June 24, 1945, DEGOB 132.

101 See the protocol with Ms. G.R., taken on August 6, 1945, DEGOB 3313.

102 See Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 127.

103 Political Archive of the Foreign Office R 29793.

104 Randolph L. Braham estimates the number of converted Jews in Budapest at 25,000. Cf. Braham, The Politics of Genocide. The Holocaust in Hungary. Condensed Edition, 252.

105 See the protocol with Ms. E.K., taken on September 14, 1945, DEGOB 3216. See also Mr. S.Á.’s story: “I don’t know of any escape, although there were opportunities, especially for those who worked in the city. I also considered fleeing, but my mother begged me to stay.” Recorded on June 25, 1945, DEGOB 139.

106 Protocol with Ms. S.R., Ms. L.S., Ms. L.M., Ms. L.M., Ms. A.L., Ms. A.T., Ms. A.S. and Ms. A.R., taken on June 21, 1945, DEGOB 129.

107 Protocol with Mr. M.L., taken on July 7, 1945, DEGOB 844.

108 See Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 142.

109 Telegram from Veesenmayer to Karl Ritter from July 20, 1944, Nürnberg State Archives, NG-5613.

110 Some traveled from the capital to their hometowns in the province so as not to be separated from their families by the ghettoization policies.

111 See the protocol with Ms. L.F., w.Y. (probably summer of 1945), taken on June 24, 1945, DEGOB 2788.

112 Report from the Balatonboglár gendarmerie about the suicide of S.G., July 5, 1944, Somogy County Archive, 4002/1944, cited by Bősze, “Zsidósors Tabon.”

113 See as example the story of survivors from the Munkács ghetto: “In general, there was a confident assumption that the Russians were already in Kőrösmező. We didn’t believe that they would be able to take us out of the country.” Protocol with Ms. S.O., Ms. S.H. and Ms. J.H., taken on June 24, 1945, DEGOB 132.

114 Protocol with Ms. S.R., Ms. L.S., Ms. L.M., Ms. L.M., Ms. A.L., Ms. A.T., Ms. A.S. and Ms. A.R., taken on June 21, 1945, DEGOB 129.

115 See Braham, ed., The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust.

116 Diary entry from May 30, 1944, in Heyman, The Diary of Éva Heyman, 103.

117 Protocol with Ms. B.B. and Ms. B.J., taken on July 13, 1945, DEGOB 1459.

118 The first transports departed on April 29 from the Kistarcsa camp and on April 30 from Topolya to Auschwitz.

119 HDKE 2011.917.1.

120 HDKE 2011.50.1.

121 Cole, “Multiple and Changing Experiences of Ghettoization,” 146.

122 See Csősz, “Tettesek, szemtanúk, áldozatok,” 97f. and 121f.

123 Cfl. Csősz and Fritz, “Ein Protokoll.” See also Zoltán Vági, László Csősz, and Gábor Kádár, The Holocaust in Hungary. Evolution of a Genocide (Washington D.C.: AltaMira Press, 2013), 85–87.

pdfVolume 4 Issue 3 CONTENTS

Attila Gidó

The Hungarian Bureaucracy and the Administrative Costs of the Holocaust in Northern Transylvania

 

In the course of May and June 1944, forty-five trains crammed with Jews from Northern Transylvania were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, making the region “Judenfrei” in accordance with the Nazi vision of the “Final Solution.” This article explores how the extermination process and its consequences, including the costs incurred, were approached and handled by the central and local authorities of Northern Transylvania as bureaucratic tasks. As I show, in addition to participating directly in the processes of genocide, local authorities also aimed to assure “the reparation of material and financial damages” caused by ghettoization, while the expropriated assets of the deported and their unresolved financial transactions were subject to further administrative action. Drawing on scattered documents held in various provincial branches of the Romanian National Archives and materials from the Cluj-based People’s Courts from 1946, in this article I discuss the high-level of continuity among Hungarian administrative personnel in 1944 and demonstrate that practically the entire Hungarian state apparatus participated in the implementation of the Final Solution. I argue that the economic costs incurred by “Christian Hungarians” may have been negligible compared to the overall theft of “Jewish property,” but the administrative tasks related to ghettoization and deportation were substantial.

 

Keywords: World War II, Holocaust, Northern Transylvania, ghettoization, deportation, bureaucracy

 

The so-called Second Vienna Award, which was issued on August 30, 1940 and which essentially made northern Transylvania part of Hungary while leaving the rest of the province (including most of Bánát and swathes of Partium) in Romania, temporarily brought an end to the territorial dispute between Hungary and Romania. With this legal change (accompanied by the occupation of the region in question by the Hungarian army), according to the results of the 1941 census 151,312 people of the Jewish faith again found themselves under Hungarian rule. The Jewish laws that were brought into effect, however, were based on racial categories, so they applied not only to practicing Jews, but also to Christians who, according to the provisions of the law, were legally regarded as Jewish. Thus the anti-Semitic measures that were taken by the Hungarian government affected 164,052 people living in northern Transylvania, or 6.4 percent of the population. From this point on, the circumstances of the Jewry of northern Transylvania in many ways resembled the circumstances of the Jewry of Trianon Hungary (by which I mean the territory of Hungary following the ratification of the Peace Treaty of Trianon in 1920, which is almost entirely contiguous with the territory of Hungary today), though as I will demonstrate, there were some significant regional differences.1

The occupation of Hungary by the German army, which began on March 19, 1944, accelerated the pace of events and proved fatal to the Jewry of the country.2 By the end of March, German troops had arrived in northern Transylvania. There were several phases to the implementation of the Final Solution in Hungary and northern Transylvania.3 The occupation of the country did not make ghettoization and deportation inevitable.

In the course of the ghettoization and deportation of the Jewry, the territory was divided into two “deportation zones.” The first was the region known as Máramaros (Maramureş in Romanian), which included an area that today lies north of the Romanian border in Ukraine (historically Máramaros is essentially a valley of the Tisza River surrounded by mountains and thick forests). The second zone consisted of Szatmár county (roughly equivalent with what today is Sătmar county in Romania), Bihar county (roughly equivalent with what today is Bihor county in Romania), Inner Transylvania, and the so-called Székely Land, a region in eastern Transylvania which to this day has a large Hungarian-speaking majority.

The plans for the assembly and deportation of the Jewry belonging to the first zone were drawn up during a meeting that was held in the city of Munkács (today Mukacheve in Ukraine) on April 12, 1944. The plans for the deportation of the Jewry of the second zone were completed in the course of meetings that took place on April 26 in Szatmárnémeti (today Satu Mare in Romania) and on April 28 in Marosvásárhely (today Târgu Mureş in Romania). After having returned from the meetings, the leading local civil servants, police, gendarmes, and sub-prefects again conferred on the measures that would be adopted in various settlements to implement ghettoization, including for instance the sites of the ghettoes themselves.4

Just before the process of ghettoization was implemented and over the course of the month of May, Undersecretary of State for Internal Affairs László Endre traveled throughout northern Transylvania.5 He was present for the meeting in Marosvásárhely on April 28, at which some 200 people from the Székely Land took part, including the lord lieutenants, sub-prefects, mayors, chief administrative officers of the districts, and chiefs of police and the gendarmerie.6 Endre gave precise instructions concerning the process of ghettoization at the meeting, as well as the ways in which to ensure the effective assembly of the Jews, the organization and operation of the ghettos, and the management of “Jewish property,” including real estate and moveable assets.7 He then held a meeting in Kolozsvár (today Cluj in Romania) on the process of ghettoization, and by April 30 he had already reached the city of Nagyvárad (today Oradea in Romania) on the western fringes of Transylvania (actually in the region known as Partium), where he gave oral instructions to the mayor, László Gyapay, regarding ghettoization and the various administrative costs it would involve. Gyapay, referring to these instructions as authorization to act, implemented a series of measures affecting the agricultural properties and moveable belongings of Jews.8

The deportations in northern Transylvania began on May 16 in Máramarossziget (today Sighetu Marmaţiei in Romania) and ended on June 7 in Kolozsvár. 131,639 Jews were deported from northern Transylvania to Auschwitz-Birkenau.9 Lieutenant colonel of the gendarmerie László Ferenczy, who served as a communications officer between the Hungarian gendarmerie and the German security forces, sent regular reports on and accounts of the state of affairs with regards to the gathering together and deportation of the Jews to Minister of the Interior Andor Jaross.10 Of the 164,052 people who were defined as Jews under the law, between 35,000 and 40,000 survived the Holocaust. Most of the survivors, some 25,000 to 30,000 people, were among those deported. The others were liberated from forced labor units or managed to survive the upheavals in some other way, for instance simply by going into hiding or fleeing to Romania.11

There is, alongside the reading of the history of the virtual annihilation of the Hungarian Jewry as a tale of immeasurable suffering, a cold, dispassionate bureaucratic side to the story as well. The creation and maintenance of the ghettos, the organization of the transportation of the deportees, the assessment of the material demands of the non-Jewish population, and the provision of compensation for costs that arose represented an unusual challenge for the county and municipal authorities. By dealing with these and similar administrative issues, civil servants and officials took important preliminary steps in bringing about the suffering and deaths of masses.

The Hungarian and international historiography has already dealt in detail with the role of state bureaucracies in the Holocaust. In his classic study on the connections between modernity and the Holocaust, Zygmunt Bauman writes that the German bureaucracy was able to organize and implement ghettoization and deportation with such dispassion because it deprived the objects of its measures of their humanity, reducing them to mere numbers.12 In the Hungarian secondary literature, Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági have provided perhaps the most recent overview of ethnic cleansing and genocide in the Carpathian Basin, the history of modern anti-Semitism, and the path that led to the Holocaust.13 Kádár and Vági came to the conclusion that the annihilation of the Hungarian Jewry “was caused by a tragic meeting” of Nazi Germany’s program of extermination and an attitude of exclusion that had been present in Hungarian society for centuries.14 According to them, this attitude of exclusion, the “official routine” of anti-Semitism, and the opportunities that arose to make personal profit together were sufficient to prompt the majority of civil servants working in the organs of state administration to perform the tasks that were assigned to them in the course of the slaughter of the Jews of Hungary in an orderly and reliable fashion.15 In his study of the events that took place in Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok county, László Csősz also came to the conclusion that most of the civil servants did not actually espouse the principles of National Socialism, nor were they committed supporters of the physical annihilation of the Jewry, but rather agreed “only” that the role of Jews in economic and social life should be restricted. Nonetheless, in 1944 most of them, influenced by varying motivations, participated, whether reluctantly or with enthusiasm, in the implementation of the Final Solution.16 Drawing on the findings and insights of these authors, in this essay I closely examine the administrative issues and costs that came up in the course of the deportation and extermination of the Jewry of Hungary in order to arrive at a more detailed and precise picture of the ways in which civil servants working in state administration took part in the Final Solution and the extent of this form of collaboration.

In Hungary, as was the case in Germany and every country or territory that was affected by the Holocaust, the implementation of the Final Solution depended not simply on the acts of the political elites, but also on the cooperation and collaboration of everyday people, including civil servants who worked in state administration. Following the occupation of Hungary by the German army in March 1944, many of the high ranking civil servants and government officials were replaced or given positions in different offices. However, most of the people in lower levels of state administration, including the police and the gendarmerie, remained in their positions.17 Very few of the sub-prefects and mayors, who played important roles in county administration, were removed from their posts, in all likelihood because in the first few weeks it already became apparent that most of the influential figures in local administration were loyal to the new political leadership and would implement the anti-Semitic measures as ordered.18 Some of the people in low ranking offices were replaced or moved to different positions, but this was the exception rather than the rule.19 The ghettoization of the Jewish population was executed by two organs of power, but the necessary infrastructure was provided by the sub-prefects, lord lieutenants, chief constables, mayors, and deputy mayors, along with other state administrators with local or regional authority. With very few exceptions, they collaborated in the expropriation, ghettoization, and deportation of the Jews.

The situation in northern Transylvania essentially resembled the situation in Hungary. In late April, i.e. before the process of ghettoization had begun, a decision was reached regarding the removal of seven of the ten county lord lieutenants.20 Also in April 1944, Béla Bethlen, lord lieutenant of Szolnok-Doboka and Beszterce-Naszód counties, asked to be removed from his posts. In the end, he was relieved of his position as lord lieutenant of Beszterce-Naszód county, but he continued to perform the tasks of lord lieutenant in Szolnok-Doboka county. Ödön Inczédy Joksman served as lord lieutenant of Kolozs county and the city of Kolozsvár. At his request, he was relieved of the post of lord lieutenant of Kolozsvár (he was replaced by Lajos Vargha, who earlier had served as deputy prosecutor of the city), but he continued to hold the post of lord lieutenant for the county.21 Thus only with significant qualifications could these individuals be included among the civil servants who voluntarily resigned from their positions.22

The sub-prefects, who played one of the most important roles in the process of ghettoization, almost without exception remained at their posts.23 However, in Kolozsvár, Marosvásárhely, Nagyvárad and Szatmárnémeti, which in May and June served as the largest centers for railway transportation, new mayors were appointed.24 (Tibor Keledy, who had served as mayor of Kolozsvár, was made lord mayor of Budapest on April 8, 1944. He was replaced by László Vásárhelyi, who had served as deputy mayor of Kolozsvár.) Over the course of April and at the beginning of May, many of the chief constables were also replaced, for instance in Székelyhíd (today Săcueni in Romania), Szatmárnémeti, Zilah (today Zalău in Romania), and Felsővisó (today Vişeu de Sus in Romania), or simply given different positions, moved for instance from the district of Nagyszalonta (today Salonta in Romania) to Titel (today in Serbia), from Nagysomkút (today şomcuta Mare in Romania) to Halmi (today Halmeu in Romania), or from Szilágycseh (today Cehu Silvaniei in Romania) to Nagykálló.25 The essential purpose of these changes was to ensure that the chief constables, who played a key role in the implementation and enforcement of the various anti-Semitic measures in the rural districts and on the county level, be distant from their familiar environments and social worlds so that in new, unfamiliar contexts, surrounded essentially by strangers, they would carry out the disenfranchisement and expropriation of the Jews and ensure that they were gathered together into the collection centers to expedite the process of deportation.26

Many civil servants moved up on the professional ladder in this period, so for them, these changes meant opportunities to build their careers.27 The May and June issues of Budapesti Közlöny (Budapest Gazette) indicate that in general low level civil servants were advanced in greater proportions in northern Transylvania than in the other areas of provincial Hungary. While in other regions emphasis was placed on transferring civil servants to different settlements, civil servants in northern Transylvania often remained in the communities where they had been employed and were simply promoted. This may have been due in part to the fact that, when the territory had become part of Hungary again in 1940, many civil servants from Trianon Hungary or functionaries who had fled from Transylvania to Hungary in the wake of World War I had been given positions in the newly acquired territory. In 1944, most of these people were still serving in northern Transylvania. Thus in all likelihood, they were not as familiar with the local society or as closely connected to it as their Transylvanian colleagues and were therefore considered more reliable.28

Historians have taken note of several high ranking civil servants in northern Transylvania who resigned from their offices for ethical reasons, thereby refusing to take part in the persecution of the Jews. Baron János Jósika, who served as lord lieutenant of Szilágy county, and János Schilling, who was sub-prefect of Szolnok-Doboka county, were among them. Jósika resigned when sub-prefect Endre Gazda informed him of what had taken place at the meeting in Szatmárnémeti on April 26 (Gazda had been present for the meeting).29 Schilling took part in the implementation of the measures that laid the groundwork for the ghettoization of the Jews of the county, but on May 2, 1944, one day before ghettoization began, he went to the hospital and had his (perfectly healthy) appendix removed and resigned from his post.30 However, these people were exceptions, and most of the leaders and staff of the state administration in northern Transylvania reliably performed the tasks that were assigned to them in the dispossession, ghettoization, and deportation of the Jews.

Jewish inhabitants of rural settlements were gathered together for deportation by the gendarmerie, which was under the authority of the Ministry of Interior and the Ministry of Defense. The Hungarian gendarmerie was broken up into ten different districts, each of which was under the command of a gendarmerie colonel. Following the occupation of Hungary by the German army, no changes were made to the leadership of the gendarmerie, so when the ghettoization and deportation of the Jews was taking place, the same people were in command as had been before. In contrast, changes were made to the leading cadres of the police forces, and many commanding officers were removed from their posts. There were even a few who resigned, for instance Antal Örményi, police captain of Gyergyószentmiklós (today Gheorgheni in Romania).31 Of the ten gendarmerie districts, two (the ninth and the tenth) had their seats in northern Transylvania, one in the city of Kolozsvár and the other in Marosvásárhely. The gendarmerie of the Kolozsvár district was under the command of Tibor Paksi-Kiss and the Marosvásárhely district was under the command of János Papp. Both Paksi-Kiss and Papp had begun serving in their posts before 1944. Officially, it was Paksi-Kiss who supervised the ghettoization and deportation of the Jewry of all of Transylvania, including the areas under the command of Papp.32

The search for and rounding up of Jews was done by the gendarmes of the districts. In the collection centers and the ghettos, however, the theft of Jewish belongings, the loading of Jews onto train cars, and the final deportation of the Jews was done by gendarmes who belonged to subunits that had been created within the individual districts. These gendarmes in general did not come from the given settlements, but rather had been brought to the area from distant regions. This measure was taken in order to prevent Jews from bribing people they might have known personally, as well as to ensure that no mercy would be shown by the people charged with carrying out these measures. This is why gendarmes were sent from Miskolc, Szászrégen (today Reghin in Romania), and Szeged to Máramarossziget, for instance, or from Zilah to Dés (today Dej in Romania).33

While these processes were underway, the bureaucracy also dealt with the belongings and real estate that had been taken from the Jews, as well as the costs that arose in the course of their ghettoization and deportation, the assessment of damages, and the provision of compensation. Later, dealing with the economic and social problems that arose as a consequence of the ghettoization among the members of the population who were not defined by the laws as “Jewish” (i.e. the so-called Christian population) became the first priority. The creation of a “judenrein” provincial Hungary (and therefore a “judenrein” Transylvania), the division of stolen properties, and the provision of compensation for claims of damage were done by a stratum of officials and an administrative system the original responsibility of which had been the completion of bureaucratic tasks that were important to the preservation of social cohesion and stability. In the changed domestic political circumstances and as a consequence of the anti-Semitic public sentiment that prevailed at the time, this bureaucracy was capable, without having undergone any major structural changes, of providing the infrastructure, the “administrative foundation,” for the annihilation of the Hungarian Jewry.34

While several of the administrative and political models in Transylvania were borrowed from Hungary, there were regional peculiarities. The conservative, right-wing Hungarian political elite of Transylvania was quite convinced, as indeed was a significant part of Transylvanian Hungarian society, that in the period between 1918 and 1940, when the entire territory, northern and southern Transylvania, had been part of the Romanian Kingdom, the Jewry had betrayed Hungary and had represented the interests of the Romanian elites in power. This accusation found expression not merely in the period following the outbreak of war, but rather had been a discernible motif of public life in Transylvanian Hungarian communities since 1920.35 The platform of Erdélyi Párt (Transylvanian Party), which was created in 1940–41, was seen as providing political legitimacy for the measures that were taken against Jews. Between 1941 and 1944, this political party represented the political interests of the Hungarian communities of Transylvania in the Hungarian parliament, and it enjoyed widespread social support and influence in the region. According to the eighth point of its platform, the party approved of measures “against the Jewry, which voluntarily broke from the body of the Transylvanian Hungarians when under Romanian rule,” and indeed it strongly urged the implementation of measures that would remove Jews from public life and every sphere of economic life “until the question had been settled on a European scale.”36 The right-wing in Transylvania, which grew increasingly influential after 1940, also emphasized its view according to which the path of Transylvanian Hungarians and Transylvanian Jews had forever split, since the Jews were the enemy of Germany, the state which had made territorial revision in 1940 possible.37 While the process of ghettoization was underway, the Transylvanian Party justified the expropriation of Jews with the claim that the belongings and real estate that had been acquired had to be used to improve the social circumstances of the Hungarian population.38 Thus the collaboration of the so-called Christian population, including administrators of various ranks and positions, was influenced by a number of factors, but one of them was the branding of the Jews of Transylvania as outsiders and members of a group that had deliberately parted ways with the Hungarians.

Administrative Issues before Ghettoization

On April 20, 1944, Antal Kunder, Minister of Trade and Transportation, issued decree number 50.500/1944 KKM on the seizure of the goods, furnishings, and equipment belonging to Jewish businesses.39 The decree went into effect on April 21, and in accordance with it, the Jewish businesses in the various settlements were stamped as such on that very day, lists of them were made, and these lists were sent within the space of a few days to the Chamber of Trade and Industry to which the given settlement belonged.40 The surviving sources suggest that at the time the members of the non-Jewish population were most concerned with the fate of possessions of theirs that had been left for repair or for some other reason in the workshops and business now under sequestration. They besieged the authorities with questions and requests, and the rumor spread that they would not be given back the belongings that had been left with the Jewish merchants and tradesmen.41 On May 5, 1944, the Minister of Trade and Transportation issued decree number 56.912/1944 KKM, with which he sought to address these questions and lay these rumors to rest. According to the decree, between May 8 and May 20, Jewish merchants and tradesmen would have to hand over or return to its (so-called) Christian owner any article that had been ordered before April 21 or left in their places of business for repairs, alterations, or exchange. This was to take place with the shutters to the establishments only half open. The daily press in northern Transylvania published this news on May 7 and 8.42 With regards to the implementation of the decree, the sub-prefects of the region gave instructions to the district chief constables and the mayors of the cities one or two days after the news had appeared in the papers, i.e. on May 8 and 9.43

People who sought to retrieve items they had left with Jewish tradesmen or take possession of articles they had ordered and already paid for could only do so if they first submitted a request to the authorities responsible for commerce or the office of finance. The ghettoization of the Jews of the region for the most part had been completed by this time. Thus the former owners of the businesses were no longer able to tend to the requests. Instead, “Christian” custodians who were not regarded as Jews (in the case of workshops and smaller factories) performed this task, or in some cases they were done by the municipal authorities. In the case of businesses that were being closed and put out of operation, the return or bestowal of such articles was overseen by committees consisting of three people. These committees were formed under the oversight of the office of the mayor or the office of the chief constable, and one member had to be a civil servant, while the other two had to be merchants.44 In many cases, this all took place well after the May 20 deadline. On May 19, the mayor of Székelyudvarhely (today Odorheiu Secuiesc in Romania) announced that people who sought to retrieve items from the Jewish-owned businesses that had been closed had 48 hours to present themselves at the city hall.45 In Nagybánya (today Baia Mare in Romania) the return of such articles to their owners probably took place much later, at the beginning of July, as indicated by notification number 1465/1944, which was issued by the leader of the city’s excise office on July 2. In this notification, he informed the mayor that the financial directorship of the city of Szatmárnémeti had given permission for the distribution of articles of property belonging to (so-called) Christians that were being held in Jewish dwellings, factories, and workshops. An announcement to this effect was to be made public on July 3, and on the subsequent days the news was spread far and wide.46 Sometimes, it took months for these issues to be settled, and sometimes they were never resolved. Before ghettoization had begun, Tibor Gortvay Tihamér, an architect from Budapest, paid 8,000 pengő to Bernát Schöffler, a merchant from Palotailva (today Luncu Bradului in Romania). He never received the building materials he had ordered, however, since Schöffler in the meantime had been taken to the ghetto in Szászrégen. The last source regarding the case of the Budapest architect is dated August 31, 1944. On that day, a government committee bearing the name “Committee for the Solution of Issues pertaining to Jewish Pecuniary and Property Rights” sent a transcript to the Royal Hungarian Financial Directorship in the city of Marosvásárhely urging them to resolve the case promptly.47

On May 3, the transportation of the Jews to the ghetto began. The fate of the businesses that were owned by merchants and tradesmen who had been taken to the ghetto remained uncertain for days. In most of the settlements, there was great uncertainty regarding the future of the workshops, that had been left without owners. According to decree number 50.500/1944 KKM, enterprises that were important to the national economy could continue to be in operation and so-called Christian entrepreneurial leaders were needed to oversee them. In many cases, however, a great deal of time passed before these “custodians” were named to their positions.48 In many cases, the staff took over the management of the workshops and factories, which meant, for instance, that they took new orders and they used the raw materials that were on hand to continue production. The Craftsmen’s Association of Kolozsvár submitted protests against this practice to the trade authorities of the first instance, contending that sloppy, amateurish work was being done and raw materials that were essential to the national economy were being used in a manner that betrayed a dire lack of expertise.49

The distribution of the businesses that had been closed took place in accordance with decree number 2.120/1944. ME, which was passed on June 10 and announced on June 14. Across the country (and thus in northern Transylvania as well), the first people to be given places of business that had been stolen from their Jewish owners were merchants and tradesmen whose businesses, workshops, or factories had been damaged or destroyed by bombs or whose enterprises happened to be located in areas that had become part of the ghetto.50 Of the (so-called) Christian merchants and tradesmen whose businesses had been damaged in the bombing of Kolozsvár on June 2, 1944, 96 took part in this legalized form of theft.51

In the meantime, people who had been employed by Jews worried about the wages they had not been paid. The general practice was for the municipal trade authorities or the cities themselves to pay lost wages, and these institutions returned articles to their owners as well.52 In many cases unpaid wages were covered using monies that had been taken from Jews and put in the city treasury. This was the solution adopted by the mayor of Székelyudvarhely, who on June 12, 1944, referring to the second point of the sixth paragraph of decree number 1600/1944 ME, ordered the payment of more than 3,100 pengő to 14 people.53 This sum covered work that had been done in the period beginning in early April and ending in late May.54

The question of the retrieval of various articles and possessions was a matter of concern not only for the civilian population, but also for various institutions. In some case, library books were among the articles that had remained in the dwellings of Jews. For instance, a request that was made by a craftsmen’s association in the city of Csíkszereda (today Miercurea Ciuc in Romania) to the office of the mayor indicates that members who were defined as Jewish by the law had regularly borrowed books from the organization. In one abandoned lodging, for instance, there was a copy of a book entitled Mit ér az ember, ha magyar (What a man is worth if he is Magyar?) by the well-known populist writer of the era, Péter Veres.55 It is a sad and perverse irony of fate that the pages of this book, in which the author expresses his concern for the fate of the Hungarian peasantry, were being turned by a reader who was defined as an outsider (a non-Hungarian) and condemned to deportation.

The Costs of Ghettoization, Unpaid Assistance, and Food Ration Cards

With regards to the costs that arose in the course of ghettoization and the fulfillment of the individual requests that were made for reimbursement or reparation, these questions were addressed in the confidential deportation decree of April 7, 1944 (Minister of the Interior’s Confidential Decree number 6163/1944) and a notice that was issued on April 19, which was a supplement to the decree.56 Neither document contained concrete instructions, but the document of April 19 specified that costs were to be covered using assets that had been seized from Jewish homes and places of business.57 An internal decree issued on May 13, 1944 by foreign Minister Andor Jaross provided additional directions. The costs of the transportation of Jews to the ghettos were to be covered with the assets that had been taken from them. People who were not defined under law as Jewish but who nonetheless were compelled to vacate their dwellings because of the ghettoization were only entitled to compensation under extraordinary circumstances and with extraordinary justification. According to the decree, settlements in which ghettos were established had to cover the costs that arose as a consequence of this using money from their own coffers. They were given the promise that in time the state treasury would repay them for these costs. In some cases, the Ministry of Interior provided some settlements with an advance to ensure the completion of the operations. However, in every case the local authorities were expected to be frugal and keep costs to a bare minimum.58 In principle, the costs of ghettoization were to be covered using funds from the central “Jewish account” (number 157.880), which was created by the state in June 1944 and was under the administration of the Ministry of Finance. Monies from this account were also to be used to cover the taxes and dues, unpaid public works bills, and private debts of individuals who had been deported.59 Indeed articles had been published in the press on the issue of unpaid public and private debts at the beginning of the process of ghettoization.60 The mayors dealt with bills that had been sent to people who had already been deported (electricity bills, for instance). As early as May 12, the mayor of Nagyvárad had given instructions regarding the settlement of debts to the public works.61

As I will discuss, private individuals who participated in the ghettoization and deportation of the Jews of northern Transylvania were given payment or compensation in response to their demands only with great difficulty or not at all. One of the reasons for this was that in September and October of 1944, Soviet and Romanian troops began to take control of the territory. From then on, it became almost impossible to receive any compensation from the state authorities for costs incurred in the processes of ghettoization and deportation.

The various jobs and tasks that arose as the ghettos were created, during the process of transporting the Jews to the ghettos, during the period in which the ghettos were in use, and then as they were liquidated either were done by the people of the settlements and the subordinate institutions at their own expense or were performed by private individuals who had been hired to provide their services. These private individuals or the offices that represented their interests turned to the mayors of the settlements for payment of wages for services rendered. The settlements then asked for compensation for these costs from the state treasury. From the perspective of the local authorities, one of the most cost-efficient tools in the creation of the ghettos was the use of forced Jewish labor. In other cases, the Jews who had been moved into the ghettos had to create the conditions necessary for (temporary) survival. In the early days, the authorities, “moved to act by their good faith,” gathered the Jews together in the collection centers so rapidly that problems arose concerning the acquisition of the necessary materials.62 Only with the passing of several days could the ghettos be made more or less habitable. In Dés, the suggestion was made to move the Jews who had been gathered together, more than 5,000 people, to the ghetto of Szamosújvár (today Gherla in Romania), since the camp which had been established in the Bungur forest lacked any trace of infrastructure. However, count Béla Bethlen, lord lieutenant of Szolnok-Doboka County, quickly intervened, and on May 5 and 6 he had building materials sent for the construction of a camp in Dés. In the end, no one was moved.63 The construction of a plank fence around the ghetto of Nagyvárad was done by local carpenters and joiners. Twenty inmates from forced labor camps, who represented a free source of labor, were sent to assist them.64 In Beszterce, on the days leading up to ghettoization, 50 to 80 local Jewish men were forced to help built barracks on the territory of the ghetto.65 Forced labor units were dispatched to work at sites in the territories of Trianon Hungary as well. In the city of Pécs, for instance, construction on the wattle fence that surrounded the ghetto had been begun by people who had been sent to the ghetto and then was completed by forced labor units.66

In general, the representative bodies of municipal government authorized the mayor to pay the various costs that arose. In many cases, this authorization was retroactive, meaning it applied to payments that had already been made. The bureaucratic jargon in the following excerpt from the records of a meeting of the body of representatives of Szilágysomlyó (today Şimleu Silvaniei in Romania) offers a clear impression of how the measures that were taken against members of the local population who were defined as Jewish were reduced to a mere question of administrative procedure:

 

The body of representatives of the Hungarian city of Szilágysomlyó approves the declaration of the mayor of the city according to which, with regards to the costs that have arisen in connection with the gathering together of the Jews of Szilágy county and their transport to a camp and the costs of the maintenance of the camp itself, the visit and negotiation of the lord lieutenant of the county that took place on April 29, 1944 in the communities of Szilágysomlyó and Somlyócsehi [today Cehei in Romania] made provisions to the effect that for the moment these costs would be covered with an advance from the coffers of the Hungarian city of Szilágysomlyó and the Ministry of Interior of the Hungarian Kingdom will provide reimbursement and has instructed the mayor of the city to issue the money order.67

Some requests for reimbursement and compensation were made in the first days following ghettoization, though most of these requests were made around the time of or after the deportations. The offices of the mayor in the various settlements answered only with considerable delay, and in many cases they rejected the requests. In general, requests made by private individuals involved reimbursement for the costs of transportation or payment for work done by craftsmen (for instance joiner’s work and carpentry). In many cases, owners of cars and wagons had been compelled personally to assist with the transportation of Jews to the ghettos or had had to allow the authorities to use their vehicles. On May 13 and 14, 1944, the ghetto command had made use of the car owned by cab-driver Márton Dankó of Kolozsvár. On June 14, the city paid him 384 pengő in compensation.68

In the ghettos, for a daily wage midwives were hired to perform body searches, which included searches of body cavities. On May 29 and 30 and June 3, Mrs. György Dumitrán, a midwife under the authority of Borpataktelep performed body searches in the small ghetto of Nagybánya, for which she was paid 16 pengő. There were cases in Hungary in which the midwives were paid even more for these searches. In Szeged midwives were paid 20 pengő per day for their services, and doctors were paid 200 pengő per day.69 The midwife in Nagybánya was only one of the many “costs” covered by the city. According to statements of account issued on August 8 and September 4, 1944, there were 56 “services” for which payments totaling 38,734 had been made. This of course only represents the sum of the costs for which claims had been made before July 5 and which had been covered between July 5 and 31 from the city coffers.70 It is worth noting that the city covered the costs of transportation for mayor Károly Tamássy to the meeting on the details of deportation process that took place in Munkács on May 12 using monies that had been stolen from Jews.71 The costs of the burial of the corpses of three deportees that were removed from a train passing through Nagybánya on June 7 were also covered using these monies. The train had probably arrived from Marosvásárhely (it passed through the city of Kassa, today Košice in Slovakia, on June 8). It was carrying elderly people and the sick from various settlements. According to the health officer of the first district in Nagybánya, the station agents in Zilah and Zsibó (today Jibou in Romania) had already refused to allow the train to unload the three cadavers. In Nagybánya they were given a simple burial.72

The rejection of a request for the payment of costs was sometimes justified with the claim that the monies that had been expropriated from the Jews had already been transferred in their entirety to the central account. On September 6, 1944, the mayor of Nagybánya used this explanation when rejecting a request that had been submitted significantly earlier, on July 7. In this petition, a city alderman named István Ágoston had requested the daily wages for four contract workers for the services they had performed transporting foodstuffs from the homes of Jews to the ghetto, providing assistance loading Jews onto train cars, and taking care of storerooms. The mayor advised the alderman to turn with his petition to the financial directorship of Szatmárnémeti.73

In the process of creating the ghettos, it was not possible to avoid compelling some Christian families to move. In some cases, for instance the ghettos of Szatmárnémeti and Nagyvárad, this meant changes of dwelling on a massive scale. In other places, it affected only a few families. In Kolozsvár, working-class families who were forced to leave their domiciles in the brick factory, which was used as the site of the ghetto, were given new lodgings in homes that had been taken from Jewish families. According to the newspaper Keleti Újság (Eastern News), the municipal authorities even took into consideration the size of the family in question. Families with two children were given dwellings with at least two separate rooms and a kitchen. Larger families were given homes with three rooms and a kitchen. By May 5, more than thirty Hungarian working-class families had been moved to new lodgings in Kolozsvár.74 The other properties that had been forcibly vacated by the Jewish families were made available to people whose homes had been damaged in the bombing of the city that had taken place on June 2. According to the financial directorship in Kolozsvár, by the second half of June some 1,300 dwellings that had been expropriated from Jewish families had been allotted to them.75 These forced changes of dwelling often gave rise to sentiments of dissatisfaction among the people who were moved into the homes that had been vacated. There were two main reasons for this. Some of them did not find the new homes suitable and therefore felt that they had been unfairly treated. Others, having returned to their original homes following the deportations, complained that their domiciles had been seriously damaged and requested compensation.76 Some were dissatisfied because, following the deportation of the Jews, they were compelled to return to their original homes, which were not as comfortable as the dwellings in which they had been temporarily housed. The people who had been assigned lodging in homes that had been stolen from Jewish families had to leave their temporary domiciles by a given deadline that varied from settlement to settlement. They had to return the keys to the local financial directorship. They were given compensation out of the city coffers for damages that had been done to their original homes, and the costs of the moves were also covered. On July 9, 1944 (i.e. some six weeks after the deportations), the mayor of Máramarossziget ordered the people who had been moved into temporary lodgings to return to their homes, and he gave them sixteen days to do so (the deadline was July 25). Families were only allowed to remain in the lodgings to which they had been temporarily assigned if their original homes were in potentially life-threatening or uninhabitable condition or they had in the meantime had another child and therefore required a larger home.77

From the perspective of the authorities, the complete deprivation of the rights of members of the citizenry who were defined under law as Jews was accompanied by a “fortunate” drop in expenses. Jews who had been isolated in the ghettos were no longer seen as worthy by the civil servants of receiving various subsidies and benefits. Bureaucratic habit inclined Sándor Gyulafalvi Rednik, the mayor of Máramarossziget, to submit a request to the sub-prefect on April 29, 1944 for an adjustment to the war relief payments to be made in the month of May. The sub-prefect’s response, which was dated May 12, made it clear that, in accordance with the oral instructions that had been given during a talk with Pál Tomcsányi Vilmos, the military operations commissioner of Ungvár (today Uzhhorod in Ukraine), on May 6, Jews who earlier had received war relief payments but who in the meantime had been removed to the ghetto had lost any and all legal claim to such payments.78

There was also no need to provide sugar rations for Jews. On May 31, 1944, the mayor of Szatmárnémeti informed the Ministry of Public Nutrition that the 17,650 “Jewish sugar ration cards” that the county usually received had not yet arrived.79 However, it would have been quite impossible to have distributed these sugar ration cards, since the deportations were already underway. Food ration cards could not be distributed among the Jews of Kolozsvár for the same reason. According to news that was reported on May 23, 1944, new food ration cards were to be distributed among the Jews of the city, who had been compelled to wear the yellow star to identify them, on May 25, precisely the day on which the first train destined for Auschwitz departed from Kolozsvár. The reports in the press were not really intended for those whom they would, in principle, have affected, but rather served merely as a means of distracting and placating the Christian population.80

Liquidation and Assessment of Damages

As soon as the last transports had departed from the ghettos, the territories began to be emptied. In general, considerable emphasis was placed on disinfection and proper cleaning. In many settlements, the locals complained that the scraps of food, the trash, and the latrines that had been left behind gave off a terrible smell and posed a threat of contamination or contagion.81 Yet following the deportations, the ghettos were first plundered and only then disinfected. In Nagyvárad the ghetto was left unguarded for a few days. The articles of everyday use that had been left in the buildings became spoils for the taking. Then the forced labor unit of the anti-aircraft defense squadron that was stationed in the city was assigned the task of gathering together and sorting the furniture, clothing, and other items of value that had been left behind and transporting them to the Orthodox synagogue, which had been turned into a repository.82 If there were forced labor units in or near a settlement, it was general practice, following the deportations, to make use of them in the transportation of valuables and belongings that had been left in the ghettos. Trucks and wagons were used to transport these items in Nagyvárad and the other settlements as well.

In many cases, the procurement of means of transportation presented a considerable problem for local administrators. In Kolozsvár, the belongings that had been left behind in the ghetto or in the forcibly vacated homes were transported using vehicles belonging to the municipal sanitation unit, which so dramatically hindered the transportation of waste that it threatened the public health of the city. For this reason, on August 16 the mayor decided in the future to use only privately owned vehicles for the transportation of items that had once belonged to Jews.83

Most of the ghettos were in horrible condition for months following the deportations and even following liberation. Anything of value was looted, but heaps of debris and items of everyday use were left behind. When Ernő (Ernest) Marton, who earlier had been a Zionist leader, came to northern Transylvania in November 1944, he made the following observation: “The sight of these ghettos is heart-rending even today. Broken furniture, household items that are now useless, layers of feathers from torn pillows, the remains of prayer books, and inch-thick grime all indicate that months ago thousands of innocent people suffered in these houses and awaited their doom.”84

Damages were done to the buildings in the ghettos and the brick factories that were used as sites for ghettos. The assessment of these damages and the arrangement of compensation constituted new administrative burdens for the authorities and the municipal leadership. The dossier on the assessment of damages done to the Municipal Brick Factory, which was used as the ghetto in Kolozsvár, has survived, and it offers a detailed overview of the process of how these kinds of damages were assessed.85 According to the ascertainment of the engineers’ office, the replacement of items that were missing and the repairs that would be necessary would cost 3,900 pengő in total, which (in line with customary practice) the city would pay for using the assets that had been stolen from the Jews.86 This sum, however, was significantly less than the estimate that had been given by the Municipal Brick Industry Corporation on May 27. According to the managers of the factory, the damages would cost some 70,880 pengő, and they predicted that this sum would grow.87 Following the deportations, the factory requested compensation several times for the damages that had been incurred, but no complete settlement was ever made. These questions were decisively influenced by the fact that by the autumn of 1944, the Soviet and Romanian armies had reached the borders of the city. On September 16, the decree to evacuate the city was issued, and on that very day the Hungarian authorities, who were fleeing, closed the city’s coffers.88

Conclusion

As the cases I have discussed in this essay demonstrate, the implementation of the Final Solution in northern Transylvania, in other words, the expropriation and annihilation of the Jewry of the territory, involved a complex state apparatus consisting of civil servants, units responsible for the maintenance of order and defense, and even intellectuals and technical experts (engineers, physicians, teachers, and economists). The anti-Semitic measures, which were adopted in a period of only a few weeks, created serious administrative challenges for this apparatus and, furthermore, had negative material consequences for some segments of the so-called Christian population. Problems involving production and provisions arose in several branches of the economy, and the lack of trained experts and specialists, which had already been a problem, became worse.89 Others, however, profited from the situation. They submitted claims for compensation, denounced people to the authorities, plundered, and moved up on the professional ladders. The relocation of some lower ranking and mid-level leaders (some of whom had left Transylvania in the 1920s and were returning to communities from which they had become distant) from Trianon Hungary to the newly acquired territory also increased the “efficiency” with which the Final Solution was implemented. For bureaucrats who often barely knew the people of the communities to which they had been assigned, loyalty to the regime proved stronger than any solidarity with the local Jews.

It would be difficult to produce a balance sheet for the implementation of the Final Solution in northern Transylvania, much as the costs incurred by Hungary and the material losses of the Jewry also rest on rough estimates. For this reason, I have attempted first and foremost to analyze a few kinds of costs.90 As far as the question of the actual value of the real estate and belongings that were stolen by the Hungarian authorities, the Germans, the locals, and the soldiers who passed through region in the autumn of 1944 is concerned, we cannot know this with any precision, just as we cannot know precisely the value of the things that were destroyed in the course of the war and the pillaging. The 1946 assessment (which survives only in fragments) of the situation in Transylvania by the World Jewish Congress contains precise information on the material losses of a few hundred Holocaust survivors. According to it, the value of the properties stolen from 316 survivors from Kolozsvár, Nagyvárad, and Nagykároly (today Carei in Romania) came to 219,064,631 pengő and 367,902,000 lei.91 A memorandum sent to the government commission for Jewish property by the deputy mayor of Nagyvárad in June, 1944 offers a rough idea of the scale of the properties stolen from the Jews of the city. According to the memorandum, 4,700 dwellings were left empty following the ghettoization of the Jews, with some 13,000 rooms and 4,000 kitchens and larders. Furthermore, 600 businesses and 500 workshops and factories were taken from residents who had been defined under the law as Jews.92

As is clear, the value of the property, both real estate and belongings, that was taken from the 164,000 former citizens of northern Transylvania must have come to billions of pengő before the Holocaust. A significant share of this property came into the hands of the Hungarian state and the civil servants, gendarmes, and police who took part in the ghettoization and deportation, as well as the civilians who submitted claims for reimbursement or simply looted. In comparison, the costs that arose in connection with the expropriation, ghettoization, and deportation of the Hungarian Jewry of the provinces were slight. Historians have not yet arrived at any precise estimate of how much the ghettoization and deportation of the Jewry of northern Transylvania cost (even disregarding the damages caused to the national economy). In 1945, the National Audit Office estimated that costs of the ghettoization and deportation of the Hungarian Jewry of the provinces came to 60 million pengő.93 There are also estimates regarding the costs of the transport of the Jewish populations of some individual Hungarian settlements. In the case of the Jews of the city of Mohács and the surrounding area, these costs were estimated at 70,000 pengő. In the case of the ghetto of Szeged, we know the costs of the creation of the camp, the transportation of Jews, and the provision of food, which in total came to more than 32,300 pengő.94 The creation of the ghetto of Túrkeve, which “housed” some 160 individuals, cost almost 50,000 pengő. This sum includes a plank fence (18,000 pengő) and the sanitation equipment, daily wages, transportation charges, etc.95 The construction of the three-meter-high plank fence surrounding the ghetto of Zalaegerszeg is estimated to have cost 40,000 pengő. The forcible relocation of the Jews of Sátoraljaújhely to a single part of the city and the resulting relocation of some so-called Christian families cost 90,000 pengő. Transportation (to the ghettos and then deportation to the extermination camps) cost several million pengő.96

In the case of northern Transylvania, we only have partial amounts. We cannot assess the total costs, and it is not entirely clear that we would arrive at a useful figure if we were to attempt to determine the “share” of the 60 million pengő (the estimated cost of the ghettoization and deportation of the Hungarian Jewry of the provinces according to the National Audit Office) that was “spent” on the 131,639 people deported from northern Transylvania (it would be roughly 18 million pengő). We have the greatest amount of detailed data on the small and large ghettos of Nagybánya. The cost of the creation and maintenance of the larger ghetto, which “housed” 3,660 people, came to 38,734 pengő, including the daily wages of the “Christians” who “provided services.” Following the liquidation of the smaller ghetto, where some 2,000 people were held, the cost of the damages that had been done was estimated at 30,000 pengő. If these sums are applied to all of the 131,639 people who were deported from northern Transylvania, the costs incurred in the process of ghettoization and deportation would come to 1.4 million pengő and the damages would come to roughly 2 million pengő, for a total of 3.4 million pengő. Naturally, this sum is not reliable, since the process by which it has been reached contains numerous possibilities for error. In individual settlements and areas the costs and the damages depended in part on whether or not in the given ghetto or collection camp existing edifices and infrastructure were used, how many people they were intended to “house,” the extent to which the local authorities had been frugal, and the length of time during which the ghetto was in use. The transportation costs of deportation must also be added, and they may have come to several million pengő in northern Transylvania as well.

However, it is quite clear that, following the liberation of the region, only a small fraction of the wealth that had been stolen was returned to the few survivors. In November 1944, Ernő Marton informed the Romanian government and the international Jewish organizations of the difficulties regarding the recovery of stolen properties. In the course of the trip he took through northern Transylvania, Marton observed that the military and civilian authorities of the region, which had only been liberated a few weeks earlier, were hindering the reacquisition of stolen wealth. He ascertained with considerable concern and consternation that the returning survivors had to confront the people who had persecuted them: “the Hungarian civil servants who did not flee with the retreating Hungarian and German troops continue to serve in their positions, even though many of them displayed fascist conduct and took part in the implementation of the brutal measures of the Hungarian government. Some segments of the civil guard, which was created to replace the gendarmerie and the police, also consist of such fascist elements, which contributes to a great extent to the aggravation of uncertainty and doubt.”97

Bibliography

Archival Sources

 

Magyar Országos Levéltár, K 498 (A Zsidók Anyagi és Vagyonjogi Ügyeinek Megoldására kinevezett kormánybiztos)

Serviciul Judeţean al Arhivelor Naţionale Cluj, Fond No. 1 (Primăria Municipiului Cluj-Napoca), Fond No. 3 (Prefectura Judeţului Cluj), Fond No. 151 (Administraţia Militară Maghiară în Nordul Transilvaniei), Fond No. 1295 (Tribunalul Poporului)

Serviciul Judeţean al Arhivelor Naţionale Covasna, Fond No. 9 (Prefectura Judeţului Trei Scaune)

Serviciul Judeţean al Arhivelor Naţionale Harghita, Fond No. 32 (Primăria Municipiului Miercurea Ciuc)

Serviciul Judeţean al Arhivelor Naţionale Maramureş, Fond No. 1 (Primăria Municipiului Baia Mare)

Yad Vashem Archives, TR. 16 (Legal Documentation, Romania)

Primary Sources

Periodicals

 

Budapesti Közlöny [Budapest Gazette], Ellenzék [Opposition], Keleti Újság [Eastern News], Kolozsvár Thj. Sz. Kir. Város Hivatalos Lapja [The Official Journal of the Free Royal City of Kolozsvár], Máramaros. Issues from 1944.

 

Secondary Sources

 

Bauer, Yehuda. Rethinking the Holocaust. New Haven–London: Yale University Press, 2001.

Bauman, Zygmunt. Modernity and the Holocaust. Ithaca–New York: Cornell University Press, 1995.

Bethlen, Béla. Észak-Erdély kormánybiztosa voltam [I Was the Government Commissioner of Northern Transylvania]. Budapest: Zrínyi Katonai Kiadó, 1989.

Bolgár, Dániel. “Mese a zsidó jólétről” [A Tale of Jewish Prosperity]. Magyar Narancs July 17, 2014. Accessed July 27, 2015. http://magyarnarancs.hu/publicisztika/mese-a-zsido-joletrol-90944.

Braham, Randolph L. The Politics of Genocide. The Holocaust in Hungary. New York: Columbia University Press, 1981.

Braham, Randolph L., ed. Az észak-erdélyi holokauszt földrajzi enciklopédiája [The Geographical Ecyclopedia of the Holocaust in Northern Transylvania]. Budapest, Kolozsvár: Park Könyvkiadó–Koinónia Könyvkiadó, 2008.

Braham, Randolph L., ed. The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust in Hungary. Evantson, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 2013.

Browning, Christopher R. Nazi Policy, Jewish Workers, German Killers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Case, Holly. Between States. The Transylvanian Question and the European Idea during World War II. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2009.

Csilléry, Edit. “Közalkalmazottak és köztisztviselők Észak-Erdélyben a második bécsi döntést követően” [Civil Servants and Public Officials in Northern Transylvania Following the Second Vienna Award]. Limes 2 (2006): 73–90.

Csősz, László. Konfliktusok és kölcsönhatások. Zsidók Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok megye történetében [Conflicts and Reciprocal Influences. Jews in the History of Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok County]. Szolnok: MNL Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok Megyei Levéltár, 2014.

Csősz, László. “Őrségváltás? Az 1944-es deportálások közvetlen gazdasági-társadalmi hatásai” [Changing of the Guard? The Immediate Economic and Social Consequences of the Deportations in 1944]. In Küzdelem az igazságért. Tanulmányok Randolph L. Braham 80. születésnapjára, edited by László Karsai and Judit Molnár, 75–98. Budapest: Mazsihisz, 2002.

Dános, Miklós. “Tanúságtétel” [Bearing Witness]. In A tegnap városa. A nagyváradi zsidóság emlékkönyve, edited by Dezső Schön, 333–41. Tel-Aviv: Nagyváradról Elszármazottak Egyesülete, 1981.

Egry, Gábor. Az erdélyiség „színeváltozása.” Kísérlet az Erdélyi Párt ideológiájának és identitáspolitikájának elemzésére, 1940–1944 [The “Transfiguration” of Transylvanianism. An Analysis of the Ideology and Identity Politics of the Transylvania Party, 1940–1944]. Budapest: Napvilág Kiadó, 2008.

Gerlach, Christian and Götz Aly. Az utolsó fejezet. Reálpolitika, ideológia és a magyar zsidók legyilkolása, 1944/1945 [The Last Chapter. Realpolitika, Ideology, and the Murder of the Hungarian Jews, 1944–45]. Budapest: Noran, 2005.

Gerlach, Christian, and Götz Aly. Das letzte Kapitel. Der Mord an den ungarischen Juden [The Last Chapter. The Murder of the Hungarian Jews]. Stuttgart: DVA, 2002.

Gidó, Attila. 20 000 names/név/nume. Counted Remnant of Northern Transylvania. Cluj-Napoca: ISPMN, 2016, forthcoming.

Gidó, Attila. “Marton Ernő beszámolója az észak-erdélyi zsidóság helyzetéről 1944 novemberében” [Ernő Marton’s Account of the Circumstances of the Jewry of Northern Transylvania]. Pro Minoritate 2 (2015): 37–57.

Gidó, Attila, and Zsuzsa Sólyom. The Surviving Jewish Inhabitants of Cluj, Carei and Oradea. The Survey of the World Jewish Congress in 1946. Cluj-Napoca: ISPMN Working Papers, Nr. 35, 2010.

Hegyi, Ágnes. “Dés zsidó közösségének virágzása és hanyatlása” [The Flowering and Decline of the Jewish Community of Dés]. In Tanulmányok a holokausztról [Essays on the Holocaust], vol. 3, edited by Randolph L. Braham, 143–210. Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2004.

Horváth Sz., Ferenc. Elutasítás és alkalmazkodás között. A romániai magyar kisebbségi elit politikai stratégiái (1931–1940) [Between Refusal and Accommodation. The Political Strategies of the Romanian Hungarian Minority Elite (1931–1940)]. Csíkszereda: Pro-Print Könyvkiadó, 2007.

Horváth, Franz Sz. “Ethnic Policies, Social Compensation, and Economic Reparations: The Holocaust in Northern Transylvania.” East Central Europe 39 (2012): 101–36.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. “A ‘zsidókérdés megoldása’ a ‘termelés szempontjai’ ellen. A magyar holokauszt gazdasági vetületei” [The “Solution to the Jewish Question” Weighed against “Considerations of Production.” The Economic Consequences of the Hungarian Holocaust]. In A holokauszt Magyarországon európai perspektívában, edited by Judit Molnár, 514–27. Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2005.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. Hullarablás. A magyar zsidók gazdasági megsemmisítése [Robbing Corpses. The Economic Annihilation of Hungarian Jews]. Budapest: Hannah Arendt Egyesület–Jaffa Kiadó, 2005.

Kádár, Gábor, and Zoltán Vági. Self-Financing Genocide. The Gold Train, The Becher Case and the Wealth of Hungarian Jews. Budapest–New York: Central European University Press, 2004.

Karsai, László. “A holokauszt utolsó fejezete” [The Last Chapter of the Holocaust]. Beszélő 10 (2005). Accessed July 22, 2015. http://beszelo.c3.hu/cikkek/a-holokauszt-utolso-fejezete.

Kádár, Gábor, and Vági, Zoltán. A végső döntés. Berlin, Budapest, Birkenau 1944 [The Final Decision. Berlin, Budapest, Birkenau, 1944]. Budapest: Jaffa Kiadó, 2013.

Lustig, Oliver, ed. Procesul ghetourilor din Nordul Transilvaniei [The Trials of the Ghettos of Northern Transylvania]. Vol. 1. Bucharest: AERVH, 2007.

Magyarország tiszti cím- és névtára, 1944 [Catalogue of Hungarian Civil Servants by Name and Title]. Budapest: M. Kir. Központi Statisztikai Hivatal, 1944.

Molnár, Judit. Zsidósors 1944-ben az V. (szegedi) csendőrkerületben [Jewish Fate in 1944 in the Fifth Gendarmerie District (the District of Szeged)]. Budapest: Cserépfalvi Kiadó, 1995.

Molnár Judit. “Csendőrök, rendőrök, hivatalnokok a Soá idején” [Gendarmes, Police, and Civil Servants during the Shoa]. In Magyar megfontolások a Soáról, edited by Hamp Gábor, Horányi Özséb, and Rábai László, 124–33. Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 1999.

Molnár, Judit. “‘Hazafias tisztelettel.’ Zsidók és nem zsidók Pécsett a holokauszt idején” [“With Patriotic Honor.” Jews and Non-Jews in Pécs during the Holocaust]. In Tanulmányok a holokausztról II, edited by Randolph L. Braham, 257–72. Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2002.

Molnár, Judit. Csendőrtiszt a Markóban. Ferenczy László csendőr alezredes a népbíróság előtt [Gendarme-officer in Markó Street. Gendarmerie Lieutenant Colonel László Ferenczy before the People’s Court]. Budapest: Scolar, Állambiztonsági Szolgálatok Történeti Levéltára, 2014.

Mózes, Tereza. Evreii din Oradea [The Jews of Oradea/Nagyvárad]. Bucharest: Editura Hasefer, 1997.

Nagy, Enikő Orsolya. “Mit tudhatott az észak-erdélyi magyar lakosság a zsidóellenes intézkedésekről?” [What Could the Hungarian Population of Northern Transylvania Have Known about the Measures Taken against the Jews?]. In Tanulmányok a holokausztról, vol. 6, edited by Randolph L. Braham, 13–106. Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2014.

Singer, Zoltán. Volt egyszer egy Dés. Bethlen, Magyarlápos, Retteg, Nagyilonda és környéke [Once upon a Time there was Dés (Dej). Bethlen, Magyarlápos (Târgu Lăpuş), Retteg (Reteag), Nagyilonda (Ileanda), and the Surroundings]. Tel Aviv: Dés és Vidékéről Elszármazottak Landsmannschaftja, 1970.

Vági, Zoltán, László Csősz, and Gábor Kádár. The Holocaust in Hungary. Evolution of a Genocide. Plymouth: AltaMira Press, USHMM, 2013.

1 Randolph L. Braham, The Politics of Genocide. The Holocaust in Hungary (New York: Columbia University Press, 1981), 167.

2 Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 370. Christian Gerlach and Götz Aly, Az utolsó fejezet. Reálpolitika, ideológia és a magyar zsidók legyilkolása, 1944/1945 (Budapest: Noran, 2005), 114. Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, Hullarablás. A magyar zsidók gazdasági megsemmisítése (Budapest: Hannah Arendt Egyesület–Jaffa Kiadó, 2005), 109.

3 Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, A végső döntés. Berlin, Budapest, Birkenau 1944 (Budapest: Jaffa Kiadó, 2013), 234–36.

4 Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 538–39 and 566–67.

5 In the course of his travels, Endre observed the process of ghettoization and the conditions in the ghettos not only in northern Transylvania, but in all of provincial Hungary. Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 587–588.

6 Serviciul Judeţean al Arhivelor Naţionale Cluj (Cluj Branch of the Romanian National Archive, henceforth SJAN Cluj), Fond no. 1295 (People’s Court), dossier 11/1946, file 1.

7 According to materials used in cases tried by the People’s Court of Cluj in 1946, two participants in the meeting in Marosvásárhely had raised objections in connection with the rounding up of children under six years of age and the provision of food. However, neither of them was opposed to the social marginalization, ghettoization, deportation or genocide of the Jews. Rather, they merely gave voice to their views on questions of detail. SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 1295, dossier 11/1946, f. 1.

8 Decree number 13392/1944. II of László Gyapay, issued on May 12, 1944. Yad Vashem Archives, TR. 16, 28. dossier, f. 18–22.

9 Randolph L. Braham, ed., Az észak-erdélyi holokauszt földrajzi enciklopédiája (Budapest, Kolozsvár: Park Könyvkiadó, Koinónia Könyvkiadó, 2008), 33. Randolph L. Braham, ed., The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust in Hungary (Evantson, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 2013), lxix.

10 With regards to northern Transylvania, the first report was sent from Kolozsvár on May 3, 1944 and the last was sent from Hatvan on June 8. Judit Molnár, Csendőrtiszt a Markóban. Ferenczy László csendőr alezredes a népbíróság előtt (Budapest: Scolar, Állambiztonsági Szolgálatok Történeti Levéltára, 2014), 280–306.

11 We know the names and personal information of people who survived deportation and returned to northern Transylvania following liberation. According to a list from 1946, there were some 20,000 such people. In addition to them, the number of people who survived but did not return following liberation, choosing instead either to travel to countries in the West or even go overseas, was somewhere between 8,000 and 10,000. For a list of the survivors, which includes their personal information, see Attila Gidó, 20 000 names/név/nume. Counted Remnant of Northern Transylvania (Cluj-Napoca: ISPMN, 2016), forthcoming. See also: Braham, Az észak-erdélyi holokauszt, 470.

12 Zygmunt Bauman, Modernity and the Holocaust (Ithaca–New York: Cornell University Press, 1995), 102–04. See also: Yehuda Bauer, Rethinking the Holocaust (New Haven–London: Yale University Press, 2001), 73–78, Christopher R. Browning, Nazi Policy, Jewish Workers, German Killers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 169.

13 Kádár and Vági, A végső döntés.

14 Ibid., 12–13.

15 Ibid., 247.

16 László Csősz, Konfliktusok és kölcsönhatások. Zsidók Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok megye történetében (Szolnok: MNL Jász-Nagykun-Szolnok Megyei Levéltár, 2014), 192–94 and 207.

17 See: Judit Molnár, “Csendőrök, rendőrök, hivatalnokok a Soá idején” in Magyar megfontolások a Soáról, ed. Hamp Gábor, Horányi Özséb, and Rábai László (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 1999), 124–33.

18 Molnár, Csendőrök, rendőrök, hivatalnokok, 127.

19 Kádár and Vági, A végső döntés, 247.

20 In northern Transylvania, including Máramaros, there were eleven counties, but two of them, Szolnok-Doboka (the center of which was Dés) and Beszterce-Naszód (the seat of which was Beszterce), were under count Béla Bethlen, who served as lord lieutenant of both until April 1944. Budapesti Közlöny, April 27, 1944. no. 94, 1. Of the seven county-level lord lieutenants who were relieved of their posts, several also had positions as lord lieutenant of a municipality. In addition to them, on April 26 Endre Hlatky, the lord lieutenant of Nagyvárad, was relieved of his post, as was Ödön Inczédy Joksman, lord lieutenant of Kolozsvár. Budapesti Közlöny April 27, 1944, no. 94, 1–2; Budapesti Közlöny May 7, 1944, no. 103, 1.

21 Inczédy’s signature is found on several documents that were issued in the middle of May 1944. SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 3 (Lord Lieutenancy of Kolozs County), batch number 1319 (Racial problems, 1–2 volumes). Inczédy’s removal at the end of April from the position of lord lieutenant of Kolozsvár and the appointment of Lajos Vargha were announced in Kolozsvár Thj. Sz. Kir. Város Hivatalos Lapja May 1, 1944. no. 9, 72.

22 In his memoirs, which were completed in the 1970s, Béla Bethlen at the same time writes that on many occasions he urged the Ministry of Interior to reach a decision regarding his request to be relieved of his position as lord lieutenant of Szolnok-Doboka county, but his petition was simply buried in paperwork. Béla Bethlen, Észak-Erdély kormánybiztosa voltam (Budapest: Zrínyi Katonai Kiadó, 1989), 146.

23 For instance, Kolozs county got a new sub-prefect when, on June 2, 1944, Ferenc Szász died and left the position empty. He was replaced by Gábor Ajtay, who had served as the sub-prefect of Máramaros county and, as of May 30, had been the leader of the “separate unit” that had been created by the XXI/b. subdivision of the Ministry of Interior and had played an important role in ghettoization and deportation. Oliver Lustig, ed., Procesul ghetourilor din Nordul Transilvaniei, vol. 1 (Bucureşti: AERVH, 2007), 74.

24 Magyarország tiszti cím- és névtára, 1944 (Budapest: M. Kir. Központi Statisztikai Hivatal, 1944), 79. Budapesti Közlöny April 9, 1944, no. 80, 1 and April 21, no. 89, 1.

25 Magyarország tiszti cím- és névtára, 1944 (Budapest: M. Kir. Központi Statisztikai Hivatal, 1944), 79. Cf. Budapesti Közlöny June 3, 1944, no. 124, 1–2.

26 Molnár, Csendőrök, rendőrök, hivatalnokok, 128.

27 This was the case for Géza Czanik, the chief constable of Aszód. At the suggestion of the Minister of the Interior, he was named sub-prefect of Szolnok-Doboka county by the Regent of Hungary, Miklós Horthy. Similarly, Dezső Gálffy, a chief constable on the county level, became lord lieutenant of Udvarhely county, today Odorheiu county in Romania, and József Kadicsfalvi, who was magistrate of Felsővisó, was made lord lieutenant. Czanik replaced János Schilling, who had resigned from his position, on May 2, 1944. He was part of László Endre’s personal escort, and he guaranteed the efficient implementation of the Final Solution in Szolnok-Doboka county. Budapesti Közlöny June 3, 1944, no. 124, 1. Ágnes Hegyi, “Dés zsidó közösségének virágzása és hanyatlása,” in Tanulmányok a holokausztról, vol. 3, ed. Randolph L. Braham (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2004), 171.

28 25.1 percent of the people working in public administration in northern Transylvania and 16.4 percent of the people working in the judicial branch of government had been sent from the territory of Trianon Hungary in 1940 and 1941. In contrast, all of the people working in the police and gendarmerie units were Transylvanian. See Edit Csilléry, “Közalkalmazottak és köztisztviselők Észak-Erdélyben a második bécsi döntést követően,” Limes 2 (2006): 79.

29 Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 575.

30 Zoltán Singer, Volt egyszer egy Dés. Bethlen, Magyarlápos, Retteg, Nagyilonda és környéke (Tel Aviv: Dés és Vidékéről Elszármazottak Landsmannschaftja, 1970), 422. Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 414.

31 Kádár and Vági, A végső döntés, 247. Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 414.

32 Refugees from areas that today are part of Ukraine fled into the territory of János Papp’s gendarmerie district, thus he had to handle the administrative tasks that arose as a consequence of their presence as well. We know, however, that independent of this, Papp collaborated in the ghettoization of the Jewry of the Székely Land. He took part in the meeting that was held in Marosvásárhely on April 28, and together with sub-prefect Zsigmond Márton, lieutenant colonel János Zalántay and major N. Schröder he supervised the rounding up of the Jews of Maros-Torda county (today a part of Mureş and a part of Cluj county in Romania). Braham, The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust, 657–59.

33 Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 411.

34 See Bauman, Modernity and the Holocaust, 104.

35 Ferenc Sz. Horváth, Elutasítás és alkalmazkodás között. A romániai magyar kisebbségi elit politikai stratégiái (1931–1940) (Csíkszereda: Pro-Print Könyvkiadó, 2007), 118. Gábor Egry, Az erdélyiség “színeváltozása”. Kísérlet az Erdélyi Párt ideológiájának és identitáspolitikájának elemzésére, 1940–1944 (Budapest: Napvilág Kiadó, 2008), 157–59.

36 Cited in Egry, Az erdélyiség “színeváltozása,” 159.

37 Holly Case, Between States. The Transylvanian Question and the European Idea during World War II (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2009), 182.

38 The question of fragmentation, in other words the linking of the economic plunder of the Jews and the problems of the ethnically heterogeneous territories of northern Transylvania, can also be observed. See SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 3, batch number 1319, 3. vols., dossier 7336/1944, f. 2. Compare with Franz Sz. Horváth, “Ethnic Policies, Social Compensation, and Economic Reparations: The Holocaust in Northern Transylvania,” East Central Europe 39 (2012): 112–16.

39 Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 510.

40 Ibid.

41 “Zsidó üzletekben levő tárgyak tulajdonosait idejében értesítik a kiváltás módozatairól” [The owners of articles in Jewish businesses will be informed of the ways of retrieving them in time], Keleti Újság, May 6, 1944, 5.

42 On May 7, Keleti Újság reported on the issue and content of the decree, followed by a similar report in Magyar Újság on May 8. Both dailies were published in Kolozsvár, but they were distributed throughout northern Transylvania. Enikő Orsolya Nagy, “Mit tudhatott az észak-erdélyi magyar lakosság a zsidóellenes intézkedésekről?,” in Tanulmányok a holokausztról, vol. 6, ed. Randolph L. Braham (Budapest: Múlt és Jövő, 2014), 52.

43 On May 9, 1944, Kálmán Szent-Királyi, the sub-prefect of Udvarhely county, sent the text of the decree to the chief constables and the mayor of Székelyudvarhely. We also know that the decree was received by the sub-prefect of Háromszék county (today Covasna county in Romania) on May 8. SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 151 (Northern Transylvanian Hungarian Military Administration), archival number 219, box 3, dossier 4/1944, f. 4–5., SJAN Covasna (Sfântu Gheorghe Office of the Romanian State Archive), Fond no. 9 (Lord Lieutenant’s Office of Covasna County), archival number 16, dossier 2/1944, f. 4–5.

44 The instructions that were given by the Székely District Chamber of Industry for the Mayor’s Office of Székelyudvarhely and the Office of the Chief Constable. SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 151, archival number 219, box 3, dossier 36/1944, f. 4–5.

45 SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 151, archival number 219, box 3, dossier 36/1944, f. 1–2.

46 SJAN Maramureş (Baia Mare Office of the Romanian National Archive), Fond no. 1 (Mayor’s Office), Acte Administrative (Administrative Documents), dossier 1168/1944, vol. 1, f. 141.

47 Hungarian National Archives, K498 (Government Commissioner Appointed for the Solution to Issues Pertaining to Jewish Pecuniary and Property Rights), batch 3, documents of the IX. department, document 539/1944, f. 1–5. (K498 – 1944 – b – IX – 539, f. 1–5.).

48 Kádár and Vági, Hullarablás, 310.

49 “Az Ipartestület tiltakozott az ellen, hogy a zsidó üzemeket az alkalmazottak vezessék” [The Craftsmen’s Association objected to the Jewish factories being run by the staff], Keleti Újság, May 17, 1944, 7. On May 14, at almost the same time as these objections were being raised, decree number 23.200/1944 Ip.M. was published in Budapesti Közlöny. It addressed the question of the delegation of leaders for the businesses. Braham, The Politics of Genocide, 510–11.

50 Kádár and Vági, Hullarablás, 312.

51 On June 2, two cities in northern Transylvania, Nagyvárad and Kolozsvár, were bombed by the allied air forces. These bombings were part of the preparatory military operations for the landing in Normandy and they targeted first and foremost the railway junctions and industrial and military establishments. “Üzlethelyiséghez jutottak a kolozsvári bombakárosult kisiparosok és kiskereskedők” [Tradesmen and shopkeepers who suffered losses in the bombings have received premises for their businesses], Keleti Újság, June 17, 1944, 5.

52 “A városi iparhatóság folyósítja a zsidó üzletek alkalmazottainak járandóságát” [The municipal industrial authorities will cover the unpaid wages of employees of Jewish businesses], Keleti Újság, May 16, 1944, 8.

53 Decree number 1600/1944. ME., which was adopted on April 14, 1944 and announced on April 16, concerned the obligation of people who were defined as Jews by the law to report their wealth. It also addressed the seizure of this wealth by the organs of state administration. In accordance with the decree, bank accounts, deposits, and securities owned by Jews were seized, as were articles and jewelry made of precious metals. The law made it possible for the state to use the sums of money in the seized bank accounts to pay the wages of “Christian” employees. Budapesti Közlöny, April 16, 1944, 2.

54 SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 151, archival number 219, box 3, dossier 25/1944, f. 1.

55 SJAN Harghita (Miercurea Ciuc Office of the Romanian National Archive), Fond no. 32 (Mayor’s Office of Miercurea Ciuc), dossier 72, f. 24.

56 On the text of the decree see: Zoltán Vági, László Csősz, and Gábor Kádár, The Holocaust in Hungary. Evolution of a Genocide (Plymouth: AltaMira Press, USHMM, 2013), 76–79.

57 Kádár and Vági, Hullarablás, 286.

58 Ibid., 287–93.

59 Ibid., 294–95.

60 “Mi lesz a zsidók köz- és magánjellegű tartozásaival?” [How will the private and public debts of the Jews be handled?], Ellenzék, May 5, 1944, 2.

61 Decree number 13392/1944. II, issued by László Gyapay on May 12, 1944. YVA, TR. 16, dossier 28, f. 19.

62 Gendarme lieutenant colonel László Ferenczy used the expression “good faith” in his report of May 5, 1944. He also notes how the authorities in northern Transylvania rounded up the people who had been defined as Jewish by the law “in general with the greatest willingness, expeditiousness, and flexibility.” Molnár, Csendőrtiszt a Markóban, 285.

63 Molnár, Csendőrtiszt a Markóban, 286.

64 Miklós Dános, “Tanúságtétel,” in A tegnap városa. A nagyváradi zsidóság emlékkönyve, ed. Dezső Schön (Tel-Aviv: Nagyváradról Elszármazottak Egyesülete, 1981), 336.

65 Braham, The Geographical Encyclopedia of the Holocaust, 199.

66 Judit Molnár, “‘Hazafias tisztelettel’. Zsidók és nem zsidók Pécsett a holokauszt idején,” in Tanulmányok a holokausztról, vol. 2, ed. Randolph L. Braham (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2002), 262.

67 YVA TR. 16, dossier 42, f. 204.

68 SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 1 (Mayor’s Office of Cluj), box 201–7325/1944, dossier 23079/1944, f. 1–4. On the payments that were made to cover other transportation costs in Kolozsvár see SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 1, box 201–7325/1944, dossier 20220/1944, f. 1–2.

69 Judit Molnár, Zsidósors 1944-ben az V. (szegedi) csendőrkerületben (Budapest: Cserépfalvi Kiadó, 1995), 140–41.

70 Other important kinds of costs included: the purchase of lime, building materials and cleaning tools, disinfection, payments to a local printing press for printed material, plumbing, the digging of sewage lines, telephone costs, the costs involved with care provided for the sick who had been taken to the state hospital, the daily wages for guards and midwives, and burials. SJAN Maramureş, Fond no. 1, Acte Administrative, dossier 1168/1944, vol. 2, f. 87 and 280–86.

71 Ibid., f. 280, Kádár and Vági, Hullarablás, 286–96.

72 The report number 90/1044. v.o. of the medical officer of the first district to the mayor of Nagybánya, June 7, 1944. SJAN Maramureş, Fond no. 1, Acte Administrative, dossier 1168/1944, vol. 1, f. 58.

73 Ibid., dossier 44/1944, vol. 1, f. 467–68.

74 “Eddig hatezerre tehető a táborba telepített kolozsvári zsidók száma” [At the moment, the number of Jews who have been put in the camp has reached 6,000], Keleti Újság, May 6, 1944, 5., Compare with: “Harmincegy kolozsvári munkáscsaládot zsidó lakásokban helyeztek el” [Thirty-one Kolozsvár working-class families have been placed in Jewish apartments], Ellenzék, May 5, 1944, 3.

75 According to an earlier report in the press, in Kolozsvár slightly fewer families, some 1,200, were left homeless as a consequence of the bombings. “A Kolozsvárt ért terrortámadás szomorú statisztikája” [The sad statistics of the bombing of Kolozsvár], Ellenzék, June 15, 1944, 2. “Ezerháromszáz zsidó lakást utaltak ki a bombakárosultaknak” [1,300 Jewish apartments were turned over to people who suffered damages in the bombing], Keleti Újság, June 23, 1944, 8.

76 See for instance the complaint of Sándor Kovács to the mayor of Nagybánya, in which he asks for compensation for the damages that were done to his dwelling in the confines of the ghetto. The real estate, he contended, was so damaged that he was unable to move back into it. SJAN Maramureş, Fond no. 1, Acte Administrative, dossier 1168/1944, f. 338.

77 “Felhívás a gettóbeli lakosokkal kapcsolatban” [Appeal in connection with the inhabitants of the ghetto], Máramaros, July 9, 1944, 4.

78 YVA, TR. 16, dossier 43, f. 94.

79 Ibid., dossier 29, f. 108.

80 “Május 25-én kezdődik Kolozsváron a zsidók új élelmiszerjegyeinek kiosztása” [In Kolozsvár, the distribution of the new Jewish food ration cards will begin on May 25], Keleti Újság, May 23 1944, 5.

81 See also: Molnár, Zsidósors 1944-ben, 152.

82 Tereza Mózes, Evreii din Oradea (Bucharest: Editura Hasefer, 1997), 230–32.

83 SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 1, box 24066–109499/1944, dossier 32503/1944. f. 1.

84 Attila Gidó, “Marton Ernő beszámolója az észak-erdélyi zsidóság helyzetéről 1944 novemberében,” Pro Minoritate 2 (2015): 49.

85 SJAN Cluj, Fond no. 1, box 201–7325/1944, dossier 23559/1944, f. 7–12.

86 Ibid., f. 13.

87 The trampling and ruining of the gardens given to the workers in the factory were mentioned among the damages. Ibid., f. 14.

88 Ibid., f. 15.

89 There were some 700 doctors in northern Transylvania in 1941, for example. 44.5 percent of them were defined as Jewish under the law. Thus as a consequence of the deportations, the number of doctors in the region, which was already low, was reduced to half. On the negative economic consequences see: Gábor Kádár and Zoltán Vági, “A ‘zsidókérdés megoldása’ a ‘termelés szempontjai’ ellen. A magyar holokauszt gazdasági vetületei,” in A holokauszt Magyarországon európai perspektívában, ed. Judit Molnár (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2005), 514–27, Csősz László, “Őrségváltás? Az 1944-es deportálások közvetlen gazdasági-társadalmi hatásai,” in Küzdelem az igazságért. Tanulmányok Randolph L. Braham 80. születésnapjára, ed. László Karsai and Judit Molnár (Budapest: MAZSIHISZ, 2002).

90 According to contemporary anti-Semitic statistics, in 1938 the Jewry possessed a fortune amounting to some 7–12 billion pengő. The claim was also made that this sum constituted a significant proportion, between 20 and 25 percent, of the wealth of Hungary. The reliability of these figures was most recently debated by Hungarian historians in 2014. Gábor Kádár, and Zoltán Vági, Self-Financing Genocide. The Gold Train, the Becher Case and the Wealth of Hungarian Jews (Budapest, New York: CEU Press, 2004), 35–25, Cf. Dániel Bolgár, “Mese a zsidó jólétről,” Magyar Narancs 29 (2014), accessed July 27, 2015, http://magyarnarancs.hu/publicisztika/mese-a-zsido-joletrol-90944.

91 The costs of damages listed in questionnaires as part of the assessment that was done in 1946 were rough estimates and were based on the individual assessments of the survivors. They moved on a wide scale of income categories. 316 questionnaires survived only by chance. Basically the things that survived did so in spite of the careless circumstances in which they were stored. Attila Gidó and Zsuzsa Sólyom, The Surviving Jewish Inhabitants of Cluj, Carei and Oradea. The Survey of the World Jewish Congress in 1946 (Cluj-Napoca: ISPMN Working Papers, Nr. 35, 2010), 41.

92 “Emlékiratban foglalta össze Nagyvárad városa a zsidókérdés rendezésével felvetődött megoldatlan problémákat” [The city of Nagyvárad summarized in a memorandum the unsolved problems involving the settlement of the Jewish Question]. Ellenzék June 17, 1944, 12.

93 Kádár and Vági, Hullarablás, 287.

94 Ibid., Molnár Judit, Zsidósors 1944-ben, 144.

95 Csősz, Őrségváltás, 84.

96 The sums are included in László Karsai, A holokauszt utolsó fejezete, Beszélő 10 (2005), accessed June 22, 2015, http://beszelo.c3.hu/cikkek/a-holokauszt-utolso-fejezete.

97 Gidó, Marton Ernő beszámolója, 45–46.

SEARCH

Partners

HHR logo