Dubnow Institute Yearbook XVI/2017 [1 ed.] 9783666370717, 9783525370711

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DUBNOW-INSTITUT

Jahrbuch ·Yearbook XVI 2017

JAHRBUCH DES DUBNOW-INSTITUTS (JBDI) DUBNOW INSTITUTE YEARBOOK (DIYB) 2017

Herausgeberin Editor

Yfaat Weiss Redaktion Manuscript Editor Petra Klara Gamke-Breitschopf Redaktionsbeirat Editorial Advisory Board Marion Aptroot, Düsseldorf · Aleida Assmann, Konstanz · Jacob Barnai, Haifa · Israel Bartal, Jerusalem · Omer Bartov, Provi­dence, N. J. · Esther Benbassa, Paris · Dominique Bourel, Paris · ­Michael Brenner, München/Washington, D. C. · Matti Bunzl, Ur­bana-Cham­ paign · Lois Dubin, Northampton, Mass. · Todd Endelman, Ann Arbor, Mich. · David Engel, New York · Shmuel Feiner, Ramat Gan · Norbert Frei, Jena · Sander L. Gilman, Atlanta, Ga. · Frank Golczewski, Hamburg · Michael Graetz (1933–2018), Heidelberg · Heiko Haumann, Basel · Susannah Heschel, Hanover, N. H. · Yosef Kaplan, Jerusalem · Cilly Kugelmann, Berlin · Mark Levene, South­ ampton · Leonid Luks, Eichstätt · Paul Mendes-Flohr, Jerusalem/ Chicago, Ill. · Ga­briel Motzkin, Jerusalem · David N. Myers, Los Angeles, Calif. · Jacques Picard, Basel · Gertrud Pickhan, Berlin · Antony Polonsky, Waltham, Mass. · Renée Poznanski, Beer Sheva · Peter Pulzer, Oxford · Monika Richarz, Berlin · Manfred Rudersdorf, Leipzig · Rachel Salamander, München · Winfried Schulze, München · Hannes Siegrist, Leipzig · Gerald Stourzh, Wien · Stefan Troebst, Leipzig · Monika Wohlrab-Sahr, Leipzig · Moshe Zimmermann, Jerusalem · Steven J. Zipperstein, Stanford, Calif. Gastherausgeber der Schwerpunkte Guest Editors of the Special Issues Elisabeth Gallas / Philipp Graf / Frank Mecklenburg Dagi Knellessen / Felix Pankonin   

Begründet von Founding Editor Dan Diner

Jahrbuch des Dubnow-Instituts Dubnow Institute Yearbook

XVI 2017

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

Diese Maßnahme wird mitfinanziert durch Steuermittel auf der Grundlage des vom ­Sächsischen Landtag beschlossenen Haushaltes. Redaktionsanschrift: Jahrbuch des Dubnow-Instituts/Dubnow Institute Yearbook Leibniz-Institut für jüdische Geschichte und Kultur – Simon Dubnow, Goldschmidtstraße 28, 04103 Leipzig E-Mail: [email protected] www.dubnow.de Gesamtlektorat und -korrektorat: André Zimmermann Lektorat englischsprachiger Texte und Übersetzungen: Tim Corbett und Jana Duman Bestellungen und Abonnementanfragen sind zu richten an: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Abteilung Vertrieb Robert-Bosch-Breite 6 D-37070 Göttingen Tel. +49 551 5084-40 Fax +49 551 5084-454 E-Mail: [email protected] / [email protected] www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com Mit 2 Abbildungen

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.de abrufbar. © 2019, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Göttingen Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Satz und Layout: Reemers Publishing Services, Krefeld

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage | www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2197-3458 ISBN 978-3-666-37071-7

Inhalt Yfaat Weiss Editorial. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Allgemeiner Teil Alex Valdman, Haifa Usable Past for an Uncertain Future: On the Historiographical Impulse of the Jewish ­Intelligentsia in Post-1905 Imperial Russia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Dan Miron, New York The “Sholem Aleichem” Tonality – Rhythm, Mobility, Humor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Tamás Turán, Budapest “As the Christians Go, so Go the Jews” – Hungarian Judaism in Its Denominational Matrix in the Mid-Nineteenth Century. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Daniel Mahla, München Richtungskämpfe um rabbinische Autorität und ­nationale Selbstverwirklichung: Mosche Amiel, Judah Maimon und der religiöse ­Zionismus der Zwischenkriegszeit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 Miriam Szamet, Berlin/Jerusalem The Zikhroynes of Glikl bas Judah Leib: Interpreting the Concept of Koved in ­Early ­Modern ­History. . . . . . . 121

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Schwerpunkt Forced Migration and Flight: New Approaches to the Year 1938 Herausgegeben von Elisabeth Gallas, Philipp Graf und Frank Mecklenburg

Introduction Frank Mecklenburg, New York The Year 1938 through the Eyes of the ­Jewish ­Telegraphic Agency: A Historical Overview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Elisabeth Gallas/Philipp Graf, Leipzig Conceptual Remarks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Contributions David Jünger, Brighton/Falmer Beyond Flight and Rescue: The Migration Setting of German Jewry before 1938. . . . . . . . . . . 173 Marija Vulesica, Berlin Yugoslavia as a Hub for Migration in the 1930s: Local Zionist Networks and Aid Efforts for ­Jewish ­Refugees. . . . . . 199 Martin Jost, Leipzig A Battle against Time: Salomon Adler-Rudel’s Commitment at the ­Évian ­Conference. . . . . 221 Michal Frankl, Prag No Man’s Land: Refugees, Moving Borders, and Shifting Citizenship in 1938 East-Central Europe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 Alina Bothe, Berlin Forced over the Border: The Expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany in 1938/39. . . . . . . . . 267

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Schwerpunkt Jüdische Lebenswege im 20. Jahrhundert – Neue Perspektiven der Biografieforschung Herausgegeben von Dagi Knellessen und Felix Pankonin Dagi Knellessen/Felix Pankonin, Leipzig Einführung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291 Nicolas Berg, Leipzig Biografische Projektionsräume – Emil Ludwig im deutsch-jüdischen Wissenskontext . . . . . . . . . . . 303 Magnus Klaue, Leipzig Das untergehende Ich: Zur Biografiekritik der Kritischen Theorie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333 Mirjam Zadoff, München/Bloomington, Ind. Shades of Red: Biografik auf den Barrikaden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365 Katrin Steffen, Lüneburg/Berlin Transnational Parallel Biographies: The Lives of Ludwik Hirszfeld and Jan Czochralski and Their ­Contribution to Modern European Science . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391 René Schlott, Potsdam Raul Hilberg (1926–2007): Eine jüdische Biografie im 20. Jahrhundert. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419 Katharina Prager, Wien Erinnerungsorte und jüdische ­Auto/­Biografien des Exils – Überlegungen zu vier Intellektuellen aus Wien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441 Enrico Lucca, Leipzig Biography and Institutional History: Hugo Bergman’s First Journey as Rector of the Hebrew University (1937). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 465

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Gelehrtenporträt Anna Holzer-Kawalko, Jerusalem Lost on the Island: Mapping an Alternative Path of Exile in the Life and Work of Ernst Grumach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 493

Dubnowiana Annette Wolf, Leipzig Simon Dubnow und seine Kritiker: Die Rezeption der Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes in der Weimarer Republik.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 521

Aus der Forschung Jan Gerber, Leipzig Der Funktionswandel des Rechts – Franz Neumann in Nürnberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 551

Literaturbericht Katharina Stengel, Frankfurt am Main Opferzeugen in NS-Prozessen: Juristische Zeugenschaft zwischen Beweis, Quelle, Trauma und Aporie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 577 Abstracts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 611 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 623

Editorial Wenn das Jahrbuch des Dubnow-Instituts/Dubnow Institute Yearbook in seinem sechzehnten Jahrgang mit einem veränderten Titel erscheint, so darf ein triftiger Grund hierfür vorausgesetzt werden. Zum 1. Januar 2018 wurde aus dem in Leipzig ansässigen Simon-Dubnow-Institut das Leibniz-Institut für jüdische Geschichte und Kultur  – Simon Dubnow. Hierin drückt sich zuvorderst die Zugehörigkeit zu einer der größten Wissensorganisationen Deutschlands aus, gleichermaßen jedoch auch die Anerkennung und Wertschätzung der geleisteten Arbeit unter der vormaligen Institutsleitung – Stefi Jersch-Wenzel (1995–1998), Dan Diner (1999–2014) und Raphael Gross (2015–2017). An seinen Kerninhalten wird das Dubnow-Institut weiterhin festhalten, die jüdischen Lebenswelten in Mittel- und Osteuropa erforschen und eine gesamteuropäische Perspektive unter Einbeziehung der Räume jüdischer Emigration einnehmen. Es wird die enge Kooperation mit der Hebräischen Universität Jerusalem noch einmal intensivieren und damit den Austausch von durch Sprachbarrieren vielfach in getrennten nationalen Kontexten gedachten und verhandelten Themen fördern. Neben Politik, Rechtsund Diplomatiegeschichte, Geistes- und Ideengeschichte als den klassischen Arbeitsfeldern werden künftig Fragen der material culture, der Transfer- und Restitutionsgeschichte an Bedeutung gewinnen. Scheinen hierbei Kontinuität und Wandel als akademisch-inhaltliche Leitmotive des nun unter dem Dach der Leibniz-Gemeinschaft agierenden Instituts auf, so gilt dies auch für die organisatorische Seite. Neben dem Festhalten an Erprobtem stehen zahlreiche administrative und strukturelle Neuerungen, die bis in die kleinsten Verästelungen der Wissenschaftseinrichtung reichen und auch die Publikationen betreffen. Die Beiträge dieses sechzehnten Jahrbuches gruppieren sich um zwei thematische Schwerpunkte, die beide aus Institutsveranstaltungen hervorgegangen sind – einen gemeinsam mit dem Leo Baeck Institute New York im Herbst 2016 ausgerichteten Workshop sowie das Forschungskolloquium des Wintersemesters 2016/17. Der erste Schwerpunkt, für den Frank Mecklenburg (New York), Elisabeth Gallas und Philip Graf (beide Leipzig) verantwortlich zeichnen, ist dem für die europäischen Juden entscheidenden Jahr 1938 gewidmet. Ausgehend von Fragen der Staatsangehörigkeit und der Minderheitenrechte, von Flucht und Migration wird die über die europäischen Judenheiten hereinbrechende dramatische Krise neu beleuchtet JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 9–11.

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und das Augenmerk im Besonderen auf die Staaten Mittel- und Osteuropas gelenkt. Im Vorgriff auf die kommenden Ausgaben, in denen das Jahrbuch vollständig als refereed journal erscheinen wird, haben sämtliche Beiträge dieses Schwerpunkts ein anonymisiertes Begutachtungsverfahren (Doppelblindgutachten) erfolgreich durchlaufen. Der zweite, von Dagi Knellessen und Felix Pankonin (beide Leipzig) herausgegebene Schwerpunkt nimmt demgegenüber eine methodische Fragestellung zum Ausgangspunkt. Angesichts des fortwährenden Aufschwungs der Biografieforschung werden die Gründe für die Konjunktur des Genres innerhalb der Jüdischen Studien untersucht. Am Beispiel von aktuellen Forschungsprojekten zu jüdischen Intellektuellen, die in verschiedenen Bereichen und Ländern wirkten, diskutieren die Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger Kernprobleme und Herausforderungen der Gattung. Im Allgemeinen Teil liegt der geografische Fokus im östlichen Europa. Alex Valdman (Haifa) blickt auf ausgewählte Gruppierungen im späten Zarenreich jenseits der Jüdischen Historisch-Ethnografischen Gesellschaft und beschreibt, wie diese die Geschichtsschreibung zur nachhaltigen Existenz­ sicherung von jüdischer Öffentlichkeit und Elite in Russland genutzt haben. Dan Mirons (New York) Beitrag, der im selben soziokulturellen Umfeld angesiedelt ist, behandelt Stilistik und Spezifik im Werk von Scholem Alejchem. Dabei legt er dar, wie der Schriftsteller angesichts der Krise des osteuropäischen Shtetls, das Ende des 19. und Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts von Pogromen und wirtschaftlicher Verelendung heimgesucht wurde, eine originäre Form der jiddischsprachigen Literatur schuf. Die Artikel von Tamás Turán (Budapest) und Daniel Mahla (München) erweitern die Perspektive auf die östlichen Judenheiten durch die Verschränkung von Politik- und Religionsgeschichte. Turán spürt der orthodoxen und der neologen Bewegung innerhalb des ungarischen Judentums in der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts nach, wobei er den Einfluss des christlichen Umfelds auf ihre Herausbildung hervorhebt. Mahla widmet sich den Kontroversen zwischen Mosche Amiel und Judah Maimon, zwei wichtigen Vertretern des religiösen Zionismus, die für die in Vilnius entstandene Misrachi-Bewegung prägend waren. Ergänzt wird die Rubrik durch einen Artikel von Miriam Szamet (Jerusalem) über die Lebenserinnerungen der Glikl bas Leib (Glückel von Hameln). Indem Szamet das Werk auf die darin enthaltenen Vorstellungen von Reichtum und Ehre analysiert und diese in Beziehung zur sozialen Praxis setzt, trägt sie zu einem tieferen Verständnis der deutsch-jüdischen Lebenswelt in der Neuzeit bei. In der Rubrik Gelehrtenporträt befasst sich Anna Holzer-Kawałko (Jerusalem) mit dem klassischen Philologen und Literaturwissenschaftler Ernst Grumach. Anders als viele seiner Zeitgenossen emigrierte er während des Nationalsozialismus nicht, sondern blieb in Deutschland ansässig und avancierte später zu einem bedeutenden Intellektuellen der DDR. Grumach wird

Editorial

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als Beispiel für die Komplexität deutsch-jüdischer Erfahrung im 20.  Jahrhundert vorgestellt. Einen anderen Zugang hierzu bietet Annette Wolf (Leipzig). In der Rubrik Dubnowiana untersucht sie die Rezeption von Simon Dubnows Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes in der jüdischen Presse der Weimarer Republik. So war es die Verschmelzung von unterschiedlichen Lebensentwürfen, die Dubnows Geschichtsdenken für die Zeitgenossen der 1920er Jahre interessant und streitbar machte. Daran anschließend skizziert Jan Gerber (Leipzig) für die Rubrik Aus der Forschung Franz Neumanns Tätigkeit für den Internationalen Militärgerichtshof in Nürnberg 1946. Im Zentrum steht die Frage, warum sich der Jurist – trotz seiner anfangs kritischen Haltung zur Abgabe staatlicher Souveränität an überstaatliche Organisationen – doch für die Zusammenarbeit entschied. Es entsteht das Porträt eines Denkers, der zwischen Marxismus und Liberalismus, Optimismus und Pessimismus, faschismustheoretischer Verallgemeinerung und erfahrungsbasierter Differenzierung zerrissen ist. Auch der abschließende Literaturbericht verbindet Rechtsgeschichte und jüdische Geschichte. Katharina Stengel (Frankfurt am Main) stellt verschiedene Zugänge und Perspektiven auf die Zeugenschaft der NS-Verfolgten und Holocaustüberlebenden vor Gericht dar und plädiert dafür, diese Zeugenschaft entgegen der vorherrschenden Praxis als historisches Phänomen mit vielfältigen Bedeutungsebenen wahrzunehmen und anzuerkennen. Das Editorial endet auch in dieser Ausgabe mit einem herzlichen Dank der Herausgeberin. Er richtet sich zuvorderst an die Mitherausgeberinnen und Mitherausgeber der beiden Schwerpunkte sowie an alle Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger dieses Bandes, die hervorragend gearbeitet haben und doch geduldiger als sonst auf die Veröffentlichung warten mussten; er richtet sich an die wissenschaftliche Redaktion, namentlich ihre Leiterin Petra Klara Gamke-Breitschopf sowie an Ludwig Decke und Margarita Lerman, die trotz einer Fülle von Aufgaben keine Abstriche an den wissenschaftlichen Qualitätsstandards zugelassen haben, sodann vor allem an André Zimmermann für das – inzwischen darf gesagt werden – bewährte Gesamtlektorat des Bandes sowie an Tim Corbett und Jana Duman für das sorgfältige englischsprachige Lektorat und die Übersetzungen ins Englische. Yfaat Weiss

Leipzig/Jerusalem, Frühjahr 2019

Allgemeiner Teil

Alex Valdman

Usable Past for an Uncertain Future: On the Historiographical Impulse of the Jewish ­Intelligentsia in Post-1905 Imperial Russia For Simon Dubnow, the decade following the Russian Revolution of 1905– 1907 was a period of intensive scholarly activity. Along with writing and publishing scholarly works and journalistic articles, he took a leading part in the establishment of the Jewish Historical and Ethnographic Society (JHES) in late 1908, going on to edit its quarterly journal Evrejskaja Starina (Jewish Heritage), which first appeared in 1909. However, Dubnow’s prominent standing in the field led him not only to cooperate with fellow scholars and activists, but also to several disagreements and antagonisms. In this article, two of Dubnow’s clashes with fellow Jewish historians will serve as springboards for a critical discussion of Jewish historiography in the Russian Empire of the late 1900s and the early 1910s. In 1909, after the establishment of the JHES and the Evrejskaja Starina, Dubnow refused to keep taking part in the editing and publication of the Jewish historical journal Perezhitoe, a joint venture of Jewish scholars and public activists from St. Petersburg and Moscow, the first volume of which was published in December 1908.1 He not only claimed that Perezhitoe was an unscholarly, “popular” publication,2 but undermined its very existence by describing it as a “petty shop” that created unnecessary competition to “a respectable national institution,” namely the JHES.3 Several years later, Dubnow once again used rather sharp language in his criticism of a Jewish Russian historiographical project. In this case, he opposed the scholarly approach of the editors of The History of the Jewish People, a collaborative project intended to result in multivolume research 1

Simon Dubnow was mentioned in the journal’s first volume as a member of its editorial group. For his account of the events, see idem, Kniga zhizni. Vospominanya i razmyshlenya. Materialy dlya istorii moego vremeni [Book of Life. Reminiscences and Reflections. Material for the History of My Times], St. Petersburg 2004, 326 (Russ.). 2 Idem, Critics and Bibliography, in: Evreijskaja Starina 1 (1909), 289–302 (Russ.). 3 Saul Ginsburg, the editor of Perezhitoe, cited these expressions in a letter to Pesakh Marek, a member of the journal’s editorial group. State Archives of the Russian Federation (henceforth GARF), F[ond] 9533, O[pis’] 1, D[elo] 170, Ginsburg to Marek, 25 March 1909 [Microfilm at the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (henceforth CAHJP), HMF 554]. In his letter to Marek, Dubnow used a slightly different wording. See GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 182 [CAHJP, HMF 555], Dubnow to Marek, 15 March 1909. The dates here and below are given according to the Julian calendar. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 15–33.

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on the history of the Jews with a special focus on Eastern Europe.4 Rejecting an invitation to take part in this project, the future author of the History of the Jews claimed that there was no sufficient scholarly basis for the writing of an all-encompassing history of the Jewish people. Moreover, in his response to the invitation, Dubnow dubbed the editorial group, which included both Jewish and non-Jewish scholars, as “an international gang” (“internatsional’naya kompaniya”) – a degrading expression which was severely criticized in a collective letter from the Jewish participants of the editorial group.5 Dubnow is a relatively well-researched figure, and the author of an extremely detailed autobiography.6 Hence it is not too difficult to offer an explanation for his views and motivations in these cases. His unease with the “competition” posed by Perezhitoe and with the “international” nature of The History of the Jewish People can easily be interpreted as an expression of his national view of Jewish historiography: It should have had a clearly defined national mission, namely the creation and bearing of a modern, secular core of Jewish identity. Rather than turning into a diverse field of research, it had to be a centralized and organized Jewish enterprise.7 Personality issues – Dubnow was not exactly an open-minded and intellectually tolerant person – undoubtedly played a role in these cases, too.8 Thus, in its current state, research on Jewish Russian historiography provides rather persuasive answers concerning Dubnow’s motives and ideologies. However, this is not the case with his opponents, including the unofficial ed-

4 5 6 7

8

On this project, see Avraham Greenbaum, Stages in the Historiography of Russian Jewry, Jerusalem 2006, 64 f. (Heb.). Dubnow, Book of Life, 341 and 360; CAHJP, P1/9, 4, Alexander Braudo et al. to Dubnow, 12 March 1914; GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 275 [CAHJP, HMF 562], Dubnow to Braudo, 25 March 1914. Ibid. For a modern biography of Dubnow, see Viktor E. Kelner, Missionary of History. The Life and Works of Semion Markovich Dubnov, St. Petersburg 2008 (Russ.). See Greenbaum, Stages in the Historiography of Russian Jewry, 40–45; Simon Rabinovitch, Jewish Rights, National Rites. Nationalism and Autonomy in Late Imperial and Revolutionary Russia, Stanford, Calif., 2014, 157–162. See also Anke Hilbrenner, Simon Dubnov’s Master Narrative and the Construction of a Jewish Collective Memory in the Russian Empire, in: Ab Imperio  4 (2003), 142–164; Simon Rabinovitch, The Dawn of a New Diaspora. Simon Dubnov’s Autonomism, from St.  Petersburg to Berlin, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book (2005), no. 1, 267–288; Jeffrey Veidlinger, Popular History and Populist History. Simon Dubnov and the Jewish Historical and Ethnographic Society, in: Avraham Greenbaum/Israel Bartal/Dan Haruv (eds.), Writer and Warrior. Simon Dubnov: Historian and Public Figure, Jerusalem 2010, 71–86 (Heb.). See e. g. Brian Horowitz, Simon Dubnov’s “Dialogue” with Heinrich Graetz and Abraham Harkavy and the Struggle for the Domination of Russian-Jewish Historiography, 1883– 1893, in: Greenbaum/Bartal/Haruv (eds.), Writer and Warrior, 49–70, here 68 f.

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itor of Perezhitoe, Saul Ginsburg (1866–1940),9 and some of the members of the collective editorial group of The History of the Jewish People – Alexander Braudo, Pesakh (Pyetr) Marek, Yisroel (Sergey) Tsinberg, and others. Did they share Dubnow’s view of Jewish historical research as the core of Jewish national self-definition? And if they held other views on the objectives of Jewish historiography, what exactly were their views? One might assert that they belonged to the cohort of Jewish historians of Russian legislation who aimed to document the development of the legal status of the Jews in the Tsarist Empire and to establish the case for Jewish emancipation.10 However, neither Perezhitoe nor The History of the Jewish People paid special attention to legal issues and to the government’s Jewish policies. Saul Ginsburg was a lawyer by education and even engaged in limited legal practice in the 1910s,11 and yet, as the editor of Perezhitoe, he stated on different occasions that the journal would be devoted first and foremost to the social and cultural history of the Jews in Russia.12 The question of Dubnow’s opponents’ approach to the research of Jewish history therefore remains open. This question will guide the discussion in the following pages. Instead of focusing solely on the most known and documented Jewish historical association of the period, the JHES, I will present a synoptic view including less known groups such as the editorial circle of Perezhitoe and the writers and editors of The History of the Jewish People. Assuming that the practice of history – and specifically the practice of Jewish history in late imperial Russia – is rooted not only in broad ideological constructions but also in specific local notions and practices, I would like to look “from below” at the making of Jewish Russian history. I will discuss the following dimensions of the Jewish Russian historians’ activities: First, their idea of Jewish history and its social, cultural, and national objectives; second, their connections to non-Jewish Russian social activists and historians; and third, their connections to the contemporary Jewish public sphere in Russia. I propose that Ginsburg, Marek, and other significant players in the field of Jewish Russian historiography in the 1900s and 1910s did not adopt a national, meta-historical vision of Jewish history; neither did they regard it merely as a   9 On Ginsburg’s place in the editorial circle of Perezhitoe, see Alex Valdman, Saul Ginsburg and the Non-Radical Pattern in Jewish-Russian Historiography, in: Zion 80 (2015), no. 4, 521–549, here 524 f. (Heb.). 10 Benjamin Nathans, On Russian Jewish Historiography, in: Thomas Sanders (ed.), Historiography of Imperial Russia. The Profession and Writing of History in a Multinational State, Armonk, N. Y., 1999, 397–432, here 404–407. 11 Due to the Russian government’s legal restrictions imposed on Jews, Ginsburg became “legally registered” more than fifteen years after his graduation from the university, see The National Library of Israel, Archives, Jerusalem (henceforth NLI), Arc 4° 1281/A, Saul Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Avraham Paperna, 22 December 1908. Correspondence from subsequent years includes letters related to Ginsburg’s legal practice. 12 See Saul Ginsburg, From the Compliers, in: Perezhitoe 1 (1909), i–iv (Russ.).

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tool for promoting the emancipation of the Jews in Russia. Rather, they saw historiography as an essential and integral part of Jewish public action, designed to promote the welfare of the Jewish public in Russia and to ensure the existence of a committed and sustainable Jewish Russian elite.

Perezhitoe between Nationalism and Integrationism This section will discuss the historical approach and ideology of the editors of Perezhitoe, especially of Saul Ginsburg, who served as editor in chief. The four volumes of Perezhitoe were published in St. Petersburg in 1908, 1910, 1911, and 1913, with preparations for the fifth volume hampered by World War I.13 The journal’s editorial group included prominent Jewish researchers and public activists: S. An-ski (Shloyme Zaynvl Rapoport; 1862–1920), Naum Botvinnik (1872–1939), Alexander Braudo (1864–1920), Yulii Gessen (1871–1939), Shmuel Kamenetsky (1876–1942), Pesakh Marek (1862– 1920), and Yisroel Tsinberg (1873–1939).14 Not all of them took part actively in the editing of Perezhitoe. Ginsburg was, undoubtedly, the most active member of the editorial group, in fact shaping the journal’s contents.15 As mentioned, Dubnow took part only in the preparation of the first volume of the journal, until the establishment of the JHES and the Evrejskaja Starina. Ginsburg and his colleagues wished to produce a publication that would hold relevance for the contemporary problems of the Jews in Russia. These objectives influenced the choice of the journal’s name. The correspondence between Ginsburg and Marek (who unlike the other members of the editorial group lived in Moscow and not in St. Petersburg) reveals that Ginsburg rejected the “somewhat archaic” name Evrejskaja Starina (“Jewish Heritage”) that was probably proposed to the editorial group by Dubnow.16 Marek did not like the name either, claiming that this name would not be a good fit for a journal focusing mostly

13 The main obstacle to the publication of the fifth volume was a lack of funds, see GARF, F.  9533, O.  1, D.  170 [CAHJP, HMF 554], Ginsburg to Marek, 8  December 1916 and 17 January 1917. 14 For a detailed discussion on the members of the editorial group and their biographies, see Alex Valdman, The Historical Almanac “Perezhitoe.” Background, Contexts and Influ­ ences (unpublished Master’s thesis, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Be’er Sheva 2010), 3 f. and 38–40 (Heb.). 15 See e. g. Daniel Pasmanik’s account on Perezhitoe: idem, Perezhitoe, in: Rassvet [Dawn], 5 April 1913, 34 (Russ.). 16 This name was chosen for the journal of the JHES that was established and edited by Dubnow. GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 170 [CAHJP, HMF 554], Ginsburg to Marek, 9 March 1907.

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on modern Jewish Russian history. Marek suggested several alternative names, including the name Perezhitoe (The Lived Through)17 that was finally selected for the journal. Marek noted that the most appropriate name would have been Byloe (which can be roughly translated as “The Past”), “were it not already in use.”18 Marek’s reference to Byloe, a “revolutionary historical journal” published by supporters of the Revolutionary movement in Russia since 1906, is indicative of his vision concerning the direction of Perezhitoe. In the late 1900s, Byloe was considered a highly innovative historical journal both because of its focus on the history of the Russian Revolutionary movement and because of the ideological and political relevance of its contents to contemporary Russian social and political realities. The publication of this journal, which gained considerable popularity among the readership in Russia, was halted by the Tsarist authorities in 1907.19 Perezhitoe was not intended to be a “revolutionary historical journal” – even though Ginsburg and other members of the editorial group clearly sympathized with certain anti-government groups and ideologies in Russia.20 Nevertheless, Byloe served as a model for the editors of Perezhitoe. Rather than its political line, it was the historiographical direction of this Russian journal that attracted the attention of Ginsburg, Marek, and their partners: its focus on relatively recent events and the effort to write history directly relevant to contemporary social and political realities. This relevance was not understood by the editorial group of Perezhitoe in terms of political orientation. The contents of the journal’s four volumes do not seem to follow a clear political line: Its contributors included both Jewish So-

17 Two other translations have been suggested: “Experience” by Gabriella Safran and “The Past” by Zachary Baker. See Gabriella Safran, Timeline. Semyon Akimovich An-sky/ Shloyme-Zanvl Rappoport, in: idem./Steven J. Zipperstein (eds.), The Worlds of S. AnSky. A Russian Jewish Intellectual at the Turn of the Century, Stanford, Calif., 2006, xxiv; Zachary M. Baker, Judaica in the Slavic Realm, Slavica in the Judaic Realm. Repositories, Collections, Projects, Publications, New York 2003, 35. The latter translation is similar to Ginsburg’s translation of Perezhitoe into Hebrew. The Hebrew historical journal He-Avar (The Past) which he edited between 1917 and 1918 was, in his words, “Perezhitoe in Hebrew.” For Ginsburg’s translation of the name “Perezhitoe” as “He-Avar,” see e. g. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Hirsch Lourie, 12 September 1910. For mentions of He-Avar as “Perezhitoe in Hebrew,” see GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 170 [CAHJP, HMF 554], Ginsburg to Marek, 26 November 1916, 8 December 1916. 18 GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 117 [CAHJP, HMF 540], Marek to Ginsburg, 12 March 1907. 19 On Byloe, see Felix Lur’e, Treasurers of the Past. The Journal “Byloe.” History, Editors, Publishers, Leningrad 1990 (Russ.). 20 See the discussion on their political sympathies below.

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cialists such as Alexander (Sergei) Zeldov-Nemansky21 and Boris Frumkin22 and Genrikh Sliozberg, a Jewish liberal conservative.23 Moreover, Ginsburg’s correspondence reveals that he made systematic efforts to publish materials on the Zionist movement in Russia. He wrote to Moshe Leib Lilienblum, Alter Druyanow, and Yehoshua Hana Ravnitsky and other Zionist leaders and activists, . asking to contribute to Perezhitoe articles, memoirs, and primary sources.24 At the same time, he tried to publish a part of the memoirs of the prominent Orthodox activist Yaakov Lipschitz.25 Not all of Ginsburg’s efforts succeeded, but they clearly indicate that he regarded Perezhitoe as a truly non-partisan publication. Ginsburg’s visible efforts to remain politically neutral were by no means exceptional; after all, neutrality and objectivity were then, and are still now, a powerful source of discursive authority in historical research. However, a fundamental commitment to neutrality does not preclude adherence to a certain interpretive framework or a general ideological commitment. Such scholars of Jewish Russian history as Ilia Orshansky (1846–1875) or Dubnow adhered, along with a clear commitment to the principles of scientific, “objective” research, to a broad ideological, meta-historical framework (emancipatory in the case of Orshansky, national-autonomist in the case of Dubnow). But did such a framework exist in the case of Ginsburg and Perezhitoe? What was the raison d’être of the “small shop” that competed with the “respectable national organization” led by Dubnow? In the preface to the first volume of Perezhitoe, Ginsburg stated that it aimed to “raise among the reading public the level of knowledge about the past of our people.” “These goals and tasks,” Ginsburg added, were especially appropriate at a time “when the need for self-study and cultural self-esteem is growing among the Jewish public.”26 This intention to turn first and foremost to Jewish readers was also clearly reflected in Ginsburg’s correspondence with potential contributors to Perezhitoe. In other words, the journal deliberately aimed at a Jewish audience in Russia and wished to focus on cultural and social rather than on legal and governmental issues. Here, the apologetic tendency – that is the desire

21 A. N. [Zeldov-Nemansky], The Creation of “Arbeiterstimme” (from Personal Reminiscences), in: Perezhitoe 1 (1908), 264–275 (Russ.). 22 Boris Frumkin, Zubatovshchina and the Jewish Workers’ Movement, in: Perezhitoe  3 (1911), 199–230 (Russ.). 23 Genrikh Sliozberg, Baron G. O. Gintsburg and the Legal State of the Jews, in: Perezhitoe 2 (1910), 94–115 (Russ.). 24 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Lilienblum, 28  May 1909 and Ginsburg to Druyanow, 24 January 1909 (and later letters); NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Ravnitski, 3 July 1910. 25 NLI, Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Lipschitz, 2 December 1909. 26 Ginsburg, From the Compliers, ii.

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to shape the image of Jews and Judaism in the eyes of non-Jews, often attributed to Jewish historiography in Russia – was rather insignificant.27 However, Ginsburg’s wish to appeal to a Jewish audience and his choice not to adhere to the apologetic patterns of Jewish emancipationist historiography do not essentially indicate a similarity between his approach to the practice of Jewish history and Dubnow’s all-encompassing, meta-historical approach. In answer to a question by the Vilna maskil Hayim Leib Markon concerning the . difference between Dubnow’s Evrejskaja Starina and Perezhitoe, Ginsburg explained that “the aims of the Starina and Perezhitoe are completely different. […] We [Perezhitoe] are interested solely in the cultural life of the Jews and, moreover, limit our work to the second half of the nineteenth century and later.”28 Technically, Ginsburg’s remark concerning the “difference of aims” between the Evrejskaja Starina and Perezhitoe is no more convincing than Dubnow’s claim concerning the non-scientific character of Perezhitoe. In many cases, the two journals published articles by the same authors – Gessen, Marek, Tsinberg, and others – and even published different parts of the same works, such as Boris Frumkin’s research on the Jewish workers’ movement.29 Nevertheless, Ginsburg’s argument concerning the narrower chronological and thematic focus of Perezhitoe reflected a real difference between his historical approach and Dubnow’s. First, it challenged Dubnow’s assumption that a “scientific” approach to Jewish history must maintain an all-encompassing, meta-historical view of the Jewish past; in at least one case, Dubnow deliberately connected the “popular” nature of Perezhitoe to its “failure” to “encompass all the parts of Jewish history and ethnography in Poland and Russia.”30 Second, Ginsburg did not share Dubnow’s national interpretation of the Jewish past.31 In one of his letters to the writer and literary critic Avraham Paperna (1840–1919), Ginsburg noted: “There are many possible answers to the question of whether we [the Jews] have a future, whether we can or cannot keep our national particularity, when assimilation flows into every single aspect of our lives. But one thing is clear: we have a past, and we must fixate it.”32 27 On the interrelation between Jewish histography and the contemporary discussions of Jewish emancipation, see Benjamin Nathans, On Russian Jewish Historiography, 402. 28 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Markon, 2 June 1909. 29 The first part of Frumkin’s work was published in the third volume of Perezhitoe, see idem, Zubatovshchina and the Jewish Workers’ Movement. On the editing of this research before its publication in Evrejskaja Starina, see CAHJP, P1, Simon Dubnow Archive, 9/1, Frumkin to Dubnow, 15 May 1911. On the parallels between Perezhitoe and Evrejskaja Starina, see also Jeffrey Veidlinger, Jewish Public Culture in the Late Russian Empire, Bloomington, Ind., 2009, 246 f. 30 Dubnow, Critics and Bibliography, 302. 31 On Dubnow’s ideas in the context of contemporary Jewish historiography, see Nathans, On Russian Jewish Historiography, 411–417. 32 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Paperna, 6 November 1909.

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These assertions are quite far from Dubnow’s national pathos. They even evince a certain pessimism about the future of the Jewish people, similar to that of the early nineteenth-century Wissenschaft des Judentums in Germany.33 Such interpretation would, however, contradict the clear indications that Ginsburg and his associates attributed a certain public Jewish weight to their work: They did not study Jewish history as a relic of a disappearing past, regarding it rather, not unlike their role-models in Byloe, as an essential source of influence on the Jewish public. Such a stance must have relied on a certain extent of optimism concerning the existence of a Jewish society, at least in the foreseeable future. To summarize, Ginsburg and his fellows in the editorial group of Perezhitoe did not write self-sufficient “history for the sake of history.” Their work undoubtedly had certain social and cultural aims. However, these aims were neither derived from an emancipatory nor from a national political agenda. In the following sections, I will show how Perezhitoe, along with certain other contemporary Jewish historiographical projects in Russia, was, first and foremost, a product of notions of social commitment and public activity, maintained by certain circles of the Jewish Russian elite.

Historiography and the Ideologies of the ­Jewish ­Russian ­Intelligentsia Which aspects of Jewish life in the Russian Empire did interest Ginsburg and other members of the editorial group of Perezhitoe? It is important to stress that during his work on Perezhitoe, Ginsburg, who in 1901 published Jewish Folk Songs in Russia, a pioneering project in the study of Jewish folklore in the Russian Empire,34 did not express an interest in the research of Jewish

33 See e.  g. David  N. Myers, Resisting History. Historicism and Its Discontents in German-Jewish Thought, Princeton, N. J., 2003, 23–25. For a discussion of the adherents of this scholarly tradition in imperial Russia, and their political indifference, see Vassili Schedrin, Wissenschaft des Judentums and the Emergence of Russian Jewish Historiography, in: Christian Wiese/Mirjam Thulin (eds.), Wissenschaft des Judentums in Europe. Comparative and Transnational Perspectives (in preparation). 34 Ginsburg published this anthology together with another member of the editorial group of Perezhitoe – Pesakh Marek. Mark W. Kiel, A Twice Lost Legacy. Ideology, Culture and the Pursuit of Jewish Folklore in Russia until Stalinization, 1930–1931 (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Mich., 1991), 455–465; James Loeffler, The Most Musical Nation. Jews and Culture in the Late Russian Empire, New Haven, Conn., 2010, 64 f.

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folklore and ethnography.35 Neither did he share S. An-ski’s romanticist idea of folklore as a formative essence of Jewish national culture that must be collected and preserved to maintain and strengthen Jewish collective identity.36 Accordingly, the four volumes of Perezhitoe included only a handful of ethnographic and folkloristic materials. The publication of An-ski’s programmatic article Jewish Folk Art, a milestone in the research of Jewish folklore in the Russian Empire,37 was no more than a notable exception. At the same time, the contents of Perezhitoe reveal systematic attention to questions of Jewish public activism and to the emergence of modern Jewish elites. This thematic focus is also clearly reflected in the correspondence of Ginsburg, who served as the editor of Perezhitoe and was the main driving force behind its publication. During the years it was published, he wrote to many dozens of Jewish activists from different corners of Jewish society and from across the Tsarist Empire. Unlike An-ski, he did not focus on the collection of cultural artefacts, but wished to document personal stories and experiences. A long-time Jewish activist and a founder and former editor of Der fraynd, the first Yiddish daily in Russia,38 Ginsburg used his connections to encourage writers, journalists, and lawyers to contribute to Perezhitoe. His efforts resulted in the writing and publication of such important works as the memoirs of the writer and educator Avraham Paperna or the lawyer and public activist Vladimir Harkavy.39 Among the Jewish activists who were addressed by Ginsburg but did not write for Perezhitoe for different reasons were the writers Yaakov Dinezhon and Israel Meir Wohlman,40 the poet Simon Frug,41 the lawyer and activist Menashe 35 In 1907, Ginsburg noted in a letter to Marek that they unfortunately could not afford “the pleasure of a purely historical journal” and that “it must include also works of ethnography and folklore.” GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 170 [CAHJP, HMF 554], Ginsburg to Marek, 9 March 1907. 36 See e. g. David S. Roskies, S. Ansky and the Paradigm of Return, in: Jack Wertheimer (ed.), The Uses of Tradition. Jewish Continuity in the Modern Era, New York/Cambridge, Mass., 1992, 243–60, here 253–259; Gabriella Safran, Wandering Soul. The Dybbuk’s Creator, S. An-sky, Cambridge, Mass., 2010, 142–148; Sylvie Anne Goldberg, Paradigmatic Times. An-sky’s Two Worlds, in: Safran/Zipperstein (eds.), The Worlds of S. AnSky, 44–52, here 50 f. 37 Safran, Timeline, xxiv. 38 On this newspaper, see Alexander Frenkel, The Rise and the Dawn of “Der fraynd.” The First Daily Yiddish Newspaper in Russia (1903–1914), in: Arkhiv evreiskoi istorii [Archive of the Jewish History] 6 (2011), 104–122 (Russ.); Sarah Abrevaya Stein, Making Jews Modern. The Yiddish and Ladino Press in the Russian and Ottoman Empires, Bloomington, Ind., 2004, 24–54. 39 Avraham Paperna, From the Nicholaevan Era, in: Perezhitoe 2 (1910), 1–53 (Russ.); idem, Memories, in: Perezhitoe 3 (1911), 264–364 (Russ.); Vladimir Harkavy, Pieces of Memories, in: Perezhitoe 4 (1913), 270–287 (Russ.). 40 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Wohlman, 5 November 1908, and Ginsburg to Dinezhon, 24 January 1909. 41 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Frug, 9 February 1909.

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Morgulis,42 and one of the leading contemporary Jewish attorneys and public activists in St. Petersburg, Oskar Gruzenberg.43 Ginsburg also approached relatives of deceased Jewish writers and activists of the nineteenth century in an attempt to find new pieces of information, correspondence, and other materials from their personal archives. He wrote, among others, to members of such families of maskilim and intelligentsia as Katsenelenbogen, Mandelshtam, and Kulisher, and to the descendants of the maskilic writer Eliezer Zweifel44 and of Rabbi Shmuel Mohilever,45 one of the early leaders of the palestinophile movement in Russia. These names indicate the issues that most interested Ginsburg when he was editing Perezhitoe: the history of the Haskalah in Russia, the emergence of Jewish Russian public activism, and the appearance of the Jewish Russian intelligentsia. This thematic focus also emerged in the guidelines he sent to potential memoirists. For instance, the main topics he suggested for the memoirs of Wohlman and Paperna included the so-called “government-sponsored Haskalah” of the 1840s, the Jewish rabbinical seminaries in Vilna and Zhytomyr, and the struggles of the early maskilim in the Pale of Settlement.46 However, the “thematic elitism” of Ginsburg and Perezhitoe does not appear to be simply a product of the alienation of Jewish historians in Moscow and St. Petersburg from the Jewish life in the Pale of Settlement. Ginsburg’s letters to potential writers and correspondents appear rather as an interaction between fellow Jewish writers and activists than a dichotomous contact between a researcher and his object of study. In the late 1900s and early 1910s, Ginsburg conducted a trilingual correspondence that reflected not only his extensive connections but also a deep, nuanced understanding of Jewish society in the Pale. He addressed rabbis and communal functionaries in Mogilev, Bobruisk, and other localities in the Pale in an old Hebrew style.47 In one case he even presented himself as “Saul, son of Frida Ginsburg from Minsk,” an autobiographical reference that reiterated his ability to feel and act as an “insider” despite his location outside the Pale.48 42 43 44 45 46

NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Morgulis, 2 February 1910. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Gruzenberg, 2 February 1909. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Kasyan Zweifel, 5 April 1909. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Osip Mohilever, 1 March 1909. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Wohlman, 5 November 1908, and Ginsburg to Paperna, 6 November 1908. 47 In his efforts to find materials for his research on the Napoleonic invasion, Ginsburg even addressed Yosef Yitshak Shneerson, the son of the leader of the Lubavitch branch of Hasidism and his future successor. This contact was arranged, as Ginsburg mentions in his letter, by Shmuel Trainin, a wealthy member of the St. Petersburg Jewish community and an adherent of Lubavitch. NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Shneerson, 1 January 1912. For other letters in Hebrew addressed to local activists, see e. g. Ginsburg’s letters to religious functionaries from the town of Dubrovna: NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Hirsh Tumarkin, 11 August 1909, and Ginsburg to Sheinkin, 2 August 1909. 48 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Hirsh Lourie, 12 September 1910.

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Letters in Yiddish were addressed to the veteran Yiddish writer Yaakov Dinezhon and to proponents of the emerging Yiddishist culture such as Shmuel Rosenfeld (1869–1943), his former associate in editing Der fraynd,49 or the staff of the Kletskin publishing house in Vilna.50 In this way, Ginsburg’s correspondence shows that his scholarly choices were not based on an elitist detachment from the Pale of Settlement. On the contrary, it was a certain mode of attachment that led him to focus his interests on the history of Jewish activism and Jewish elites. Furthermore, the focus of Ginsburg and of Perezhitoe on these topics was not just a side effect of certain social ties, but rather a conscious ideological and historiographical choice. Ginsburg was undoubtedly interested in issues other than the history of modern elites, but preferred to leave these topics beyond the scope of Perezhitoe. While preparing the second and third volumes of the journal, he worked intensively on a study of the Jewish experience of the 1812 Napoleonic invasion to Russia, a subject that was clearly related to the history of Jewish encounter with the Russian regime, and not only to internal Jewish social and cultural history. This study was published in 1912 in a separate book intended to appeal to a non-Jewish audience in Russia, highlighting the Jewish participation in the Patriotic War of 1812 during its centennial celebrations.51 This book was therefore to play a totally different role than Perezhitoe. In one of his letters to Alexander Braudo, Ginsburg noted that only a small part of the materials he gathered on 1812 – “the ones relevant to the Jewish public” – would find its way into the journal.52 It is clear, therefore, that the focus of Perezhitoe on Jewish activism and Jewish elites was far from being coincidental: it rooted in a certain historiographical approach, shared by Ginsburg and by at least some members of the journal’s editorial group. The desire to create a visible and relevant history of the Jewish Russian elite was a realization of a Narodnik-like impulse of the Jewish intelligentsia to inspire and nurture new generations of socially committed Jewish elites.53 It was a rather modest historiographical vision that, as Ginsburg put it, did not have 49 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Rosenfeld, 3 February 1910 (and later letters). 50 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to the Kletskin publishing house, 20  August 1912 (and later letters). 51 Saul Ginsburg, The Patriotic War of 1812 and the Russian Jews, St.  Petersburg 1912 (Russ.). On the apologetic aspects of the book, see e. g.: NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Marek, 26 December 1911. See also Benyamin Lukin, The War of 1812 in the Memory of Russian Jewry, in: idem./Ilia Lur’e/Mikhail Greenberg (eds.), Year 1812 – Russia and the Jews, Moscow/Jerusalem 2012, 7–58 (Russ.). 52 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Braudo, 24 November 1911. 53 Parallel objectives were shared by S. An-ski, but his scholarly approach was rather different, see Mikhail Krutikov, The Russian Jew as a Modern Hero. Identity Construction in An-sky’s Writings, in: Safran/Zipperstein (eds.), The Worlds of S. An-Sky, 119–136, here 126 f.; Safran, Wandering Soul, 142–148 and 166–169. An-ski was listed as a member of the editorial group of Perezhitoe, but did not take an active part in its editing.

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a clear answer to the question of “whether we can or cannot keep our national individuality.”54 It did, however, rely on a firm belief that regardless of the longterm perspectives of national revival or assimilation, the existence of a committed Jewish elite was crucial for the wellbeing of Jewish society in present-day Russia.55 These ideas, typical of the contemporary Russian and Jewish Russian intelligentsia,56 were clearly manifested in the publications of the Jewish Democratic Group. This was a moderate, non-Marxist left-wing political circle established by some of Ginsburg’s closest collaborators in Perezhitoe and in other frameworks of Jewish public activity, such as Braudo, Botvinnik, and Kamenetsky. The members of the Democratic Group did not formulate radical Jewish national objectives, aiming instead along with the demand for emancipation and democratization of Russian and Jewish public life to broaden and encourage modern Jewish social, cultural, and educational activism. Ginsburg, though not an active member of the group, shared most of its ideas.57 In its historiographical approach, Perezhitoe fitted exactly to these ideological premises. To return to the analogy between Perezhitoe and Byloe, one might describe Ginsburg, a Jewish activist writing about Jewish activism, as somewhat akin to Vladimir Burtsev (1862–1942), the editor of Byloe, a revolutionary who wrote and published on the Russian revolutionary movement. As in Burtsev’s case, Ginsburg’s interest in Jewish elites expressed not merely a scholarly interest, but an effort to enhance involvement and activism. The understanding of the ideological motivations of Perezhitoe’s editors provides an essential basis for the discussion of the intended social function of the journal and of the historical research itself. In the following sections I will focus on the social context of Ginsburg’s historiographical practice as well as that of 54 See the letter cited above: NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Paperna, 6 November 1909. 55 For a broader discussion of this notion, see Valdman, Saul Ginsburg and the Non-Radical Pattern in Jewish-Russian Historiography. 56 In the Jewish context, these views were shared by adherents of different political and ideological streams, from Socialists to Zionists. See e. g. Kenneth B. Moss, Jewish Renaissance in the Russian Revolution, Cambridge, Mass., 2009, 14–22; Taro Tsurumi, “Neither Angels, nor Demons, but Humans.” Anti-Essentialism and Its Ideological Moments among the Russian Zionist Intelligentsia, in: Nationalities Papers. The Journal of Nationalism and Ethnicity 38 (2010), no. 4, 531–550. 57 On the Jewish Democratic Group, its history and ideology, see Vladimir Levin, From Revolution to War. Jewish Politics in Russia, 1907–1914, Jerusalem 2016 (Heb.), 167–172. See also Valdman, The Historical Almanac “Perezhitoe,” 46  f. Tsinberg, another member of the editorial group who did not belong to the Democratic Group, shared its main ideo­logical premises, including sympathies with the ideas of the moderate leftist Russian intelligentsia. See Galina A. Eliasberg, Someone from the Former St. Petersburg. S. L. Tsinberg. Historian of the Jewish Literature, Critic and Publicist, Moscow 2005, 274–290 (Russ.).

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several other contemporary Jewish historians. I will discuss their ties to non-Jewish literary and activist circles and, subsequently, present their connections to the contemporary Jewish civil society in Russia.

The Russian Context of Jewish Russian Historiography Perezhitoe was published by a group that included only Jewish members. However, Ginsburg’s correspondence and other archival sources show that he and his colleagues maintained rather intensive contact with non-Jewish writers, scholars, and activists. The non-Jewish connections of one of the members of the editorial group, S. An-ski, are already well known, but in this sense An-ski, whose participation in the actual editorial work was merely symbolic, was not an exception. For instance, Alexander Braudo had extensive connections to both governmental and oppositional circles in St.  Petersburg. As a senior librarian at the city’s Imperial Public Library, he also maintained extensive relationships to Russian literary circles and, specifically, to the left-wing Russian intelligentsia. Braudo not only took active part in Jewish public activities in Russia – he was, among other things, a central figure in the dissemination in Western Europe of news on anti-Jewish policies and violence in Russia – but also played a dominant role in one of the major political scandals of the time: the exposure of Evno Azef, one of the leaders of the Social Revolutionary Party, as a double agent of the Tsarist secret police.58 Jewish activism was in Braudo’s case an integral part of involvement in the civil society of contemporary imperial Russia.59 Unlike An-ski or Braudo, Saul Ginsburg was not deeply involved in non-Jewish activism, although his correspondence does reveal rather intensive connections with non-Jewish Russian scholars, writers, and publishers. One of his constant correspondents was the historian Konstantin Voyensky (1860–1928), who specialized on the history of the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. Ginsburg provided him with information and documents on Jewish-related issues, while Voyensky

58 Victor Kelner, One Must Work without a Let-up. Aleksandr Braudo and the Jewish National Movement, in: Kristi Groeberg/Avraham Greenbaum (eds.), A Missionary for History. Essays in Honor of Simon Dubnov, Minneapolis, Minn., 1998, 93–100. For a collection of autobiographical notes and articles dedicated to Braudo, see [n. a.], Alexandr Isaevich Braudo, 1864–1924. Essays and Recollections, Paris 1937 (Russ.). See also Genrikh B. Sliozberg, Issues of Past Days. Notes of a Russian Jew, Paris 1933–1934, 3 vols., here vol. 3, Paris 1934, 118–121 (Russ.). 59 On the term “civil society” in the Jewish Russian context, see Vladimir Levin, From Revolution to War, 404.

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assisted Ginsburg in finding Russian primary and bibliographical sources.60 The working contacts between the two developed into a friendly relationship: Ginsburg’s letters reveal that Voyensky helped to arrange the admission of Ginsburg’s son Michael to the prestigious Demidov Law Lyceum in Yaroslavl.61 Ginsburg was undoubtedly well acquainted with other members of the Russian intellectual elite. Letters from the 1910s mention, for instance, his conversations with the linguist Jan Baudouin de Courtenay and with Leonid Ludwig Slonimsky, the editorial secretary of Vestnik Evropy, one of the leading Russian thick journals, which published a book review by Ginsburg in 1913.62 Some evidence even suggests that Ginsburg’s wife Bronislava worked as a secretary in the editorial office of this journal – which might attest again to the personal ties that existed alongside scholarly professional relations.63 Furthermore, Ginsburg’s family ties provided him with another significant connection to the Russian elites: He was a brother-in-law to one of the Granat brothers, prominent publishers that issued the Granat Encyclopedic Dictionary, a rather popular, innovative and progressively inclined encyclopedia.64 From 1908 on, Ginsburg collaborated in the encyclopedia as a writer and editor.65 These details on the connections of Ginsburg and some of his colleagues to non-Jewish intellectual circles provide at least three insights on the ideological and social backgrounds of non-Dubnowian Jewish historiography in Russia. First, the possibility to cooperate with an “international gang” in order to write Jewish history – as Dubnow dubbed the collaborators in the collective History of the Jewish People – seems to be a continuation of an existing social trajectory rather than an unprecedented crossing of national borders. The collaborative work on The History of the Jewish People – that involved such prominent Russian scholars as Venedikt Miakotin and Mikhail Rostovtsev66  – appears 60 NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 2/1, Ginsburg to Voenskii, 10 June 1912. 61 CAHJP, [uncatalogued letter], Ginsburg to Voenskii, 29  August 1913. I am grateful to Benyamin Lukin for sharing this document. 62 Slonimsky (1849–1918) was the son of the prominent Jewish educator, publisher, and inventor Hayim Zelig Slonimski, see Yehuda Slutsky, The Jewish-Russian Press in the Nineteenth Century, Jerusalem 1970, 106 and 108 (Heb.). 63 A letter acknowledging her employment in the journal was issued on 10 September 1918 (Gregorian calendar): NLI, Ginsburg Collection, 11/2, Ginsburg’s personal papers. 64 See the records on Ginsburg’s family members in NLI, Arc 4° 1281/A, Ginsburg Collection, 11/2, Ginsburg’s personal papers. On the Granat publishing house, see Sergey  V. Belov, The Granat Brothers, Moscow 1982 (Russ.). 65 His collaboration on the encyclopedia is visible in his correspondence, see NLA, Arc 4° 1281/A, Ginsburg Collection, 1/3, Ginsburg to Alexander Granat, 4 November 1908 (and later letters). 66 On Miakotin as a possible contributor to the History, see GARF, F. 9533, O. 1, D. 170 [CAHJP, HMF 554], Ginsburg to Marek, 30  September 1914. Rostovtsev served as a reviewer of one of the articles written for the History: NLI, Ginsburg Collection, Arc 4° 1281/A, 2/2, Ginsburg to the Mir Publishing House, 18 April 1916.

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to be an integral part of a border-crossing network of scholarly and personal connections. Second, the extensiveness of the ties between Jewish historians and non-institutional Russian literary and academic circles suggests that there is a need to regard Perezhitoe and The History of the Jewish People not only in the ideological context of Jewish historiography in Russia, but in view of non-institutionalized Russian literary, social, and historical research, which ranged from the revolutionary-inclined Byloe to the moderately liberal Vestnik Evropy. The notions of social commitment and intellectual activism that, as I showed above, shaped the historiographical approach of Perezhitoe also exerted a formative influence on Russian scholars. Not unlike Ginsburg and his colleagues, such activists of the Russian intellectual field as the Granat brothers, Venedikt Miakotin, or Vladimir Burtsev regarded social and historical research as a profound tool of social influence and change and as an important educational channel.67 Therefore, the influence of these ideas on Jewish historiography may be explained not only by internal ideological developments of Jewish Russian thought, but also as a fruit of constant contact between Jewish and Russian activists. Third, the connections to the field of Russian historiography are indicative not only of the ideological approach of Ginsburg and other Jewish historians but also of the political apologetic potential of Jewish research in the Russian imperial context. As we have seen, Ginsburg and his colleagues had rather extensive connections to Russian publishers, editors, and writers. They could, and in fact did, publish various materials in leading Russian journals.68 Moreover, the Jewish intelligentsia had at its disposal a publishing house that was intended to appeal first and foremost to the non-Jewish readership in Russia. This publishing house, Razum, was established after the Revolution of 1905–1907 by a group of liberal Jewish activists, mostly belonging to the Jewish People’s Group, a liberal political fraction that was close in its ideas to the Russian Constitutional Democratic Party. The Democratic Group and the circle around Perezhitoe were represented there by Alexander Braudo.69 It seems therefore that Ginsburg and his fellow historians did not need Perezhitoe or other Jewish historical publications as a mean of addressing a Russian au67 For a discussion of these trends in Russian historiography, see Viktor Berdinskikh, Historians from the County. Russian Provincial Historiography, Moscow 2003, 31–38 (Russ.). For a discussion of contemporary Russian historiography as a field of public activity, see Vera Kaplan, Historians and Historical Societies in the Public Life of Imperial Russia, Bloomington, Ind., 2017, 154–181. 68 On An-ski’s publications, see Safran, Timeline, xxv–xxvi. On the publications of Gessen, see Valerii Gessen, The Historian Iuli Gessen and his Relatives, St. Petersburg 2004, 148–157 (Russ.). 69 It was Braudo who assisted Ginsburg in publishing his work on the Napoleonic invasion of Russia in Razum. See NLI, Ginsburg Collection, Arc 4° 1281/A, 2/1, Ginsburg to Braudo, 24 November 1911. On Razum, see Levin, From Revolution to War, 158 f.

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dience: Their connections and organizational abilities provided them with much more effective ways of doing so, from the leading Russian thick journals to an especially designated publishing house. To summarize, the publishers of Perezhitoe were deeply integrated in non-Jewish literary, political, and scholarly circles and were moreover profoundly influenced by certain social and cultural stances of the Russian intelligentsia. In a sense, Perezhitoe – as a means of creating a usable past for the new generation of Jewish intelligentsia – was a realization of these positions. Simultaneously, in view of this deep integration, it is clear that Perezhitoe and other Jewish historiographical projects such as The History of the Jewish People were not essentially regarded by their creators as effective means of influence on the Russian society.

The Practice of Jewish History in the Context of Jewish Civil Society If Ginsburg and his colleagues indeed understood their historical enterprises as a mode of Jewish public activism, there is also a need to draw a general picture of their Jewish public activities. As several scholars have recently shown, the years after the suppression of the Revolution of 1905–1907 were the golden age of Jewish “civil society” in the Russian Empire. Thanks to significant eases in the government’s regulations on the establishment of voluntary societies and other organizations, a multitude of Jewish cultural, educational, charitable, and other societies flourished in different parts of the empire. Simultaneously, alterations to censorship regulations allowed the establishment of new Jewish newspapers and journals in Russian, Yiddish, and Hebrew.70 Both Perezhitoe and the JHES were fruits of these new, relatively liberal policies of the Tsarist government. However, in these days historiography was not the exclusive arena of Jewish public activity for Ginsburg and his colleagues. For example, Ginsburg, Kamenetsky, An-Ski, and Tsinberg were members of the Executive Committee of the Jewish Literary Society71 that was established in the second half of 1908, in the context of which they conducted extensive activity in the field of Jewish culture. Along with the central branch in St. Petersburg, dozens of branches were created throughout the Pale of Settlement. These held meetings, classes, and lectures on a variety of literary, philosophical, and social topics. By 1911, the socie70 See Levin, From Revolution to War, 13–15; Veidlinger, Jewish Public Culture in the Late Russian Empire, 8 f.; Rabinovitch, Jewish Rights, National Rites, 120–126. 71 Veidlinger, Jewish Public Culture in the Late Russian Empire, 123. Dubnow took part in the establishment of this society, too. However, he did not play a leading role in its activities, see Dubnow, Book of Life, 324.

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ty’s burgeoning activities had become a source of concern for the authorities, and in the summer of that year the society was forced to shut down. As Jeffrey Veidlinger showed in his study of Jewish public culture in late imperial Russia, this society and its branches served as hubs of Jewish intellectual activity and therefore played an important role in the initialization of Jewish cultural activities throughout the Tsarist Empire.72 Accordingly, the active membership in the head branch of the society provided Ginsburg and his colleagues with an effective channel of cultural influence. Another Jewish public organization in which members of the editorial group of Perezhitoe gained significant influence was the oldest and one of the most important Jewish societies: The Society for the Promotion of Culture among the Jews, known by its Russian acronym as OPE. Established in 1863 by members of the Jewish plutocratic elite in St. Petersburg, in the early twentieth century this society supported a network of Jewish schools and libraries and acted as a main pillar of Jewish educational policies and activities in the empire.73 Ginsburg served as secretary of this society from 1897 to 1903, when he began to publish and edit Der fraynd. Ginsburg’s substitute as the secretary of the OPE was none other than Shmuel Kamenetsky – another member of the editorial group of Perezhitoe.74 The fact that Ginsburg and Kamenetsky took a leading part in the activities of the OPE and especially in the “consultations with the representatives of the branches” (an annual forum to discuss ideological and methodological issues with educators from around the empire) attests to their ability to influence, and even to lead, Jewish educational strategies on an all-Russian scale. A significant mode of interaction with – and influence on – the Jewish public was available to historians from St. Petersburg and Moscow through the Jewish press. Almost all of them published in Jewish newspapers and journals on a regular basis: Ginsburg had this possibility as an editor of Der fraynd, and Tsinberg contributed regularly as a critic to Voskhod and later to Evrejski mir.75 Others, such as Kamenetsky and Botvinnik, published in Vestnik Obshchestva rasprostraneniya prosveshcheniya mezhdu evreyami v Rossii, the journal of the OPE, while Gessen published historical sketches in different newspapers and journals. Ginsburg and Tsinberg also served as members of the editorial board of the Di yidishe velt – a thick journal in Yiddish established in 1912 in St. Petersburg.76 After resigning as editor of Der fraynd in 1908, Ginsburg published in various Jewish papers and journals on historical and other themes. Remarkably, his newspaper publications were devoted, as a rule, to topics that did not fit into the 72 Veidlinger, Jewish Public Culture in the Late Russian Empire, 122–140. 73 On the history of OPE, see Brian Horowitz, Jewish Philanthropy and Enlightenment in Late-Tsarist Russia, Seattle, Wash./London 2009. 74 For details, see Valdman, The Historical Almanac “Perezhitoe,” 40–42. 75 See Eliasberg, Someone from the Former St. Petersburg, 235–308. 76 See Rabinovitch, Jewish Rights, National Rites, 153 f.

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thematic framework of Perezhitoe. In the Zionist weekly Rassvet, he for instance published a series of articles on legal and legal-historical issues,77 and an article on the roots of the Jewish community in Sweden.78 His other articles in Rassvet and Evrejski mir were dedicated to literary and cultural events such as the anniversaries of the literary activity of S. An-ski and Simon Frug.79 Jewish civil society and the Jewish press evidently provided Ginsburg and other Jewish historians with quite effective channels of influence on the Jewish social and cultural dynamics outside of St. Petersburg. Historiographical activity was, in this context, only one and not essentially the most influential tool. It is doubtful whether anyone expected Perezhitoe  – or any other scholarly publication on Jewish history  – to gain wide readership among the general Jewish public. We have seen, however, that neither Ginsburg nor his fellow editors and scholars addressed their work to the broad public: They were writing the history of the Jewish elites, keeping the upbringing of the new generations of these elites in mind.

Conclusion This article attempted to turn the customary scholarly discussion of Jewish historiography in Tsarist Russia on its head. Rather than focusing on questions of politics and meta-narrative, it examined the historical research in its specific social and ideological context. This contextualization sheds light on some overlooked social and ideological aspects of Jewish Russian historiographical activity in the years after the first Russian Revolution. The analysis of Saul Ginsburg’s and other historians’ connections to the Russian intelligentsia and of their participation in Jewish civil society showed that historiographical activity was only one of the channels of public expression and activism available to them. The fact that they could publish in leading Russian and Jewish periodicals and, no less importantly, could influence Jewish cultural and educational dynamics in the framework of Jewish civil society, proves that their historiographical work did not have to bear an immediate political or apologetic burden.

77 Saul Ginsburg, From the Legal Practice, in: Rassvet, 7 November 1910, 9–11, and 3 April 1911, 28 f. (Russ.). 78 S[ha’ul] G[insbur]g, On the Swedish Jewish Old Times, in: Rassvet, 18 September 1911, 26–28 and 3 October 1911, 21 (Russ.). 79 Idem, S. A. An-ski, in: Rassvet, 3 January 1910, 8–12 (Russ.); idem, Anniversary of the Heart, in: Rassvet, 31 October 1910, 12–14 (Russ.).

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In the case of Ginsburg and his fellows in the editorial group of Perezhitoe, historiographical thought and practice were deeply influenced by their self-assertion as members of a socially committed Jewish elite. By contrast to common clichés, their elitism did not result in geographical and social alienation from Jewish society. On the contrary, their elitism and their sense of social commitment were in fact two sides of the same coin. Not unlike the adherents of the Russian Narodnik ideologies, they regarded the fostering of a viable, socially committed Jewish elite as a pressing Jewish social need. The creation of Jewish Russian historiography was one of the ways to respond to this need; the writing of history served, in this way, an essential aspect of their Jewish public activism. From this perspective, Perezhitoe, the History of the Jewish People, and other contemporary Jewish historiographical endeavors in the Russian Empire do not appear to be a mere development of the Dubnowian national historical approach or of the integrationist research of Ilia Orshansky and the historians of the legal aspects of the “Jewish question” in Russia. They were rather a response to the fundamental questions that preoccupied the Russian and Jewish Russian intelligentsia in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Dan Miron

The “Sholem Aleichem” Tonality – Rhythm, Mobility, Humor “From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.” (Job 2:2)

Exuding energy and talent young Sholem Aleichem burst upon the yet unformed scene of the new Yiddish writing (the so-called “modern” or “new” Yiddish literature) in the 1880s. These were years of upheaval and drastic changes for the community the young writer addressed and entertained – the Yiddish speaking Jews of Eastern Europe. The majority of these lived within the confines of the Tsarist Empire, the earth of which shook under the feet of its Jewish subjects, sending ever-widening waves of distress, fear, alarm. The shock, which eventually knocked the community into the economic, political, and cultural shape it assumed until the 1917 revolutions, had been caused by different trends and historical processes, all of which had been present and active already during the rule of Alexander II, but now, in the wake of the Tsar’s assassination in 1881, their pace was greatly accelerated and their impact suddenly felt as unbearably severe. Of these, two stood out as most ominous: One was the viral and often murderous antisemitism, as witnessed by the pogroms, wide-spread throughout the Southern parts of the Empire, which had been triggered by the monarch’s violent death and allowed to continue, practically unchecked by the authorities, for two years (1881–1882). The other was the devastating pauperization of traditional Jewish shtetl society, due to the changes brought about by large-scale Capitalist economics, which were then making wide inroads throughout the Empire and quickly obliterating the remnants of its feudal past. The majority of shtetl Jewry, consisting of middlemen and go-betweens, the connective link between local rustic populations and nearby primitive commercial centers, were part of that feudal past. Hence their depiction in the literature of the time as utterly penurious, completely dysfunctional economically and socially, sunk in lethargy, idleness and hazy pseudo-messianic bitokhn (confidence). There were other contemporaneous developments which influenced the political and social life of Russian Jewry, but more than all others these two – instilling a sense of physical insecurity and political impasse due to endemic antisemitism, and the falling apart of traditional Jewish economy were changing the Russian Jews’ understanding of their human condition. What in the past had been perceived as an accumulation of bitter gzeyres JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 35–59.

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(evil decrees), which eroded but could not undermine traditional Jewish life, now morphed into a gloom-and-doom existential awareness, demanding activism and a redefining of the meaning of that life through volitional change. A mass emigration, mostly to North America, was the most obvious result of this new awareness. So was a massive process of urbanization within the borders of the Empire, which sent middle-class Jews out of the Pale of Se­ttlement and accelerated the gradual degeneration of the traditional shtetl way of life. At the same time, an outburst of ideological, political and cultural energy, much of it born of desperation, took place. Modern Jewish nationalism was born, sweeping aside the wilting aspirations of the Jewish Enlightenment to win political emancipation through the absorption by Jews of the social norms of European humanism and their acceptance into a liberal non-Jewish host society. Nationalism itself forked into various trends, some Zionist and Hebraist, the others non-Zionist and even anti-Zionist. A Jewish Socialism was taking form, aspiring to join the non-Jewish forces of the social revolution without cutting off its Jewish collective moorings, and at the same time launching in Yiddish a revolutionary national culture. These developments, together with other ones, related but not identical, redefined and greatly energized Russian Jewish culture and literature in Hebrew, Yiddish, and Russian. A politicized and semi-modernized middle class with traditional education offered Hebrew writing a new, vibrant reading public. Jewish nationalism influenced important representatives of the already acculturated intelligentsia and elevated Yiddish, a language despised by the Jewish Enlightenment. At the time, with literacy spreading through ever larger sections of the Jewish masses, Yiddish was used mainly for purposes of entertainment, but ready to serve as a vehicle for what was then perceived as an authentic folk-literatur, and eventually as a fully-fledged national literature. Sholem Aleichem was the native child of this period, thoroughly informed by its heady mixture of anxieties and aspirations, of sentimentalism, laughter through tears, and the sense of impending tragedy. He would evolve as the quintessential Eastern European Jewish writer of the decades between the mid-1880s and World War I, to be rivaled in that respect only by one other Jewish writer, the Hebrew poet Bialik  – both writers were deeply appreciative of each other’s work. However, the representative status they shared was of different kinds, predicated on both writers’ being the supreme explorers of the artistic possibilities inherent in two very different languages: Hebrew and Yiddish in their respective conditions at the end of the nineteenth century. There was also a common denominator between the two, which will be mentioned later. At this point, however, we need to focus on Sholem Aleichem and the particular form his exploration of the potential of Yiddish set him apart from other Yiddish writers of the time. Indeed, he was very different from both his predecessors and contemporaries with whom

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he is usually associated through a misrepresentation of the core of his work. For instance, he was both stylistically and thematically very distant from the chief Yiddish-Hebrew writer of prose fiction of the former generation, Sh. Y. Abramovitsh, whom he himself regarded as his mentor (referring to himself as the grandson of “grandfather Mendele”) and as whose chief disciple he is represented by Yiddish literary scholars, with the difference of having shifted from satire to humor. In truth, the two were essentially unlike each other. Whereas Abramovitsh was a novelist who mastered an epic, slow, descriptive tone to draw wide, detailed painterly panoramas of Jewish life in Ukraine of the1850s and 1860s, Sholem Aleichem’s mimetic talent was quite limited; a limitation which artistically undermined most of his novels, with the exception of one or two written very late in his career (the best of them was his Jewish “theater novel,” Wandering Stars). Instead, Sholem Aleichem sported from the very beginning of his career a narrative tonality which was nervous, quirky, vivacious, hilariously funny, on occasion grotesque, and often resembling a loquacious and disorderly speech. This tonality he put to excellent use in anti-novels such as the Tevye sequel of monologues, the Menakhem Mendl series of confused and misinformed letters, and the Motl, Son of Cantor Peyse breathless celebratory effusions about the pleasures of his own orphanhood and his family’s total impoverishment, as well as the shtetl’s general demise and the hurdles in the path of the shtetl’s refugees, the immigrants roaming Western Europe on their way to America, which he sees as exciting adventures. Furthermore, whereas Abramovitsh focused since the very beginning of his career as a Yiddish writer in the 1860s on the impoverished shtetl as a “breeding farm” producing hungry children to be exported as merchandise to commercial centers where they would be exploited, sold to brothels and forcefully conscripted into the Russian army (he also dedicated one of his major novels to a horrific description of the Jewish beggarly underworld), Sholem Aleichem, throughout the early half of his career, remained in the comfort zone of the traditional and semi-traditional middle class. There, he could dwell on topics such as marriages, love, both within and outside the boundaries of wedlock, the elevating but also socially destabilizing force of art, particularly of music, and the virtues of realism versus pseudo-romantic, boulevard-style narration of the vulgar entertainment Yiddish writing of the day. In this sense, as in so many others, he sharply differed also from his contemporary and rival Y. L. Peretz, who, as soon as he assumed the role of a writer of Yiddish prose fiction in the early 1890s, gauged the depths of the desperation of shtetl (as well as city) dwellers caused by their systematic pauperization, and followed the fissures which split the Jewish community along class affiliations and inevitably triggered internal friction. Sholem Aleichem was not interested in class struggle. He did not approach the topic

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of Jewish dire poverty before 1900, when he had already gone through half of his career; and even then, he was interested mainly in the poverty of the déclassés, members of the lower middle class who, due to changing circumstances, lost their economic security but held on with all their might to remnants of their erstwhile middle-class status. In addition, writers of the 1880s – again Abramovitsh offers the best examples  – were deeply interested in the pogroms and the havoc they had wrecked. Abramovitsh wrote about the devastated shtetl in the wake of the pogroms and, with a mixture of irony and empathy, the futile attempts of shtetl people to realize the Zionist dream and become farmers in Palestine. Mordkhe Spektor, Sholem Aleichem’s contemporary and friend, depicted (particularly in his novel Aniyim ve’evyoynim, a Jewish Les Misérables) the confusion and disorientation which led to unplanned emigration with all its consequences, such as vagrancy, beggary and prostitution. Sholem Aleichem would come to these “burning” social topics of the 1880s mainly after the failed revolution of 1905 and the new wave of pogroms it triggered, when he himself and his extended family left the Tsarist Empire and were reduced to the status of emigrants stranded in the shifty sands of the Jewish emigration path throughout Western Europe. It was only then that he wrote his largescale emigration stories, such as Motl, the Son of Cantor Peyse or Wandering Stars. At this late point, even Tevye the Dairyman, the protagonist and narrator of several of Sholem Aleichem’s short stories, who until then had never budged from his little khutor (farm) near the shtetl of Anatevke, was pushed out of the home he had inhabited throughout his life and thus ended the cycle of his monologues as a refugee in the middle of nowhere, aimlessly moving together with a multitude of other Jews who had just lost their homes; but the themes of pogroms, exile, emigration, and social and geographical disorientation had been at the center of Eastern European Jewish writing since the early 1880s, i. e., the very moment of Sholem Aleichem’s arrival upon the Jewish literary scene. He certainly was in this sense a “Johnny-come-lately.” For a very long time, well into the twentieth century, he circumvented these topics as much as he could, and by all indications he did this intentionally. The intentional character of the evasion can be deduced from the social scene portrayed in his early works, particularly in his first successful opus which at the time ascertained his popularity, a series of satirical feuilletons published mainly in 1884 under the title Letters Stolen at the Post Office. This early work, rife with the echoes of Lucian satire and its neo-classical imitations, consisted of a “crazy” exchange of letters between a person who had lost his sanity and another one who had just died and was now roaming, together with a newly found friend, who had also died recently, through the vast spaces of limbo, while somehow also keeping on his correspondence with the living. Eventually, the two dead persons assumed the role of trave-

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ling, indeed flying, reporters. Soaring above earth and then swiftly parachuting down into various Ukrainian Jewish communities, they quickly gathered the local gossip the best tidbits of which they reported in their letters: mainly news about scandals – communal and private. Everywhere they visited they heard groans and sighs. Jews were ceaselessly bemoaning the worsening of economic conditions reducing them to penury. They often mentioned the pogroms but those, as well as their consequences, were never dwelt upon in the letters. Arriving, for instance, in Balta, a Ukrainian town where one of the most brutal pogroms had taken place only a few years earlier, they cut short their visit there, noting in their letter: “Because of the well-known pogrom which took place here, I dreaded to spend here more than half an hour.”1 Thus the report from Balta was left truncated, and the devastation which the hooligans had left behind remained unreported. Clearly, Sholem Aleichem, although he was already at this juncture (and would remain throughout his life) a committed Zionist, decided not to dwell on the reality of pogroms and their destructive legacy, to which contemporary Zionist leaders, writers and journalists, such as Leo Pinsker, Moshe Leib Lilienblum, and Peretz Smolenskin, were at the time pointing as the ultimate proof of the accuracy of the Zionist diagnosis of the national malady and the efficacy of the remedy it offered. His first detailed pogrom description did not occur before the publication in 1907 of his “pogrom novel,” Der mabl (The Deluge), which, when included in his collected works – in a much shortened and far less excited version – was renamed: In shturm (In the Storm).

A New Tonality At this point, the question begs itself: If he evaded the topics his best contemporaries considered essential, how could Sholem Aleichem represent the new Jewish literary culture which emerged in the 1880s, let alone be hailed as its quintessential representative, as close to its spiritual core as was Bia­ lik? On the right answer to this question depends the true understanding of his work and its meaning. Groping after the answer, one should start by taking leave of the century-long critical tradition which identified the meaning of his work with its mimetic contents; i. e., the tradition which understood his œuvre as a social-historical panorama bathed in empathetic humor, a vast

1

See Sholem Aleichem, Di oyfgekhapte brif oyf der post [Letters Stolen at the Post Office], in: idem, Ale verk [All Works], 3 vols., here vol. 1: Verk fun di yorn 1883–1886 [Works of the Years 1883–1886], Moscow 1948, 126.

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canvas thickly filled with the portraits of quaint Jewish “types” and recording current social developments. Of course, Sholem Aleichem’s work abounded with descriptions of people and places, of mores and manners; but in that respect, as a social chronicler of his time, he was, as the writer and critic Yosef Hayim Brenner keenly observed, “just another writer,” one of many.2 His . uniqueness, his genius, inhered somewhere else. As a matter of fact, much of the “solidity” of his mimetic art was illusory. As much as his mythical shtetl Kasrilevke (which appeared rather late in his career) was above all else a figment of the imagination, a construct in which historical and social ingredients were transmogrified into a symbol which was supra-historical, so were the famous characters he created: Menakhem Mendl and his spouse Sheyne-Sheyndl, Tevye the dairyman, the “bewitched” Taylor Shimen from A Story without an End, Motl, the son of the cantor, and the characters doing the speaking in the author’s best stories written in the form of the monologue, a genre which became his forme maitresse. By and large, it was through the tonality, the music, of his writing, rather than its mimetic and social contents, that Sholem Aleichem conveyed something like a pure, distilled essence of the Zeitgeist, and that tonality, not the sociological portrayal, incorporated what was culturally and psychologically new and overwhelmingly urgent in the collective Jewish-Ashkenazi mood during the hectic decades between the 1880s and the Great War. In this respect, mainly, his trajectory paralleled that of Bialik; for the great poet’s supreme achievement did not inhere in the sheer Zionist contents of his poems, or in his well-known portrayal of the struggle between traditionalism and modernity. Bialik’s immensely important contribution subsisted in the musical expression of the new Jewish subject going through the severe pangs of a difficult psychological birth, of the way this Judeus novus experienced his being torn alive out of the womb of historical Jewish collectivity and gradually achieving self-awareness as an individual. That self-awareness found utterance not so much in the ideational contents of the poems but rather in their melodic quality (always juxtaposing melodic fluency with euphonic and rhythmical obstacles) and in the subtle associations the poet knew how to elicit from the words he used. What was then the gist of the new tonality Sholem Aleichem introduced into Jewish writing? This is the question which must be answered before we indulge in the rather threadbare generalizations about Menakhem Mendl as the representative of the Jewish Luftmensch, or Tevye being the characteristic traditional Jewish optimist, relying on the good-will of a personal God, and being thus psychologically protected from the severe blows history, his daughters and above all else, his own gullibility and need for recognition as 2

See Yosef Hayim Brenner, Leshalom Aleichem (1916), in: Ketavim [Writings], Tel Aviv . 1977–1985, 4 vols., here vol. 4, 1422–1428.

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a scholar (which he is not) inflicted upon him. Indeed, the real Tevye, i. e., the one Sholem Aleichem created by letting this protagonist of his speak for himself through eight lengthy monologues  – rather than the Jewish Zorba presented by Broadway entrepreneurs in Fiddler on the Roof – is not at all that kind of jolly good fellow. He is a person who must save his soul from the devastation which killed his wife and one of his daughters by spinning a thick and colorful cocoon of verbiage; i. e., by being an artist who could sublimate the affect produced by horrendous catastrophes and weave it into a most lively narrative yarn, chock-full of clever observations, delicious double entendres, and intentionally subversive interpretations and translations of the holy texts. The Sholem Aleichem tonality totally informed Tevye’s narrative mannerisms and self-serving exhibition of cleverness. In a somewhat different way the same tonality informed Menakhem Mendl’s letters and Motl’s childish announcements. Thus, it could and it did imbue tales completely different from each other contents wise; which proves it was not the contents, social and psychological, which dictated the kind of narrative music these tales produced, but rather the music as the dominant element penetrated the various contents and brilliantly enlivened them. As much as it was fully absorbed into the quite different fabrics of which the tales were made, it remained the same Sholem Aleichem frequency; a frequency relayed as if from a transmitter which had been embedded in the infrastructure of the author’s art, and from there informed with its own rhythms and characteristic intervals the changing narrative surfaces of the various texts. To use Saussurean linguistic terminology, it is the unchanging langue which controls and shapes whatever parole a speaker wishes to communicate. It is immediately recognizable, no matter how unprepared we are and how accidental our encounter with it is. We know it as we would know a musical phrase by Beethoven or Chopin when we accidentally overhear it being played by the radio of a passing car. What is then this indelible frequency? Of what does it consist? First and foremost of wild mobility which can adopt various guises and modalities. To start with, such mobility is the quintessential characteristic of the persona “Sholem Aleichem” itself, who controls every piece of narration in the author’s works which is not put in the mouth of a monologist or ascribed to the epistolary pen of a certain letter writer. Quite a few of the author’s early feuilletons, in which the essential characteristics of the persona “Sholem Aleichem” emerged, were started with a quotation from the book of Job: “From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.” (Job 1:7) First came the Hebrew original, and then an intentionally archaic Yiddish translation, which reminds one of the Yiddish translations of the Hebrew sentences or quotations in the traditional genre mayse bikhlekh

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(Ma’aseh Book): “fun shvebendik iber der velt un fun ton geyen oyf ir”3 (from hovering over the world and walking on it). This is, of course, Satan’s answer to God’s question “Whence cometh thou?” with which Satan is confronted as he presumes to join the angels, “the sons of God,” when they present themselves before their Lord. Sholem Aleichem liked Satan’s cleverly noncommittal response and he often used it as he presented himself throughout his early work as something of a funny devil, a convivial joker who nevertheless meant trouble, a lets (a prank-playing minor devil), a meshulakhes (a visitation by punishing angels) or a farshlepte krenk (literally: a chronic disease; metaphorically: a nasty fellow of whom one could not get rid). This “satanic” element was certainly one of the ingredients which went into the making of the persona. But this ingredient was by far less important than the other one contained in Satan’s response, that of total freedom of movement through the earth below and the sky above; an unchecked movement without which he would not be able to play his devilish role of looking everywhere for people he could trip and lead astray, and which nobody but himself, not even God Almighty, controlled. That is why He encounters his evil emissary with genuine curiosity: “Whence cometh thou?” A question He would not have asked, had He known his Satan’s whereabouts. Indeed, the Sholem Aleichem persona appeared in the early feuilletons as if it had just arrived from a very distant location such as Carlsbad or Odessa or even Paris, traversing the distance by express trains or by other unspecified means. Having arrived, the persona would be immediately surrounded by throngs of curious Jews who wished to shake hands, i. e., “give” Sholem Aleichem a “big Sholem Aleichem,” the traditional greeting offered to a guest who had come from afar, and sometimes was actually a stranger to the person who greeted him. In this sense, the very appellation “Sholem Aleichem” is indicative of mobility, distance, and an element of secretiveness which is connected with distance, i. e., with not being known. The persona “Sholem Aleichem” has often been regarded by critics and scholars as a softened version of that other great traveling persona of nineteenth-century Yiddish literature, Abramovitsh’s famous Mendele the Book Peddler. However, in spite of some superficial similarities, the two personae are essentially quite unlike each other. Mendele was a solid fictional character with a real name. He practiced a real profession, that of the itinerant book peddler, traveled within a fairly narrow geographical space, had a wife and children, and hailed from a town which went by the name of Tviashits (Town of Hypocrites). His relations with other 3

See, for instance, the feuilleton Kurtse antvortn af lange frages [Short Answers to Lengthy Questions], in: Sholem Aleichem, Ale verk [All Works], vol. 1: Verk fun di yorn 1883– 1886 [Works of the Years 1883–1886], 470–472.

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people, such as Alter Yaknehoz, also a bookseller, were rendered realistically and with fine nuance. He had some memories of his childhood; his cynicism and irony often gave way to compassion and even sentimentality. In contradistinction, Sholem Aleichem’s name was a mere joke. Made up of the combination of two words, it pretended to start as a real name (Sholem) but then undermined that pretension by the “Aleichem” (on you, with you), and rereading the word which seemed to indicate a real private name as actually indicating an abstract noun: peace. Thus, the combination of the words, while used in lieu of a name, actually meant “peace be with you,” the traditional welcome greeting. This funny play with words was used quite often by the author in comic scenes of misunderstandings (Sholem Aleichem had a penchant for verbal misunderstandings and intentional misprisions) in which people asked for Sholem Aleichem’s name, and when answered believed that their interlocutor was either an idiot or in need of a hearing aid. Sholem Aleichem the persona had no biography and no real personality; he was not a bona fide fictional character. People did know that he dabbled with writing and published articles and stories in the newspapers. While his weekly feuilletons endowed him with the familiarity of a guest for the Sabbath dinner, he was also a stranger, a quasi-mystical entity, a sprite and a spirit, like Shakespeare’s Puck and Ariel.4 The real stuff he was made of was not flesh and blood but rather language, words, volubility; and it was in his flow of conversation, in his loquacity, that his ferocious mobility founds its expression. In the early versions of many of his works, this loquacity reached a point of breathlessness which could be oppressive. This explains why the Sholem Aleichem persona had to be reined-in in the process of the final editing of these early texts as they were prepared for the so-called “Progress” edition of the author’s collected works. And as much as the persona overflowed with streams of locution, some of the archetypal characters the author created even surpassed it in verbal élan. Take, for instance, Menakhem Mendl describing the wonders of Odessa to his wife in his first letter. One can almost hear him gasping for air as he fails to contain the flow of his enthusiastic harangue: “hob ikh tsvantsik toyzend gesheftlekh: vil ikh veyts – iz veyts, klayen – iz klayen, vol – iz vol, mel, zalts, federen, rozhinkes, zek, hering – haklal, vos a moyl kon oysreden”5 (I have twenty thousand little businesses: I fancy wheat – there’s wheat, brans – there’s brans, wool – there’s wool, flour, salt, feathers, raisins,

4

See Dan Miron, Sholem Aleichem. Person, Persona, Presence, in: idem, The Image of the Shtetl and Other Studies of Modern Jewish Literary Imagination, Syracuse, N. Y., 2000, 128–156. 5 Sholem Aleichem, Ale verk fun Sholem Aleichem [All Works of Sholem Aleichem], 28 vols, here vol. 10: Menakhem Mendl, New York 1918, 11.

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sacks, herring – in short, whatever a mouth can pronounce). As a matter of fact, Menakhem Mendl gets carried away by his flow of words to such an extent, that he always forgets while writing his letters to make the point he intended to make or convey the really important piece of information he set out to share with his spouse, and that is why he always adds to his letters substantive postscripts which are felt as anti-climaxes since the writer must replace in them epistolary effusiveness by dull, matter-of-fact and sometimes embarrassing information. In the Motl stories, the sentences uttered by the protagonist, as he excitedly tells about his latest adventure or the mishap in which he was embroiled, are paratactic, short, quick, choppy, paralleling the jumpy physical mobility which Motl himself regards as his chief characteristic. Thus he reports about the joys of the marketplace where horses and their colts are being traded. The colts cannot stand still; “ikh loyf nokh di loshelekh. Ale loyfn mir. Oyf loyfn bin ikh a fayer. Ikh hob zeyer gringe fis. Dertsu gey ikh borves un zeyer laykht ongeton: a hemdl, eyn hoyz, un fun oybn a sitsn arba-kanfesl. Az ikh loyf arop a barg un s’iz a vintl un di tsitsis tselozn zikh, molt zikh mir oys az ikh hob fligl un ikh fli …”6

(I run after the colts. All of us run. In running I am a champion. I have very light legs. On top of that I am barefoot and very lightly dressed: a little shirt, one trouser leg, covered by a cotton mini garment with tassels. When I run downhill, and there is a light wind, and the tassels swing in the air, it seems to me that I have wings and I fly …). Indeed, Motl’s entire story is about running: running away from shriveled and sick old men; from deformed babies; from one’s always crying mother; from the starving and pogrom-devastated shtetl; running through all the hostels and temporary depots prepared for Jewish refugees throughout Western Europe; crossing the Atlantic; roaming through the busy streets of New York, identifying with that ultimate vagabond Charlie Chaplin and mimicking his funny gait; immensely enjoying the city’s jolting elevated trains, which move up in the air like thundering devils and stop at their stations with ear-splitting screeches. Tevye seems to sound a dissonance in the current context. As a hard-working, sedate, and apparently elderly pater familias (although in his first monologues he must be in his early thirties) he should have been circumspect and economic with his words. However, nobody is more gushing and talkative than he is. He is a fellow who lives by linguistic dexterity and trusts its liberating power in moments of confusion, embarrassment, and

6

Idem, Motl Peyse dem khazns. Ershter teyl: fun der heym keyn Amerike [Motl, the Son of Cantor Peyse. First Part: From Home to America], in: idem, Ale verk fun Sholem Aleichem [All Works of Sholem Aleichem], vol. 18, New York 1920, 66.

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daunting challenges, such as in his encounter (in his first monologue) with the rich family whose presents would allow him to become a producer of dairy. As long as the family is celebrating the homecoming of the two women whom Tevye had “saved” (they were lost in the nearby forest) with a sumptuous dinner, he keeps silent, standing forgotten in the less illuminated part of the rich man’s veranda. However, as soon as he is encouraged to tell about himself, whether he is married and has children of his own, nobody can stop his rhyming rigmarole: “Kinder – nit tsu farzindigen. Oyb itlekhes kind iz vert, vi mayn Golde vil mikh araynreden, a milyon, bin ikh raykher fun’m gresten gevir in Yehupets. Der khisorn, zog ikh, vos orem iz nit raykh, krum iz nit glaykh, azoy vi in posek shteyt: Hamavdil beyn koydesh lekhoyl – ver hot di klingers dem iz voyl. Gelt hoben take di Brotskis’ un ikh hob tekhter. Un az men hot, zogt men, tekhter, fargeyt der gelekhter.”7

(How many children? – forgive me for boasting, but if each child of mine were worth a million rubles, as my Golde tries convincing me they are, I’d be richer than anyone in Yehupets. The only trouble is that poor isn’t rich and a mountain’s not a ditch. How does it say in the prayer book? ‘Hamavdil beyn koydesh lekhoyl’ – some make hay while others toil. There are people who have money and I have daughters. And you know what they say about that: better a house full of boarders than a house full of daughters.8) Throughout his stories he talks everybody’s head off. Trying to stop or at least slow him down would be of no avail. His wife, his daughters, his neighbors, his customers learn this the hard way. He goes on prattling, subversively quoting existing or non-existent textual sources, mistranslating, misinterpreting. It is only twice in his life that he confronts talkers who are actually brasher and surer of themselves than he is, and then he is surprisingly, even tragically, silent. Even when struck by the pleading eyes of his dying wife (and by her simple question: “Tevye, I’m dying. Who’ll cook your supper?”9) he keeps fending her off with his pseudo-scholarly prattling. Indeed, his garrulity and need to show off his learning are one of the sources of the many troubles he inflicts upon himself and his family, for the man talks more than he should and sucks up to whomever would listen to him. He loves Sholem Aleichem (the persona) whom he welcomes as “an old friend” simply because the latter would patiently listen to his monologues, giving them his full attention; and that Sholem Aleichem does (as we, the readers, willingly 7 Idem, Ale verk fun Sholem Aleichem [All Works of Sholem Aleichem], vol.  5: Gants Tevye der milkhiker [All Tevye the Dairyman], New York 1918, 30 f. 8 Idem, Tevye the Dairyman  & The Railroad Stories, trans. by Hillel Halkin, New York 1987, 14. 9 Ibid., 98.

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do) because he accepts Tevye’s uncontrolled wordiness as an art form rather than as an attempt at communication. Tevye, as Romain Rolland observed in the introductory essay he wrote for the Hebrew edition of his Colas Breugnon,10 shares with Colas the need for interminable bavardage. Rolland tried to imagine the two elderly prattlers meeting in Palestine and joining in a conversation which would go on forever. The dissonance between the imaginary solidity of Tevye’s character and the fluent liquidity of his speech is, however, illusory. Tevye speaks the way he does because his character is what it is and not in spite of it. He must speak as quickly and as profusely as he can because he is constantly running for cover, for a sanctuary, where he can hide from the awareness of his own passivity, weakness, lack of foresight and circumspection, and from his responsibility for the tragedies which decimate his family. Garrulous speech is, as in the case of so many other monologists Sholem Aleichem created, the colorful insulating stuff Tevye and the other characters wrap themselves with in their search for mental survival. Other monologists, such as the widow Yente, the poultry vendor (the protagonist of the short story The Little Pot), uses her extraordinary talking power as a cover against the full awareness of what her story actually reveals, i. e., that her consumptive son is not destined for a life longer than that of his early departed father, and that therefore she would soon have to face a life devoid of meaning and purpose. Her stream of words, flowing in zigzags and circles, reduces her interlocutor to asphyxiation and loss of consciousness. Thus, both the Sholem Aleichem persona and the chief fictional characters it is surrounded with depend on their verbosity for equilibrium. They must run in order to stay in one place. Their frenzied verbal mobility, as comic in its effect as it is, is not unlike the thrashing around in the water of the unexperienced swimmer, who must either move forward or drown.

Responding to Mobility The verbal velocity we pointed to as an essential ingredient in Sholem Aleichem’s bubbling écriture signifies, however, much more than a mere comic idiosyncratic characteristic of a character or of an individual writer. Rather, it stands for the author’s both intuitive and cogent response to the “objective” historical moment. It also informs the essential “message” his writing conveyed to a huge contemporaneous readership: that was that Jewish weakness called for mobility. As said before, this message was transmit10 See Romain Rolland, Kola Bronyon, trans. by Avraham Shlonsky, Merkhavya 1950.

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ted through tonality rather than thematics, through verbal music rather than mimetic depiction and discursive argument. Thus, it fashioned the author’s unique response to the times; for the times were primarily experienced by contemporary Eastern European Jews as the jolt of sudden mobility. The floor fell away beneath what, for hundreds of years, since the Chmelnitsky massacres of the seventeenth century, had seemed a more-or-less stable home and communal existence tightly held together by the rule of the Halacha and the economics of feudal middlemanship. A static element underwent a radical transformation which urgently demanded from the Jewish individual dynamism of a new kind. The tonality of Sholem Aleichem’s writing was the direct, but also the artistically processed expression of this agitated and at the same time energetic mood. The commensurability of the author’s tonality and the prevailing mood, or the correspondence between the two, made much for Sholem Aleichem’s unprecedented popularity; but its ramification went far beyond that of mere popularity. What it actually came to mean was a bonding of the writer and the people. The former was acutely aware of this, and from the very beginning of his writing career. Thus, in one of the early feuilletons, when asked what he was doing during the weeks he was absent from his post in the newspaper, the persona Sholem Aleichem said that in spite its short disappearances due to travel: “Geven bin ikh tsvishen aykh, mit aykh, neben aykh di gantse tsayt; tsuzamen mit aykh bin geven navenad.”11 (I was among you, with you, near you all the time; together with you I have been a na venad, i. e. constantly wandering.) The language is, of course, that of God’s thundering verdict: Because Cain murdered his brother Abel, he, the yeoman who has invested all his energy in planting and growing vegetables, is now exiled from his fields and sentenced to become an eternal wanderer in the desert, a fugitive, a vagabond – “na venad ba’arets” (Gen. 4:12). Sholem Aleichem’s self-description is therefore pregnant with two complementary meanings. On the one hand, they convey a full awareness of the tragic aspect of the new Jewish mobility; an awareness which would inform his entire work and not only those parts of it which directly focused on emigration with its concomitant woes of disorientation, separation, degeneration of family ties, loss of status through proletarization under barbaric conditions, etc. It would also subtly if indirectly shape other scenes of alienation, of being plucked out of one’s native environment, in the author’s works, such as Jews traveling by trains – a motif he kept developing throughout the last two thirds of his career. He created the Jewish world of the crowded and airless third-class train compartment, where sweaty Jews fight for a seat, talking to each other 11 Sholem Aleichem, Kurtse antvortn af lange frages [Short Answers to Lengthy Questions], 470.

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as well as to the entire company of passengers as the train sweeps through increasingly foreign landscapes of which these Jews are hardly aware. Since all of them still speak Yiddish, they can presumably communicate with each other. However, misunderstandings and intentional miscommunication gradually undermine their conversation. They really know nothing about each other, and their flow of native Yiddish often becomes the mask under which the crook, the impostor, the arsonist, the professional gambler in search for a victim, and the downright criminal, such as an exporter of poor Jewish girls to South American brothels, hides his real visage. Thus, mobility translates into anonymity, dilution of identity, and anti-social behavior. On the other hand, all of these are counterbalanced by a burst of activity where inactivity equals sickness, deformity, shriveling and death. In any case, the Sholem Aleichem persona willingly partakes of all the advantages and disadvantages of hectic mobility. It is even ready to exist without a real name as long as it can mingle with those “new” Jews who would not know this purportedly “intimate” friend, even if he divulged such a name. If the persona wishes both to tell about and communicate with these Jews, it must adapt itself to their velocity, share with them the pandemonium and discomfort of train travel, run among them, with them, near them, live without an address, free from family ties, devoid of a biography of its own. Eventually it would have to cross the ocean as a refugee, huddle like other refugees on the lower deck of the ocean liner and listen to their stories. To be on a par with its audience, the Sholem Aleichem persona must constantly accelerate its own pace of telling. At the same time, it is that accelerated pace of telling and the sweeping activation of spoken Yiddish that makes these “new” Jews cherish Sholem Aleichem’s art and single it out as “their” art. Here, in this reciprocity, inheres the covenant, which bonds a community with its poet. The validation of that reciprocity takes us, however, far beyond a literary success achieved through the matching of tonality and Zeitgeist. It was not only for the specific historical moment that Sholem Aleichem found the right expression. The reference to the biblical story of Cain’s wandering as well as to its opposite-correlate, to the “Leykh lekho” (Get thee gone!, Gen. 12:1) story about God’s instruction that Abraham take leave of his homeland and father’s house in search for a promised land (and the title of Tevye’s ultimate monologue), point to the supra-historical significance of the theme of mobility in the author’s work. We hear here the echo of antiquity, of myth, of the archetypal. After all, the exiling of Cain as well as the sending of Abraham on his way to an unknown Canaan have become the essence of Jewish fate once Jerusalem’s Temple had been destroyed and the ancient Jewish commonwealth vanquished by the Romans. Jews have become the na venad of the world, and their survival depended on their mobility, on knowing in their bones when it was time to leave their various host homelands, in spite of hav-

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ing struck deep roots there, and move to places where they could serve their God and find sustenance in relative security. At the same time, they would not let go of their eschatology which promised an eventual, supra-historical passage back to the land promised to Abraham. They had thus left Palestine, mostly by their own will and sense of personal urgency (only a small part of them had been literally exiled by the Romans; the others left on their own accord as life in Palestine became increasingly difficult and dangerous) and dispersed throughout the then known world; they left Spain and moved to the Eastern Mediterranean; they left the German principalities and fiefdoms and migrated to the Slavic East. Now they were repeating the same maneuver by emigrating in ever growing numbers from Eastern Europe to the West, mainly to North America. Thus, the mobility and speed of Sholem Aleichem’s writing echoed not only the most recent and still ongoing upheaval, but the tenor of Jewish exilic existence at large. The bubbly energy incorporated in the writer’s Yiddish texts presented in a condensed form the overall pace and rhythms of that historical existence. In one of his so-called “new Kasrilevke” tales, Sholem Aleichem told how the shtetl, its synagogue, house of study and ritual bathhouse included, were burnt to cinder in one sweltering summer night. Since the indigent community did not possess even a token-sum of the funds needed for rebuilding these institutions so essential to the continuance of normal religious and familial life, the local rabbi, Reb Yozefl, a great scholar but naïve as a child in all practical matters, decided to travel together with some of the more worldly inhabitants of Kasrilevke to nearby Kiev, the capital of Ukraine, and there search for wealthy donors whose good Jewish heart would not let them watch indifferently a Jewish community going under. Sholem Aleichem lovingly depicted the provincial group, untrained in walking on stony sidewalks and crossing thoroughfares packed with moving vehicles, roaming the busy avenues of the city, their eyes raised awestruck to the tops of the tall buildings, and their capotas (overcoats) made of atlas silk, a bit tattered and threadbare, but still shiny, glinting in the sun. Lost in the urban jungle, these innocents abroad hold on with all their might to the one single accessory which could restore their balance: their heavy umbrellas or parasols (whether they were meant to serve in winter or in summer was left unclear), which, tightly folded, could be used as reliable walking sticks. The narrator, focusing on these accessories, made the following observation: All shtetl Jews when they leave their homes equip themselves with “strangely oversize” parasols, supposedly meant to serve as protection from rain but also as a sunshade. However, they hardly ever opened them up, whether it rained or the sun was glaring. Indeed, it was quite difficult to unfold these huge gadgets, and if it happened that the coiled spring was unintentionally touched and activated, and the umbrellas did open up and stretched to their full capacity, then it would be impossible

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to re-fold them and bring back the gadgets to their original state. Rather, the umbrellas would now become parachutes and soar when driven by the wind: “Dos kon aykh, kholile, oyfhoybn un avektrogen ineynem mit’n zontik vaytvayt aroyf, unter der khmare, kimat vi ayn eroplan …”12 (It can then, God forbid, raise you in the air and carry you away together with the parasol far far up, under the cloud, almost like an airplane  …) This was a comic but also archetypal symbol. Its mythical significance could be detected already in the fact that the voyage of the Kasrilevke delegation had been caused by a devastating summer conflagration, which is referred to in the story in biblical terms: “A koyl in himl tut zikh hern! Di tokhter Kasrilevke veynt oyf ir groysn umglik – zi vil nisht treysten – zi hot oysgetrunken dem biteren koys fun got’s hand – a fayer hot aropgenidert fun’m himl un ongetsunden di shtot fun eyn ek biz’n anderen ek.”13

(A cry is heard in heaven! The daughter Kasrilevke bewails her huge misfortune – she refuses to be comforted – she drank the bitter cup God’s hand tendered – a fire descended from heaven and consumed the town from end to end.) The sentences are composed of pieces of biblical texts stuck together, such as Jer. 31:15; Lam. 2:2; Isaiah 51:17, etc. Even where this pastiche style was used for parodic purposes (as it was in many cases, including the one discussed here) it evoked a pathetic analogy which served as the core of the presentation of the shtetl in much of what can be termed “the shtetl literature” in both Hebrew and Yiddish: The shtetl is a mini-Jerusalem, a tiny yidishe melukhe (Jewish state) stuck as a state-within-a-state enclave in the midst of the larger and inimical non-Jewish host state. Its destruction by fire symbolized the political-theological destruction of this mini-state, and particularly the destruction by fire of the Jerusalemite Temple, which vouchsafed the ties between the Jewish polity and God.14 Every shtetl fire was potentially a divine Holocaust. Thus Hayim Nahman Bialik explained that the sublime and horrific description of the destruction by fire of the Temple of Jerusalem in the opening chapters of his prose-poem The Scroll of Fire reflected the indelible impressions of a shtetl fire he had witnessed as a seven-

12 Idem, Kasrilevker nisrofim [The Burnt Out of Kasrilevke], in: idem, Ale verk fun Sholem Aleichem [All Works of Sholem Aleichem], vol. 13: Alt-nay Kasrilevke [Old-New Kasrilevke], New York 1918, 11. 13 Ibid., 14 f. 14 See Dan Miron, The Literary Image of the Shtetl, in: idem, The Image of the Shtetl and Other Studies, 1–48.

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year-old, believing then that the entire world was being destroyed.15 Thus the story of the fire in Kasrilevke, comic as it is, was endowed with a theological significance, which, in its turn, enriched the historical contents of the funny umbrellas-parable. Once the Jewish polity was threatened by destruction, the umbrellas-parable activated a symbolic concept of Jewish exilic wandering. The umbrella did not provide the protection for which it had been crafted. Rather, it represented, on the one hand, the cumbersome traditionalism and conservatism of exilic Jews (the gadget was rarely used; it was grotesquely antique and clumsy), but on the other hand it pointed to a hidden potential of activism, which might kick in and revolutionize Jewish existence. Once the coiled spring within the umbrella was touched and set in motion, the umbrella carrier could lose contact with the terra firma of his habitat and get carried away. Even if for many years, perhaps for centuries, this had not happened, still that potential existed, like the coiled spring at the very center of the umbrella, ready, under certain circumstances, to be activated and to carry a person towards untold distances, depending on the wind. Therefore, the Jewish people, while seeming static, stuck in their hamlets and traditional way of life, were potentially mobile, a navenad people. Sunk up to their chins in the bogs of Kasrilevke or Kabtsansk, they were nevertheless waiting for a “lech lecha” (“go” or “leave”) commandment. The instinct of collective flight had been embedded in their DNA. As a poet, Sholem Aleichem was the one who touched the coiled spring and made the narrative umbrella jump and fully extend itself. He thus intuited the existence of a dynamism hidden behind the heavy encrustation of historical lethargy – an invaluable insight, which prepared him for his role as the poet of Jewish modernity.

Sholem Aleichem’s Use of Language With all this as background, we can now shortly address some of the main topics which for more than a century have attracted the attention of the accumulating Sholem Aleichem critical tradition. One of this was the role and status of the Yiddish language as they were revealed by its usage in the works of its greatest literary practician. As indicated before, Sholem Aleichem was a monolingual writer in an age of Jewish literary bilingualism. Not that he willingly accepted this “limitation” of his. He certainly wished to be also

15 See Hayim Nahman Bialik, Mashehu al “Megilat ha’esh” [A Word on “The Scroll of Fire”], in: idem, Devarim sheba’al-pe [Speeches], ed. by F. Lakhover, 2 vols., here vol. 2, Tel Aviv 1935, 30.

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known as a Hebrew and even as a Russian stylist. However, the texts he produced in these languages were wooden and infelicitous. This was not because his control of Russian and particularly of Hebrew was insufficient, but because his genius was inextricably tied with the rhythms and idiomatic dynamism of spoken Yiddish, of which he produced an “ideal” but still earthy, vigorous version. Elevating it to the level of a supreme artistic vehicle, he never uprooted it from the fertile ground of unabashed vernacularism.16 The bilingualism which was successfully practiced at the turn of the nineteenth century by Jewish writers, such as Abramovitsh and Peretz – a topic of great interest in its own right – was supported by a complex system of compensatory equilibrium not unlike that of two elevators, the upward or downward movement of each depending on a movement in the opposite direction by the other. Whereas the idiomatic intensity of Yiddish could never be reproduced in Hebrew, the reverberations of a long textual past filled the linguistic space of a Hebrew text, and these, like the pedals of a grand piano, could be put to excellent use when the pianist-writer was talented and well-trained. In the writing of Sholem Aleichem, however, these compensatory transactions, when employed in a serious-emotive context, usually fell through. They functioned well enough only when used for the purposes of parody (stylistic but, of course, also cultural), as in Tevye the Dairyman or The Bewitched Tailor. Sholem Aleichem, as much as he consciously wished to do it, could never distance himself from vernacularism. Hence, he became the chief exponent of Yiddish literature as a “minor literature” in the sense of the term as redefined by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari.17 Interestingly, Franz Kafka, who was presented by the French philosophers as the paragon of minor literature, also related to Yiddish as a vernacular constantly in search of fluidity and velocity. For instance, after having attended a lecture about Yiddish folksongs he noted in his diary: Whereas in other languages expressions intended to fill gaps in the continuity of the communication actually conveyed the perplexity of the inarticulate speaker, in Yiddish similar stop-gaps, such as Vey’z mir (Poor me/Trouble’s hit me) or S’iz fil tsu redn (There is much to say [about something]) were used “like ever-fresh springs, to stir up the stream of speech, which was never fluent enough for the Eastern-European Jewish

16 That Sholem Aleichem’s use of spoken Yiddish was far from being a mere “copy” of the language as it was actually used, but rather an artistic amalgam based on the models of actual speech was amply shown by many stylistic analyses, most clearly those done by the Soviet-Yiddish linguist Eliyohu (Elye) Spivak and his disciples. See Eliyohu Spivak, Sholem Aleichems shprakh un stil [Sholem Aleichem’s Language and Style], Kiev 1940. 17 See Gilles Deleuze/Félix Guattari, Kafka. Towards a Minor Literature, trans. by Dana Polan, Minneapolis, Minn./London 1986.

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temperament.”18 In the light of scholarly Yiddish philology, this, like Kafka’s other comments on Yiddish, is revealed as problematic. Sholem Aleichem, however, would have embraced it. It certainly dovetailed with his own sense of the language and with the quality he bestowed on it in his works. This leads us to another matter which has already been mentioned, the issue of mimetic and psychological description. As a language which was never fluent and quick enough, and which constantly needed stirring up, Sholem Aleichem’s Yiddish could not serve well as a mimetic tool whose task was to meticulously depict an object (like a landscape, what was referred to at the time as “nature description,” something every Eastern European writer was expected to have mastered). Also, he was unable to convincingly “psychologize”, i. e. project the motivation that explained the behavior of the characters he created in an analytical-discursive argument (another norm the nineteenth century Russian masters set as obligatory). Both, the meticulous depiction and the psychological explanation would have dangerously slowed down the tempo of the telling and also switch the stream of the telling into a linguistic channel which could hardly fit the flowing waters of Yiddish speech, since the words and concepts this channel was made of were foreign to the vernacular, and within the context of Sholem Aleichem’s work the use of these words and concepts would inevitably sound both inauthentic and simplistic. This is why the discussion of Sholem Aleichem’s literary project in terms of mimetic depiction and sociological cum psychological characterization has proven inadequate. This, however, hardly means that the texts in question are not informed by the subtlest psychological understanding and sociological insights. Only these are revealed to us indirectly and non-mimetically, through language as it goes about the business of quotidian usage with no intention of revealing anything other than its intended message. Sholem Aleichem’s art of the monologue often resembles the drama of the psychoanalytical session. The monologist, in transference bonding with the silent interlocutor, most often the persona Sholem Aleichem, verbalizes whatever self-serving story he or she wishes to tell in whatever order (or disorder) that story assumes. In the meantime, he or she unconsciously reveals their most intimate secrets as well as many things they themselves do not know about themselves. The pace of the telling is so quick, and its structure so tortuous, that the speaker can hardly control it, let alone be fully aware of its far-reaching ramifications. Those are conveyed through Freudian slips, unintended off-color hints, word-plays which expose an unsavory aspect of the speaker’s personality, the inappropriate usage of foreign words, semi-conscious self-justification and self-aggrandization which actually amount to 18 Franz Kafka, Diary entry, 24 January 1912, in: idem, Diaries 1910–1913, ed. by Max Brod, trans. by Joseph Kresh, New York 1948, 223.

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self-accusations thinly veiled. All of these are transmitted not in a deliberate, analytical tone or through exhaustive descriptions, but rather haphazardly, as if unintentionally, quickly, idiomatically, and often in a manner which clearly contradict the contents, such as a “light” or “upbeat” or intentionally comic manner of a person who actually relates a heartrending tragic tale. Such is the case of Tevye in most of his monologues or of Motl who proclaims: “Mir iz gut – ikh bin a yosem.”19 (How happy I am – I am an orphan) More drastical is the case of the protagonist of Thousand and One Nights, a late sequel of monologues heard by “Sholem Aleichem” on the lower deck of an America-bound ocean liner, crossing the Atlantic as World War I rages throughout Europe. The monologist is an erstwhile leader of a Jewish community in Western Poland who witnessed his community being laid to waste as it changed hands – first occupied by the invading Germans, then recaptured for a short time by the Tsarist army, then reclaimed by the advancing Germans. In the process, the town was destroyed, the speaker’s wife died, the local rabbi and the speaker’s first-born were executed; his younger son, who had volunteered to the Russian army in order to prove the Jew’s loyalty to the homeland, was said to have been killed in battle, but there also spread rumors about him being alive and on his way to America where the speaker hoped against hope to find him. The story as a whole can be regarded as a precursor of Holocaust literature; but its tonality was thoroughly comic. The speaking protagonist simply could not suppress his habitual gusto and overflowing verbal energy, as much as he could not internalize the fact, that he, the once well-off and influential communal leader, was now a bereaved and penniless refugee whose prospects in the country he strove to reach hardly invited optimism. Sholem Aleichem conducted here one of his most daring experiments, and yet, against all odds, he was never more himself than he was shown to be in this outrageous story of horror and loss: Energetic he was, light-footed, airy, even chipper. Both this indirect conveyance of almost everything through mundane loquacious speech and the often dramatic contradiction between what is being told and the manner of telling left, however, indelible marks on reality as it was reconstructed in Sholem Aleichem’s stories. Space as such, as objectively real, as well as a major aspect of one’s concept of the real and of oneself as part of it, was relatively insignificant in most of these stories. Sholem Aleichem certainly shared what has been viewed as the “sinful” Jewish proclivity to pay small attention to spatial reality and, as a result, lack spatial orientation. Zionism was supposed to atone for this sin and correct the 19 Sholem Aleichem, Mir iz gut – ikh bin a yosem [How happy I am – I am an orphan], in: idem, Ale verk fun Sholem Aleichem [All Works of Sholem Aleichem], vol.  18: Motl Peyse dem khazns. Ershter teyl [Motl, the Son of Cantor Peyse. First Part], 31–40.

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deformation it caused. Some of its chief and most original ideologues, such as A. D. Gordon, the philosopher of what he himself dubbed “Cosmic Zionism,” regarded a Jewish re-awakening to elemental space as the main objective of their movement. In spite of his life-long commitment to Zionism, Sholem Aleichem was in this respect a typical Goles-yid (diasporic Jew), and indeed his œuvre amount to a masterful Jewish exilic interpretation of reality. However, if such an interpretation is assumed to ascribe to Jews a strong sense of the historical past, Sholem Aleichem’s version of it does not confirm this notion. The temporal dimension was always supposed to form the chief and strongest constructive element in the Jewish chronotope. Jews were said to have lived in time rather than in space, by which was meant that they lived in the shadow of their past as it had lingered in the sacrosanct texts they continuously studied. But Sholem Aleichem and the characters he envisioned did not live in the past and often made fun of the sacrosanct texts with their mistranslations and subversive references. True enough, the element they were most attached to was a linguistic one; they saw the world through language. But a linguistic concept of the world is not necessarily a textual one. As a matter of fact, there exists a deep cleavage which separates the linguistic from the textual; for linguistics is occupied with living, quotidian communication, i. e., with language as speech, parole, rather than with langue, the semantic system which renders communication possible; the one embedded in the brain of the child as it starts to communicate through speech. As an intuitive thinker on matters linguistic, Sholem Aleichem was not close to the history of language, and showed little interest in etymologies and other linguistic “origins.” Rather, he was interested in the varieties of expression language offered and what we nowadays call the generative aspect of language; for he was spell-bound by the ever self-reinventing potential of the spoken idiom. As such he could not have strong ties with the past (the single link to the linguistic and cultural past he sometimes held on to was that of parody); for spoken language always functions in the present. Even when one tells of things long past the act of telling cannot break through the walls of the present. As one talks and addresses an interlocutor or an audience, no matter what the temporal dimensions of the contents of this message are, one is deeply immersed in the now, the ongoing interaction between the self and the other. And indeed, almost all of Sholem Aleichem’s best stories are being told in the present tense and by people with a very short, sometimes quite stunted, sense of the past. Menakhem Mendl always writes his letters in the heat of the moment and the ecstasy of the commercial adventure in the midst of which he thinks he is. In spite of his wife being his epistolary interlocutor, he really hardly remembers her and their life together as husband and wife. Only when the aforementioned adventure bursts like a soap bubble he suddenly misses his sedentery life as a family man; but as soon as his

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spirits are uplifted by new commercial expectations he forgets not only his family and recent past, but even the letters he himself had just written. Of his more distant past, his original family, parents, or childhood, he does not say a word, having completely obliterated their memory. Motl is, in this respect, the author’s most characteristic creation. He tells his stories as they occur, and in none of them he knows anything about what’s going to happen in the next episode. This has been explained as resulting from the conditions of the Motl stories publication and the author’s tense relationships with editors or owners of the various newspapers and magazines he worked for, which made him retain the short-story autonomy of each of the Motl episodes.20 But this is hardly convincing, and not only because Sholem Aleichem published in the newspapers, both before and after the publication of the Motl stories, conventionally structured novels divided into many sequels. More important was the fact that the form the Motl stories assumed perfectly dovetailed with their style – breathless, paratactic, expressive of the immediate effect of the events the stories related – and with their message: The past was dead or dying, mired in sickness, psychosis, bereavement, physical deformities, bankruptcy, penury, pogroms, the telltale red color of the eyes of a mother who could not stop crying. Whatever was healthy, adventurous, nimble, free and attracted to food, to young animals and to freedom of movement belonged in the present, and had to be told as it was taking place. Tevye, too, in spite of his faux scholarship and purported interest in the textual sources, exhibited a very short range of memory and actually lived in the present not only as a raconteur, but also as a person who was pressured by the accumulation of unsettling short-range memories and had to depressurize his mind by externalizing these memories through narration. This endowed his occasional meetings with the persona Sholem Aleichem with the importance they possessed. Essentially these were not unlike visits to a confessor or to a therapist. What was of crucial importance in these meetings happened to Tevye (and perhaps to Sholem Aleichem as well) in the present, i. e. the very act of telling and listening, which brilliantly exhibited the process of sublimation into perfect art of a very imperfect life experience. Whatever was flawed in Tevye’s past was now being aesthetically absolved and healed through narration; for the protagonist’s need to tell his tales was identical with his need to get over his feelings of guilt and shame. Sholem Aleichem’s and our need to give Tevye our full attention involved our thirst for the cathartic pleasure

20 See such an explanation in Meir Wiener’s study Di sotsyale vortslen fun Sholem Aleichems humor. Araynfir tsu “Motl Peyse dem khazns” [The Social Roots of Sholem Aleichem’s Humor. Introduction to “Motl, the Son of Cantor Peyse”], in: idem, Tsu der geshikhte fun der yidisher literatur in 19-tn yorhundert [On the History of Yiddish Literature in the Nineteenth Century], 2 vols., here vol. 2, New York 1946, 235–280.

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only art could yield. Both processes, those of sublimation and of catharsis, took place in the present of the situation of telling, not in the recent past in which the events Tevye tells about had occurred. Finally, we have to somewhat redefine the category of humor as it manifested itself in Sholem Aleichem’s writing. Traditionally it has been understood as the author’s great innovation vis-à-vis the tradition of the Enlightenment. The latter had sharply satirized traditional Jewish life rather than forgivingly depicted their many flaws. Satire, according to this still prevalent view, involved the exposure of the flawed other; whereas humor involved the more benign exposure of the flaws of oneself, or of the self as it partook in the flaws of the other. Although the distinction still contains a grain of truth, pointing to it as to the main raison d’être of Sholem Aleichem’s comic art cannot satisfy a contemporary reader. For one thing, whoever acquaints himself with the author’s entire corpus, the plays, the novels and also the early writings from the 1880s, knows that it bristles with satire, often as biting as, but more efficient and subtle than that of the literature of the Jewish Enlightenment. At the beginning of his career, the young author’s onslaughts on the leadership of the shtetl’s community were so fierce that he had to invent the persona and its funny pen name in order to hide his identity. Then he focused on the Jewish nouveaux riches and pseudo-acculturated “aristocrats” and won their visceral enmity. Then he took on other nuisances of various kinds. His Wandering Stars, where the author vehemently took his revenge on the Yiddish-speaking theater on both sides of the Atlantic and exposed its boorishness and inherently unartistic bent, was and still is one of the most acrimonious satirical novels in Yiddish. More importantly, the reams of studies – literary, philosophical, anthropological and psychological – of the comic, the joke and humor, which have accumulated throughout the twentieth century, taught us that the nature of laughter and humor was quite different from the sentimental one ascribed to it in Victorian times, and that it could be anything but forgiving. Henri Bergson, for one, viewed laughter as a punishment, a shaming, inflicted by society upon whomever was seen as undermining intuitive adaptability to changing circumstances by submitting to mechanistic rules and rigidly fixed procedures. Freud understood humor, noble as he said it was, as a narcissistic defense mechanism set in motion by the need to protect the suffering ego and insulate it from the pains and irritations to which it was exposed. The mechanism worked through cathexis, i. e., the moving of a large portion of one’s libido from the ego to the super-ego, thus largely reducing the size of the former and enlarging that of the latter. Once this new allocation of libido had taken place, the super-ego was in a position to console and pacify the cringing ego by presenting the irritants which had been the source of its suffering as negligible and unworthy of consideration, rather in the way an experienced adult

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consoled a child mourning the loss of a worthless toy.21 This view of humor as allowing for the diminution and trivialization of the causes of suffering comes very close to a full explanation of Tevye’s humor, which helps him overcome the many disasters he had faced and in some cases inflicted upon himself by his own deeds: the exiling to Siberia of his favorite daughter; the conversion of the most beautiful and feminine (hence her name Chave, Eve) among them; the suicide committed by the shy and romantic Shprintse; the miserable death of Golde, Tevye’s loyal wife, amongst others. Tevye manages to keep his sanity and mental equilibrium by rendering his suffering ego subservient to a wise and benign super-ego who sublimates the rales of woe into comic narratives. In the Motl stories the procedure is different, one may say diametrically opposed to the one organizing the Tevye cycle. Here, the suffering ego is allowed to wilt and die at the very beginning of the cycle, leaving behind it weak and inefficient representatives like Motl’s weeping mother and his bungling brother Elye, who is not allowed to be strict with the narrator-child because the latter is an orphan. The child is thus set free to satisfy its various appetites, and since the entire ethical order of the shtetl is now falling apart, this freedom – from teachers, from the strictures of a scholarly father, from the demands of socialization, etc. – seems unhampered and eternal. Thus the tale of a community which experiences the tribulations of pauperization, emigration and pogroms can be presented by Motl not as tragic but rather as a hilarious comedy. By and large, Sholem Aleichem’s humor draws its lifeblood from language, from the ebullient Yiddish on which the author forever embossed his signature. He believed Yiddish was an inherently “funny” language, which by its very lexicon and syntax produced a comic view of reality. By this, in itself a legacy of the Jewish Enlightenment and its negative attitude toward Yiddish, he meant that for Yiddish speakers there existed an inherent contradiction between an essentially tragic historical fate and its comic linguistic counterpart, with the latter functioning as the antidote of the former. Yiddish consoled and mitigated; it therefore did not offer a direct expression of Jewish existence, as sentimental Yiddishists maintained. On the contrary, it subverted such expression, transmuting groans of Oy vey (Oh woe) and Vey’z mir into the upbeat and energetic flow of speech which, as Kafka observed, was never quick and fluent enough for “the eastern European Jewish temperament,” the latter finding in mobility and verbal energy the means for somewhat counterbalancing an oppressive and limiting life experience. Language, or rather a certain way of using it, can hide as well as reveal, and the use of 21 See s. v. “Humour,” in: The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. by Anna Freud, trans. by James Strachey, 24 vols., London 1953–1974, here vol. 21, London 1961, 161–166.

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language for the purposes of obfuscating the true and unbearable experience of the real was and still is at least as prevalent as the use of language for the opposite purpose of conveying the essence of that experience. That is why “misused” language has always been the inexhaustible source of comic literature, whose “vitiated” or mistaken representation of reality constantly clashed with the objectively “real” for the exposure of which the implied author of comic fiction, drama and poetry found various means of conveyance, direct and mostly indirect. Sholem Aleichem’s humor derives mainly from this clash between self-serving language and the harsh reality it tries to hide or soften. That is why this humor, as much as it pleases and consoles, should not be confused with genuine optimism, which is sometime ascribed to Sholem Aleichem. Can we say that Yiddish itself, as Sholem Aleichem understood it, i. e., a language seen as inherently “funny,” was also inherently optimistic, in spite of the tales of woe it had to tell? Not necessarily! The comic and the optimistic should not be seen as supporting each other. Indeed, the deeper we delve into the world of the comic the more we realize how this world could be stripped of any faith in a brighter future. As a matter of fact, it often seems that the tragic world, when thoroughly understood, as for instance, by following the entire cycle of the Oedipus dramas, including Oedipus in Colonos, the final link in the chain, seems, as Nietzsche pointed out in The Birth of Tragedy, by far more receptive to visions of eventual harmony and elimination of conflicts than its comic counterpart. Sholem Aleichem, it can be demonstrated, did not possess that much confidence in the future of his people. He certainly did not view the relocation of a sizeable part of it to America as promising a Jewish renaissance. Palestine was still legendary and unreal. He did not even visit it, as so many other writer-celebrities did at the time. The point he made was that Jewish suffering could be counterbalanced by Jewish speech – at least as long as Yiddish was kept alive as a spoken language. What would happen once the language was forgotten or, as actually happened, destroyed? To this question he had no answer. With Yiddish marking the edges, the very borderlines, of his conceptual world, he would not turn his eyes to what lay in waiting beyond these lines. This deep loyalty of his to Yiddish and to the role it played as the spoken idiom of Eastern European Jews, as well as to his own artistic role as the central figure in a “minor literature” in the current sense of the term, is one of the main reasons for the persistence of his impact. Of all Yiddish writers the one most deeply immersed in Yiddish, he is, paradoxically, also the one whose voice most clearly reaches us beyond the abyss of language loss, which is identical with the unspeakable disappearance of its speakers.

Tamás Turán

“As the Christians Go, so Go the Jews” – Hungarian Judaism in Its Denominational Matrix in the Mid-Nineteenth Century The chances of some form of Reform Judaism establishing itself in a given country in Europe depended in the nineteenth century not only on socio­ economic factors and the presence of a political atmosphere receptive to Enlightenment ideas, but also on the makeup of the non-Jewish religious environment. Generally, Jewish religious reform tended to succeed where it found itself surrounded by Protestant rather than Catholic or Orthodox Christian culture. This thesis, advanced in recent decades by scholars such as Michael  A. Meyer,1 was put forward  – perhaps for the first time  – by Abraham Geiger in 1844,2 and later also, in a rudimentary form, by Lajos (Ludwig) Venetianer (1867–1922), a Hungarian Neolog rabbi and historian, in 1911.3 This historiographic thesis is not to be confused with the issue whether Jewish emancipation had better chances in Catholic or Protestant countries.4 Neither should the thesis be confounded with suggested resemblances or analogies between Jewish and Christian religious movements or denominations. From the first decades of the nineteenth century, we find comparisons between “progressive” or “reform” Judaism and Protestantism, or traditionalist Judaism and Catholicism  – primarily by authors mocking 1

Michael A. Meyer, Response to Modernity. A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism, Oxford 1988, 143. 2 Abraham Geiger, Jüdische Zeitschriften (Vierter Artikel), in: Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift für jüdische Theologie 5 (1844), 446–477, here 448–450. 3 “It is interesting that the Jewish liturgical reforms emerged and struck roots in Protestant countries,” while in Catholic countries Jewish liturgy remained conservative. Lajos Venetianer, Istentiszteletünkr ˝ol [On Our Liturgy], in: Magyar Izrael [Hungarian Israel] 4 (1911), 154–161, here 156. See also his related statements cited in the third and fourth subsections of this paper. 4 A Lutheran pastor wrote in a book in the 1830s that due to their shared anti-hierarchical stance, Protestant Christians and “Protestant Jews” can sympathize with each other, concerning equality of rights, more than Protestants with Catholics. By “Protestant Jews” the author referred to contemporary Jews in his state (Hessen) who go through a reformation of their religious life. A reviewer of the book (probably Ludwig Philippson) pointed out that in Catholic lands Jews in fact fare better than in Protestant ones; he also noted (erroneously) that in “Catholic Austria they [the Jews] have complete freedom to transform their synagogal services […].” Robert Haas, Das Staatsbürgerthum der Juden, in: Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums (henceforth AZJ) 1 (1837), no. 72, 286–288, here 286. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 61–93.

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whichever Jewish faction they opposed.5 Although less explicitly, terms such as “Reform” used from the eighteenth century onward in relation to Jews, initially in non-Jewish circles, also belong to these analogies.6 The aforementioned thesis does not enjoy scholarly consensus. In the case of Austrian Jewry, for instance, critics argued that the impact of the religious environment on the development of local progressive Judaism was dwarfed by the socioeconomic and demographic conditions.7 The progressive Jewish movement in Hungary, which was labeled as the Neologs later on, emerged in the 1830s and 1840s, a period called the “Age of Reform” in Hungarian historiography. It strove for acculturation, emancipation, and – adapting to local circumstances – for some religious reforms, more limited and moderate than what was called Reform in German lands. In Hungary, the same period saw economic modernization, the emergence of liberal nationalism, and the beginnings of Jewish urban settlement. Indeed, it was these forces and cir-

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Such as Heinrich Heine, who, in 1834, called the Talmud (and Talmudism) “the Catholicism of the Jews”. See idem, Zur Geschichte der Religion und Philosophie in Deutschland, in: idem, Historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe der Werke, ed. by Manfred Windfuhr in conjunction with the Heinrich Heine Institute on behalf of the state capital of Düsseldorf, 16 vols., Hamburg 1973–1997, here vol. 8: Zur Geschichte der Religion und Philosophie in Deutschland; Die romantische Schule, part 1: Text, Hamburg 1979, 9–120, here 71 f. Heine’s conversion to Protestantism in 1825 was quite a natural outcome of his blend of anti-Talmudism and anti-Catholicism. In 1783 Immanuel Kant remarks in a letter to Mendelssohn on the latter’s book Jerusa­ lem, that it herolds a great “reform,” approaching slowly but safely, “which not only your nation will meet, but others too.” Cit. in [n. a.], Mendelssohn als der Germanisator der Juden in Deutschland. Zum Sterbetag Mendelssohn’s, in: Ben Chananja 5 (1862), no. 1, 1–5, here 2. Berlin maskilim often speak about “reform” and “Reformation” in relation to Jews/Judaism since the late 1780s. See e. g. Saul Ascher, Bemerkungen über die bürgerliche Verbesserung der Juden. Veranlaßt bei der Frage: Soll der Jude Soldat werden?, [s. l.] 1788, 71 and 79; idem, Leviathan, oder über Religion in Rücksicht des Judenthums, Berlin 1792, 212–232. Jewish religious “reform” was a cognate and complementary term to the civic “improvement” of the Jews (bürgerliche Verbesserung der Juden), as used in books by Christian Wilhelm Dohm (1781) and Saul Ascher. In the late 1820s Isaak Marcus Jost and Gotthold Solomon call Mendelssohn and other maskilim Reformers. The earliest use in the Hungarian realm that I am aware of appears in the correspondence between Aron Chorin and Leopold Löw. The latter mentions the “reform of our cult” (“Reform unseres Cultus”) in 1832. See Leopold Löw, Aron Chorin. Eine biographische Skizze, in: idem, Gesammelte Schriften, ed. by Immanuel Löw, 5 vols., Szegedin 1889–1900, here vol. 2, Szegedin 1890, 251–420, here 378 f. In 1835 Chorin mentions the “Reformation of the external religion” (ibid., 388). A comment on the election of Leopold Löw as rabbi of the Hungarian city of Nagykanizsa speaks about “the great task of a Reformation of our liturgy and synagogal service” and mentions Löw’s “nonchalance” as a reformer (“reformatorische Ungenirtheit”). See W. A., Der Orient. Berichte, Studien und Kritiken für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 2 (1841), no. 22, 172 f. Marsha L. Rozenblit, The Struggle Over Religious Reform in Nineteenth-Century Vienna, in: AJS Review 14 (1989), no. 2, 179–221, here 181 and 197 f.

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cumstances, essentially unrelated to Christian political forces or ideologies, which set the course for the Hungarian progressive Jewish movement. Yet it seems that no thorough account of the emergence of modern, bipolar Hungarian Jewry in the nineteenth century8 can ignore the role of the religious-denominational environment in shaping local Jewish history. Concepts such as social integration or religious toleration were raised and tested in inner-Christian conflicts of modern Europe. Habsburg Emperor Joseph II (1765–1790) started to work on his Toleranzpatent on “Non-Catholics” and Jews approximately at the same time: his edict concerning Lutherans, Calvinists, and the Greek Orthodox was issued in 1781, and his edict on Jews between 1781 and 1783 for various parts of the Empire (in Galicia the edict was issued in 1785 and 1789). All through the nineteenth century and beyond, Christian social and religious forces continued to influence the social integration of local Jews and their intellectual life in many ways. As a German-Jewish bonmot puts it: “Wie es sich christelt, so jüdelt es sich” (As the Christians go, so go the Jews).9 But which forms of Christianity and Judaism mirrored each other in countries like Hungary, with its complex religious map? Is it a mere rhetorical whim that the term “reform” itself alludes to the Reformation, while the term “Orthodox” has strong Catholic connotations? The answer is no. In German lands, Jewish Reform made inroads into Jewish society primarily in Protestant regions and adapted numerous elements of Protestant religious thought.10 Even if there were liberal Catholic forces supporting Jewish Reform and the emancipation of Jews, as well as conservative Protestant forces hostile to these efforts, these “Protestant” elements remained at the core of Reform ideology. In Hungarian parlance – although in a social milieu different from the German one – Orthodox Jews were sometimes called

  8 In the wake of the Jewish “schism” in 1868–1871, a third group of Jewish congregations, called “status quo ante,” emerged which refused to join either the Orthodox or the Neolog federation of congregations. Organized into a nationwide federation only in the 1920s, this “movement” was much smaller than the two major ones and is irrelevant in the present context.  9 Abraham Tendlau, Sprichwörter und Redensarten deutsch-jüdischer Vorzeit, Frankfurt a. M. 1860, 219, no. 697, brings the inverse form as the main version: “Wie es sich jüdelt, so christelt’s sich.” 10 There is much scattered literature on this subject, see e. g. recently the survey of Christian Wiese, s. v. “Protestantisierung,” in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig ed. by Dan Diner, vol.  5, Stuttgart 2014, 37–40, and Klaus Herrmann, “Es ist das Heil uns kommen her.” Emanzipation und Reform im Judentum, in: Ernst Baltrusch/Uwe Puschner (eds.), Jüdische Lebenswelten. Von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Frankfurt a. M. et al. 2016, 211–242. A comprehensive study on the impact of Protestant theology on the religious thought of Jewish Enlightenment and Reform is yet to be written.

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“Catholic” Jews and Neologs “Protestant Jews”. This analogy, in its essence, has a long prehistory; and below this paper will argue for the wisdom of the popular perception behind it, with all due limitations. What follows is an attempt to demonstrate, within the limits of a preliminary survey, the relevance of the Geiger-Venetianer-Meyer thesis in the case of Hungary.11 Focusing on the formative period of the Orthodox and Neolog (moderate Reform) movements in Hungary, from 1840 to 1870, it will be shown that the evolution of these two major Jewish parties into religious-political platforms and their struggles, culminating in the schism of Hungarian Jewry, were substantially influenced by Hungarian Protestantism and Catholicism and the relative equilibrium between them as religious-political forces.

Jewish and Christian Sectarianism in Central Europe In ancient times, Judaism and Christianity first considered each other heresies, and later fountainheads of some of their respective heresies. Some historical periods and regions, like Renaissance Italy, saw the emergence of reciprocal or converging “heretical” religious movements in Jewish and Christian circles that were apparently widely tolerated.12 Already in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, well-informed Christian observers and heresiographers compared Karaism to Protestantism, and – Protestant scholarship in particular – considered the former a sort of “purified Judaism.”13 11 Of course, much archival and other research need to be done to fill in details. The political sensitivity of the matter may explain why Venetianer’s brief observations on this topic remained isolated remarks in Hungarian Jewish historiography. A rare, explicit mention of cross-denominational alliances in the context of later Neolog polemics is made by Ferenc Mezey, who castigates the Orthodox for their alliance with Austrian “clericalism” and mentions the fact that “in the recent past, our Orthodox sidled up to our Catholic prelates.” Idem, Az új szövetség [The New Covenant], in: Magyar Zsidó Szemle [Hungarian Jewish Review] (henceforth MZsSz) 8 (1891), 235–240, here 240. 12 Haim Hillel Ben-Sasson, The Reformation in Contemporary Jewish Eyes, in: Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities 4 (1971), 239–326, here 249–254. 13 See Yosef Kaplan, “Karaites” in Early Eighteenth-Century Amsterdam, in: David S. Katz/ Jonathan I. Israel (eds.), Sceptics, Millenarians and Jews. Festschrift in Honor of Ri­ch­ ard H. Popkin, Leiden et al. 1990, 196–236, here 221 and 227–229; Marina Rustow, The Qaraites as Sect. The Tyranny of a Construct, in: Sacha Stern (ed.), Sects and Sectarianism in Jewish History, Leiden 2011, 149–186, here 158–161; see also the literature cited in these articles. It is also worth mentioning that Spinoza compared Rabbinic (“Pharisaic”) claims to authoritative traditional exegesis of the Bible to similar Catholic claims (and rejected both) in his Theologico-Political Treatise (1670). Idem, Theological-Political Treatise, ed. by Jonathan Israel, transl. by Michael Silverthorne and Jonathan Israel, Cambridge 2007, chap. 7, esp. 105 and 115–117.

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The entanglement of Jewish and Christian sectarianisms (or perception of such) has a long and turbulent history, particularly in Central and Eastern Europe. Jews were associated with Christian “heresies” in Habsburg lands already at the time of the proto-Reformation movements. Alleged Jewish sympathies with, and assistance to, the Hussites were one of the reasons leading to the persecution of Jews around 1420 and their expulsion from Austria, Bavaria and some places in Moravia in subsequent years.14 Hussitism, indeed, was regarded by some Jewish observers as a kind of Judaizing movement.15 Similarly, later expulsions of Jews from Bohemia in the sixteenth century under the reign of Ferdinand  I (1526–1562) were inspired by the Jesuits’ claim of Jewish influences on various Protestant sects  – most notably the Anabaptists.16 The Habsburg monarchy became a bastion of Counter-Reformation, trying to prevent sectarianism, Christian or Jewish, in the Empire at all costs, yet never fully able to uproot Hussitism and other radical Protestant sects in subsequent centuries, particularly in Bohemia. These groups identified themselves and were known by contemporaries as “Deists,” “Israelites,” “Abrahamites,” or “Adamites.”17 Some of them sought official recognition as Jews in the late eighteenth century – but were deported to Transylvania instead.18 Based on the limited evidence available on the religious convictions of these groups, they rejected the Holy Trinity and the divine nature of Jesus from a rationalist standpoint19 – similarly to Unitarianism, one of the four “received,” i. e. recognized, religions or denominations in Transylvania.20

14 Ruth Kestenberg, Hussitentum und Judentum, in: Jahrbuch der Gesellschaft für Geschichte ˇ der Juden in der Cechoslovakischen Republik 8 (1936), 1–26, here 17–20; Shlomo Eidelberg, Jewish Life in Austria in the XVth Century As Reflected in the Legal Writings of Rabbi Israel Isserlein and His Contemporaries, Philadelphia, Pa., 1962, 15–20. 15 Ben-Sasson, The Reformation in Contemporary Jewish Eyes, 245–249 and 255. 16 Abraham David, A Hebrew Chronicle from Prague, c. 1615, transl. by Leon J. Weinberger with Dena Ordan, Tuscaloosa, Ala., 1993, 2, 32, 45 f., and 60; see also the literature cited there. 17 Stephan Steiner, Der Schwarmgeist der Intoleranz. Deisten und Israeliten im Böhmen des späten 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Religions- und Kirchen­ geschichte 102 (2008), 59–79, here 63–65. 18 Ibid., 67–75. 19 Gerson Wolf, Josefina, Vienna 1890, 98–100. 20 The concept “received religion” (religio recepta) in Hungary was apparently adopted from Transylvanian legislation and was never given a more precise legal-constitutional definition in Hungary. See László Péter, Church-State Relations and Civil Society in Hungary. A Historical Perspective, in: idem, Hungary’s Long Nineteenth Century. Constitutional and Democratic Traditions in a European Perspective. Collected Studies, ed. by Miklós Lojkó, Leiden/Boston, Mass., 2012, 405–437, here 416–419. Generally speaking, the status of a “received religion” implied that the state recognized the public standing of that denomination and guaranteed its rights, including self-government and the freedom of observances.

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Protestant groups were tolerated in Poland and Transylvania since the mid-sixteenth century. These countries were safe havens for anti-Trinitarian thinkers from all over Europe: Poland for about a century, Transylvania even beyond. Jewish heresiology was revived in Central Europe and Poland: first, by the arrival of Sabbatianism, which maneuvered between Judaism, Christianity, Islam; and second, by Frankism in the eighteenth century, which negotiated for its survival in a complex religious-political playfield in which Frankists, rabbinic Judaism, Catholicism and Protestantism looked for alliances with lesser evils against greater evils to promote their own religious agenda. Such  – mostly tacit or secret  – alliances were formed between Protestants and anti-Talmudist Frankists; and, against them, between rabbinic traditionalists and Catholic clergy.21 In 1770, when Ezekiel Landau (1713–1793), Rabbi of Prague, mobilized in a sermon against three “sects” – philosophers or Deists, Sabbatians, and “kabbalists”22 – he could be assured that his concerns were shared, mutatis mutandis, by local Catholic clergy. From the late eighteenth century, Habsburg religious policies were shaped, among other factors, by fears of Deism and sectarianism,23 associated with Protestantism and Judaism, creating a sense of solidarity and “common destiny” between major Protestant groups and Jews within the Empire.24 As for the Jews, the Habsburg political elite faced a dilemma since educational and other reforms, co-supported by progressive Jews, could not be advanced without catalyzing religious turmoil and schism. When, in 1820, the Government discussed plans to gradually replace Hebrew with German as the

21 Pawel Maciejko, The Mixed Multitude. Jacob Frank and the Frankist Movement, 1755– 1816, Philadelphia, Pa., 2011, 139–156. An influential Jewish maskil in Poland, Jacques (Jacob) Calmanson, observed in 1796: “[F]or the first time, it could be seen that rabbis forged an alliance with bishops” (ibid., 156). 22 Maoz Kahana/Michael K. Silber, Deistim, shabtaim u-mequbbalim bi-kehilat Prag. Derasha metzunzeret shel ha-Rav Yehezkel Landau, 1769/1770 [Deists, Sabbatians and Kabbalists in the Prague Jewish Community. A Censored Sermon of R. Ezekiel Landau, 1769/1770], in: Kabbalah 21 (2010), 349–384, here esp. 365–370. 23 According to the recollections of Ignaz Aurelius Fessler (1756–1839), the censor of Jewish books in Galicia, when in 1787 he proposed to Emperor Joseph II the replacement of Rashi’s commentary in the Pentateuch editions with the translation of Mendelssohn, the emperor answered: “That won’t do; Mendelssohn was a naturalist, and I don’t want my Jews to become naturalists […].” Friedrich Bülau (ed.), Dr. Fessler’s Rückblicke auf seine siebzigjährige Pilgerschaft. Ein Nachlass, Leipzig 21851, 128; cit. also by Tobias Löw, Kaiser Josef und Joh. David Michaelis über Moses Mendelssohn, in: Ben Chananja  6 (1863), no. 7, col. 119 f. 24 Ulrich Trinks, Protestantismus in Österreich, in: Karl Heinrich Rengstorf/Siegfried von Kortzfleisch (eds.), Kirche und Synagoge. Handbuch zur Geschichte von Christen und Juden. Darstellung mit Quellen, 2 vols., Stuttgart 1968–1970, here vol. 2, Stuttgart 1970, 532; Vilmos Papp, Protestantizmus és zsidóság [Protestantism and the Jews], in: Theológiai Szemle [Theological Review] 31 (1988), no. 3, 157–169, here 158–160 and 167.

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language of Jewish prayer and instruction, Archduke Rudolph (1788–1831), Bishop of Olmütz/Olomouc in Bohemia, wrote in response: “The respective reforms could be introduced only very slowly, and should stem from the spirit and convictions of Judaism itself, otherwise Deism, the pestilence of our age, would take the place of Jewish religious doctrines. Through German prayers a schism would occur, like in Berlin.”25

Similar fears were behind the dissolution of the Central-Reform-Genossenschaft in Pest by the Habsburg Department for Religious Affairs (Cultusministerium in Vienna) in 1852, or the denial of recognition of the Deutschkatho­ liken, a Christian movement.26 Jewish Reform theology and, in particular, liturgical reforms adopting elements of Christian liturgical aesthetics raised concerns among decision-makers. Count Josef von Sedlnitzky (1778–1855), head of the Imperial Police in Vienna, for instance, spoke out against the intention of a group of progressive Jews who, in Vienna of 1824, sought to buy premises for a new synagogue. He wrote to the Emperor: “It seems the so-called liberal spirit of today took hold of part of that class of local Jews who became rich quickly. Too proud of their richness and inner glory to continue the old [liturgical] rite together with their poorer coreligionists – who stick to the old religious customs inherited from the fathers, and therefore considered bigots by these – in the synagogue acquired only a few years ago, they wish to bring to Vienna the liturgy that was introduced in Hamburg and Berlin by some Israelites led astray by philosophical notions reigning in North-German universities and favoured by Protestantism, among a similarly misled majority of their coreligionists there. […] This new liturgy deviates from Talmudic norms in essential points, since women are not separated from men, and there should be a podium for preaching and an organ to accompany singing. These deviations are loathed by strict Jews, since Deism lays behind them – which destroys the inner religion and would lead to a new schism among Jews.”27

25 Gerson Wolf, Zur Culturgeschichte in Österreich-Ungarn 1848–1888, Vienna 1888, 20. In the same year the conservative author of Der Bibel’sche Orient in Germany flatly claimed that the tendency of modernist/progressive/Reform Judaism is “to offer a comfortable bridge to Protestantism, that is, to a pure conceptual religion.” Der Bibel’sche Orient. Eine Zeitschrift  1 (1821), no.  2, 55. Protestant leanings of progressive Judaism is criticized ibid., 57 and 60. 26 Wolf, Zur Culturgeschichte in Österreich-Ungarn 1848–1888, 86 f. On the Reform Association and its dissolution, see Michael K. Silber, The Social Composition of the Pest Radical Reform Society (Genossenschaft für Reform im Judenthum), 1848–1852, in: Jewish Social Studies, n. s., 1 (1995), no. 3, 99–128. 27 Gerson Wolf, Geschichte der Juden in Wien (1156–1876), Vienna 1876, 133 f. For a similar assessment of Prussian (Lutheran) government circles on the dangers of Jewish religious reform and “Deism,” leading to a “new religion” harmful to the Christian state and Christianity itself, see Karl Streckfuß, Ueber das Verhältniß der Juden zu den christlichen Staaten, Halle 1833, 36–38.

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Jewish liturgical reforms by the Jewish “parvenus” were also seen as a threat to the exclusivity and appeal of Catholic worship and were therefore blocked.28 Warning against sectarianism was a standard element of Orthodox Jewish criticism of Reform, too  – even in primarily inner-Jewish fora, writing in Hebrew. So we find it in the responsum of Rabbi Eliezer of Triesch (Trietsch; d. 1840) in Moravia from 1819 concerning the Hamburg reforms.29 Another important element of the Orthodox rhetorics against Reform in the first half of the nineteenth century was that Reform Jews were neither Jews nor Christians  – an unsettling verdict in an era where religious non-affiliation was unthinkable.30 The Tiktin affair in Breslau, which took place in the contact zone of German and Polish Jewry, prefigured in some ways the clash of East European and West European Jewish cultures in Hungary. In 1842, Rabbi Shlomo Eger (1785/86–1852) – son of Rabbi Akiba Eger, the father-in-law of Rabbi Moshe Sofer  – wrote a letter to Salomon Tiktin (1791–1843) in which he not only warned against the dangers of deviating from traditional, Talmudic scriptural-halakhic exegesis, which would lead to the “dissolution of Judaism into innumerable sects,” but echoed the argument that Reformers (which he compared to the Karaites) were removed from Christianity as much as they were from Judaism.31 A correspondent from Berlin pointed out the natural alliance between the Protestant state (“predicated upon the legitimation of ecclesiastic reforms”) and progressive Jews.32 Reform communities associated their platform with 28 See ibid., 132 f., for the report (apparently also from 1824) of a police agent to Sedlnitzky. In Prussia such reforms were seen as only limited, external Jewish concessions to Christianity and as such, harmful to Protestant missionizing efforts among the Jews. See Ludwig Geiger, Archivalische Funde zur Geschichte der Juden 1822–1848, in: AZJ 66 (1902), no. 2, 18–20, here 19. 29 See the responsa collection Elle divrei ha-brith, Altona 1819, 23: “lest Israel be divided by a new sect (hevrah hadasha [neue Sekte]), which kings do their utmost [to prevent] […].” 30 See the responsum by R. Elazar Fleckeles (and his bet din) from Prague, ibid., 17; see also Sigmund Husserl, Gründungsgeschichte des Stadt-Tempels der Israel. Kultusgemeinde Wien. Mit einer Einleitung: Die zeitgeschichtlichen allgemeinen Verhältnisse der Wiener Juden, Vienna/Leipzig 1906, 95, on the petition of R. Fleckeles and R. Shemuel Landau to the Emperor in 1820. Even when a renewed attempt to receive state recognition to a Reform Jewish community in Hungary has been made in 1885, the statement of the Budapest Rabbinical Seminary, solicited by the authorities, opposed such a move by saying not only that the platform of the Reform group can not be considered as “Judaism,” but that “they can not even claim to be a positive [i.  e. revealed-monotheistic] religion […].” Kútf ok ˝ [Sources], in: MZsSz 3 (1886), 145–158, here 153. See below the citation from Thun. 31 R.  Shlomo Sofer (ed.), Iggerot Sofrim [Letters of the Sofers], Vienna/Budapest 1929, part  1, no.  52, 65. The letter was written in German (published in the cited volume in Hebrew transliteration), and was formulated clearly with a prospect of its eventual use in the debate or its submission to the authorities. 32 AZJ 7 (1843), no. 52, 763.

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“Protestantism” in Germany somewhat later as well. A ministerial order from 1853 in the Grand Duchy of Mecklenburg-Schwerin in Northern Germany (a predominantly Lutheran state) strongly criticized the “rationalistic Reform-trend,” represented by the two Landesrabbiner of the Duchy, Samuel Holdheim (1806–1860) and David Einhorn (1809–1879), and the rift it brought to Judaism, and urged for a return to “historical Judaism.” Several Jewish communities protested this directive, among them the community of Kröpelin, arguing that this demand toward local Jews (the overwhelming majority of whom left the Orthodox fold but not “historical Judaism,” according to their self-understanding) was as acceptable as demanding from Protestants to return to Catholicism.33 In modern Jewish history, notions and terms such as “sect,” “schism,” “religious party,” “reform,” “orthodox,” altgläubig and neugläubig (those of the old faith/new faith”)34 were taken from the vocabulary of the Counter-Reformation. This terminology was applied to emerging Jewish Enlightenment and Reform movements from the late eighteenth century onwards; it gained ground gradually and – together with the term “Neolog”35 – was given wide circulation by the young German-Jewish press from the 1830s. The terminology itself implied a certain kinship between Jewish traditionalism (“Orthodoxy”) and Catholicism, as well as between progressivism (“Reform”) and Protestantism. Abraham Geiger (1810–1874) was among the first to protest its use in 1840 (in connection with the Tiktin affair, in which he was representing the Reform side); but the terminology he advanced instead was also markedly Christian: It resembled the liberal Protestant, Neolog termi-

33 See AZJ 17 (1853), no. 11, 130 f., see also Philippson’s comments, in ibid., no. 12, 142– 144; ibid., no. 14, 166; ibid., no. 15, 179–181; Hamburger Nachrichten 1853, no. 59, 1 f.; ibid., no. 63, 1. 34 The German terms for Jewish orthodoxy and heterodoxy or Reform – altgläubig and neu­ gläubig – were widely used since these differences took shape, at least from the beginning of the nineteenth century. See e. g. Ludolf Holst, Judenthum in allen dessen Theilen aus einem staatswissenschaftlichen Standpuncte betrachtet, Mainz 1821, 179. German Jewish press used these terms at least from the early 1840s. Since the Reformation these terms actually denoted Catholicism and Protestantism. 35 This term was also a Christian (Catholic and conservative Lutheran) term denigrating liberal Protestant theology of the Enlightenment. It was used in German speaking countries – including Hungary – to denote Jewish Reformers and progressives at least from the 1830s. See Tamás Turán, Ortodox, neológ. A magyar zsidó valláspártok elnevezéseinek történetér ol. ˝ [Orthodox, Neolog. On the History of the Nomenclature of the Hungarian Jewish Religious Parties], in: Regio 24 (2016), no. 3, 5–37.

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nology.36 This was less than surprising from a leading reformer in predominantly Protestant Prussia. In contrast, progressives in Austria-Hungary, such as Adolf Jellinek (1820/21–1893), made efforts to avoid politicized Christian terminology37 – including progressive, inherently Protestant terminology, especially in Austria, an overwhelmingly Catholic country.

Schism in Hungary, Unity in Austria A composite of Eastern (mostly Galician) and Western (Moravian, Bohemian, Austrian) Jewish demographic elements, modern Hungarian Jewry was “two nations in the womb,” in a geographic area called the Carpathian basin.38 Progressive Jews but also statesmen like József Eötvös (1813–1871), Minister of Religion and Education of Hungary between 1867 and 1871, jointly attempted to integrate this heterogeneous Jewry into a single countrywide organizational structure. From a sociological point of view, their efforts, serving the progressive cause, were liable to fail.39 This failure became manifest in the wake of the so-called Jewish Congress in 1868/69, resulting in the unprecedented establishment of two separate nationwide Jewish communal federations. The question remains, why a similar demographic heterogeneity in neighboring Austria, and in Vienna in particular, with similar Jewish religious platforms and tensions did not lead to a formal schism similar to the Hungarian case after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise in 1867?40

36 His own terms were Formglaube/Formenstarrheit vs. Gesinnung; Legalität vs. Religio­ sität; einseitig vs. wahrhaft historischer Sinn – terms and oppositions which evoke Protestant criticism of Judaism (and, partly, of Catholicism). See Abraham Geiger, Die letzten zwei Jahre. Sendschreiben an einen befreundeten Rabbiner, Breslau 1840, reprinted in: idem, Nachgelassene Schriften, ed. by Ludwig Geiger, 5 vols., Berlin 1875–1878, here vol. 1, Berlin 1875, 1–51, here 14 f. and 26–29. 37 In the subsequent eight years, Jellinek’s petition in this issue from 1860, that was submitted to the newly appointed minister Schmerling, was published in German and in Hungarian several times in the progressive Jewish press. See Turán, Ortodox, neológ, 11 f. On Jellinek’s argument, see the next subchapter. 38 Ern ˝o Marton, The Family Tree of Hungarian Jewry, in: Randolph L. Braham (ed.), Hungarian-Jewish Studies, 3 vols, New York 1966–1973, here vol. 1, New York 1966, 1–59, here esp. 53–55. 39 See Lajos Venetianer, A magyar zsidóság szervezetér ˝ol [On the Organization of Hungarian Jewry], Budapest 1903 (Offprint of his series of articles originally published in the journal Egyenl  oség ˝ [Equality]). 40 See the account of Rozenblit, The Struggle Over Religious Reform in Nineteenth-Century Vienna, esp. 200–221.

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There were various reasons for this difference. Firstly, the ethnic and religious map of Hungary was uniquely complex. Since the ninth and tenth centuries, when Magyars conquered the Carpathian basin, they found themselves at the crossroads of German, Slavic and Latin peoples; later, in terms of religious geography, of Protestant, Eastern Orthodox and Catholic peoples. In the nineteenth century, some 60 percent of the population was Catholic (Roman or Greek), about 20 percent was Protestant (Calvinist or Lutheran),41 and an average of 16 percent was Eastern Orthodox Christian (Serbian or Romanian). The rest – approximately 4 percent – were Jews. In contrast, Austria was almost homogeneous from a religious point of view, with 90 percent of the population being Catholic.42 Secondly, due to Hungary’s variegated religious map, its politicians were generally less concerned than their Austrian counterparts about the possibility of a Jewish schism nurturing Christian sectarianism and missionizing.43 The liberal Catholic József Eötvös, a driving force behind the political emancipation of Jews in Hungary, hoped progressive Judaism would facilitate the conversion of Jews to Christianity, never mind what sort of Jew would convert to what sort of Christianity.44 Thirdly, in Hungary, the question of Jewish emancipation was on the political agenda of the Hungarian nationalist and liberal awakening. Prompt and enthusiastic embrace of the Magyarization project (a constitutive moment of progressive Judaism in Hungary which became its hallmark) turned this progressive segment of fast growing Hungarian Jewry into an asset for Hungarian nation-building. However, their conservative coreligionists

41 Counter-Reformation had a limited success in Hungary  – especially in its eastern part, Transylvania, where religious freedom was given to the main Protestant denominations, from the early seventeenth century, out of realpolitik and due to the military exigencies of the Habsburg Empire. See István Bitskey, Der ungarische Jesuit Péter Pázmány über die Religionsfreiheit der Calvinisten und der Lutheraner, in: Márta Fata/Anton Schind­ ling (eds.), Calvin und Reformiertentum in Ungarn und Siebenbürgen. Helvetisches Be­ kenntnis, Ethnie und Politik vom 16. Jahrhundert bis 1918, Münster 2010, 453–472, here 453–463. 42 Such differences came up e. g. in discussions of the Hungarian House of Representatives in 1868 on introducing civil marriages. See Árpád Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847– 1894 [Hungarian Church Policy 1847–1894], 2 vols., here vol. 1: 1847–1872, Budapest 1894, 305. 43 In Austria, at least one of the two Jewish religious parties was probably regarded a “sect” by many, from a Catholic perspective; see below remarks about Ignaz Deutsch and the Kompert affair. 44 In 1864, he observed that “Jews more and more cease to be Jews day by day; they come closer, day by day, to those Christians who do not acknowledge the divinity of Jesus; and where do we find any reason or excuse for excluding them from any rights?” Cit. from Nathaniel Katzburg, The Jewish Congress of Hungary, 1868–1869, in: Braham (ed.), Hungarian-Jewish Studies, vol. 2, 1–33, here 24. When Eötvös speaks about “those Christians who do not acknowledge the divinity of Jesus,” he meant Antitrinitarians/Unitarians.

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became a valuable asset too, due to their de facto loyalty to the government and Hungarian nationalism in general. Fourthly, in post-revolutionary Hungary (especially in 1859/60), a massive resistance of the powerful Calvinist religious minority arose against religious oppression by the privileged state religion, Catholicism, which led to a new balance of power between Catholics and Protestants. Fifthly, the trigger of the split in Hungary was the Jewish Congress, as part of Eötvös’ vision of Hungarian religious policies. There was no such political agenda in Austria.45 Several aesthetic and liturgical reforms were introduced in Catholic-conservative Vienna in 1826, and adopted next year in a progressive prayerhouse in Pest. These relatively modest changes defined Hungarian progressive Judaism until very recently. A spectacular difference in nineteenth-century rabbinic dress testifies to the different Christian environments of Austrian and Hungarian progressive Jewry: In Austria, progressive rabbis (Mannheimer, Jellinek, Güdemann) and cantors (hazzanim) were distinguished by a robe with “white bands” (Beffchen), characteristic of Lutheran ministers; in contrast, Hungarian progressive/Neolog rabbis typically wore the Catholic priestly reverend (cassock) with shoulder cape (pellegrina).46 Facial hair, as well, had religious and political significance in both countries, and its respective local specificity.47

45 Governmental thinking never accepted, neither in Austria nor in Hungary, what the Hungarian legislative confirmation of the split in 1870/71 seemed to imply: that the two Jewish federations constitute two denominations. Jakob Rannicher, Denkschrift in Angelegenheit des Rabbiner-Bildungs-Institutes, Budapest 1874, 6 f. 46 As Lajos Venetianer remarks: “German rabbis wear Luther-gown, we wear ‘cimada’ (reverend).” Idem, Istentiszteletünkr ol, ˝ 156. See also Immánuel Löw/Zsigmond Kulinyi, A szegedi zsidók 1785-t ˝ol 1885-ig [The Jews of Szeged from 1785 to 1885], Szeged 1885, 226, fn. 1. The dress in Austria was apparently coinciding with conservative policies to maintain clear lines of demarcation between Catholicism as the state religion and other tolerated cults; in Hungary the denominational-political situation was wholly different. There were similar differences concerning the use of organ and rabbinic titles. 47 Austrian progressive rabbis did not have full beard except Güdemann, who had conser­ vative leanings; representative Hungarian progressive/Neolog rabbis, on the other hand, had a full beard, as a rule  – which signified also some measure of identification with Magyar nationalism. Moustache or full beard were attributes of the Hungarian patriotic independence movement, and after the failed freedom fight 1848/49, Austrian authorities made efforts to ban them (especially full and long beard) among state officials, Protestant pastors and teachers. See Judit Szatmári, A református egyház a neoabszolutizmus éveiben 1849–1860 [The Reformed Church in the Neoabsolutist Years 1849–1860], Budapest 2015, 24 and 94–96. A Calvinist pastor calls such a beard “Jewish beard,” ibid. 186. In 1850 the Austrian military commander in Gy ˝or called Jews not to wear “Kossuth-beard” and “Kossuth-hat”. See Lajos Venetianer, A magyar zsidóság története. A honfoglalástól a világháború kitöréséig [The History of Hungarian Jewry. From the Conquest of Hungary to the Outbreak of World War I], Budapest 1922, 207.

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The Denominational Predicament and Jewish Alignments in Hungary – Main Themes Official recognition of two or more Jewish religious “movements,” “parties” or “denominations” in a single country was unknown and unimaginable in Europe until the 1870s. However, starting in the 1830s, newly emerging public spheres and social spaces began to transform religious politics into party politics,48 while concealed or low-profile political affinities became more visible and articulate. The Kompert affair in Vienna of 1863/64  – a spectacular manifestation of the tactical alliance between Catholic conservatives and the Jewish Orthodox in the Habsburg Empire – was only the tip of the iceberg of this urban and boundary-crossing propaganda warfare between Jewish parties. In Hungary, the seeds of alliances between Catholics and Orthodox Jewry on the one hand, and between Protestants and progressive Jews on the other, had been planted and tended to for decades (if not centuries).

Common Grounds: Sociological, Ideological, Political In Hungary, Jewish Orthodox politics of the time had a natural affinity with the monarchic principle and conservative politics, and gravitated toward the seat of the k. u. k. Government in Vienna; Catholics showed particular understanding for their concerns.49 Neologs had a natural affinity with the democratic principle and liberal politics, and the locus of their political lobbying was the Hungarian upper and lower houses and regional authorities; Protestants, especially their overwhelming Calvinist majority, showed sympathy with their efforts. This is a bird’s eye view of the denominational-political landscape in mid-nineteenth century Hungary. A closer look, of course, reveals a more complex picture. In Hungary, political actors’ attitudes in controversial Jewish political issues (such as emancipation or the Jewish congress) crossed denominational lines. Above all, it was in the socioeconomic interest of the land-owning nobility (regardless of religion) to foster the extension of Jewish 48 Convening synods itself followed partly Protestant models: Ludwig Philippson, Aufforderung an alle Rabbinen und jüdische Geistliche Deutschlands zur Abhaltung jährlicher Versammlungen, in: AZJ 8 (1844), no. 3, 26 f.; idem, Jährliche Rabbinerversammlungen, in: ibid., no. 9, [117]–119, here 118. 49 On Ignaz Deutsch, see Nathan M. Gelber, Aus zwei Jahrhunderten. Beiträge zur neueren Geschichte der Juden, Vienna 1924, 145–177. On Thun, see ibid., 162; on Schmerling, see ibid., 168.

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rights.50 The same applied in terms of ideology: All over Europe, the friends of Jewish emancipation and Reform were generally liberals, their enemies conservatives – Jewish or Christian, Catholic or Protestant.51 And in all the different denominations as well as within the Neolog and the Orthodox parties there were significant tensions between “clerical” and “lay” elements, and between relatively liberal and relatively conservative fractions. Still, the question should be asked: Was there any correlation in Hungary between the geographic spread of progressive Judaism and the Christian denominational character of a given region? Apparently there was, but the calculus is complex and further studies are needed. To date, no socioeconomic and topographic-demographic studies on the Neolog and Orthodox communities in Hungary, on a broader regional basis, are available.52 According to Lajos Venetianer, “we can observe also in our country that the bastions of conservative Jewry are located in strongly Catholic regions, and particularly in cities that are episcopal seats.”53 These observations need modification and refinement on several accounts.54 In fact, some of the bastions of Orthodoxy (including Hasidism) were located in regions in Eastern and North Eastern Hungary and Transylvania with a dominant or significant Protestant, Eastern 50 Péter Hanák, Jews and the Modernization of Commerce in Hungary, 1760–1848, in: Michael  K. Silber (ed.), Jews in the Hungarian Economy, 1760–1945. Studies Dedicated to Moshe Carmilly-Weinberger on His Eightieth Birthday, Jerusalem 1992, 23–39, here esp. 38 f; László Péter, The Aristocracy, the Gentry and Their Parliamentary Tradition in Nineteenth-Century Hungary, in: idem, Hungary’s Long Nineteenth Century, 305–342, here 305–314. 51 In the first half of the nineteenth century, for instance, conservative Protestant (Lutheran) politics in Prussia tended to block Jewish reform as much as conservative Catholic Austrian politics did – even if the underlying reasons were significantly different. The first had a missionary logic, the second was fueled by fears of sectarianism. See David Philipson, The Reform Movement in Judaism, New York 21931, 23 and 25. See also Leopold Löw, Sendschreiben an Herrn Dr. Joseph Székács, Prediger der evang. Gemeinde zu Pesth [1844], in: idem, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 4, 331–352, here 349; idem, Das neueste Stadium der ungarisch-jüdischen Organisationsfrage. Offenes Sendschreiben an I. Hirschler, Pest 1871, 25; Gerson Wolf, Judentaufen in Österreich, Vienna 1863, 23 f; Meyer, Response to Modernity, 147. On the other hand, influential Austro-Hungarian liberal Catholics, who have been opposed to ultramontanism and “Jesuitism,” supported Jewish emancipation and reform. 52 See the remarks of Viktor Karády, Religious Division, Socio-Economic Stratification, and the Modernization of Hungarian Jewry after the Emancipation, in: Silber (ed.), Jews in the Hungarian Economy, 161–184, here 163–165. Since then a good number of studies on local communities in the nineteenth century, but no regional surveys that take into account Jewish “denominational” factors have appeared. 53 Lajos Venetianer, Istentiszteletünkr ˝ol, 156. 54 For example, Catholic episcopal seats such as Esztergom, Veszprém, Kalocsa, Pécs or Szeged did not have Orthodox communities after the split. Episcopal seats in Western Hungary such as Székesfehérvár, Veszprém, Gy ˝or, Kaposvár, however, had significant Neolog communities.

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Orthodox, or Greek Catholic population. Progressive-Neolog Judaism had a strong presence in the central regions of Hungary, occupied by the Turks in the sixteenth century, where subsequently Protestantism could spread more easily.55 But we also find strong Neolog communities in the more urbanized and developed western – and predominantly Catholic – parts of Hungary. It seems obvious that the spread of Neologism was no less linked to economic and sociological factors – like immigration and migration patterns, urbanization and Jewish urban settlement – than to its religious environment.56 However, in terms of ideology and political rhetorics, there is no doubt that Christian denominational matters played a significant role, explicitly or tacitly. Since the beginning of the nineteenth century Jewish traditionalists had been claiming that (Jewish) religious laxity was dangerous and harmful to the state itself.57 This line of argument was translated into a strategy against Reform by the Orthodox in the Habsburg Empire and became more clearly articulated in Pozsony (Pressburg) in the lifetime of R.  Moshe Sofer (called also “the Hatam Sofer,” 1762–1839), a rabbinic leader of European Orthodoxy in his times, particularly in the 1820s and 1830s. This strategy aimed to court Austria’s Catholic-Conservative powers, to politicize the conflict as much as possible, and to speak out against Jewish Reform as a threat to Christian state and Catholic religion.58 On the other hand, the strategy of local progressive leaders, such as Adolf Jellinek, Leopold Löw (1811–1875) and others (later often called “moderate reformers”), in managing their conflict with the Orthodox was fundamen-

55 Mihály Bucsay, Der Protestantismus in Ungarn 1521–1978. Ungarns Reformationskirchen in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 2 vols., Vienna/Cologne/Graz 1977–1979, here vol. 1: Im Zeitalter der Reformation, Gegenreformation und katholischen Reform, Vienna/Cologne/Graz 1977, 127–129. 56 Historical demography was also related to denominational issues of course. Jews immigrating to Hungary from the North-West – primarily from Moravia and Bohemia – came from countries with a mixed Catholic-Protestant population, unlike the other major source of immigration, Galicia (from the North-East). The measure of success of Counter-Re­ formation may also had an indirect effect on the mentioned economic and sociological factors. 57 See the petition from 1807 publ. by Leopold Löw, Zur neueren Geschichte der Juden in Ungarn. Beitrag zur allgemeinen Rechts-, Religions- und Kulturgeschichte, Budapest 1874, 44; see also ibid., 140. 58 See the petitions signed by R.  Moshe Sofer from 1832–33, in: AZJ 11 (1847), no. 38, 570–572 (publ. also by Löw, Zur neueren Geschichte der Juden in Ungarn, 153–155). The same line of argument was followed by the Orthodox also in the Tiktin affair: The Reformers reject rabbinic authority, and disavow tradition as empty formalism (Formglaube); what remains for them is a deistic cult of Reason (deistische Vernunftreligion). While this is embraced by Christian liberals, it is in fact a mere application of general revolutionary ideas to Judaism which try to undermine Christianity as well as the Christian state. See AZJ 7 (1843), no. 52, 764.

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tally different. They, too, resorted here and there to the vocabulary of anti-Catholicism (blaming the Orthodox for “Jesuitism” or “inquisition” and the like). Nevertheless, they tried to downplay, in an enlightened and Josephinist spirit, the religious and political aspects of the conflict, presenting it as essentially cultural-social, a function of social progress, acculturation and emancipation.59 Progressives in Pest had good reasons for framing their conflicts with conservatives in such a way. Since 1800 at least, several prayer communities operated there, following different rites. Conflicts between progressives and conservatives erupted in the wake of the adoption of the “Vienna rite” in a local community (in 1827), and even in the 1860s, leaders of the Pest Jewish community called the opposing parties and their rites “Hungarian” and “Polish” respectively.60 The ritual-religious conflict had a strong linguistic (German/Hungarian vs. Yiddish), cultural,61 and “ethnic” background. Education, of course, was also a minefield between culture and

59 Adolf Jellinek’s diagnosis posits that Judaism is divided into two parties: one belonging to “ancient times” that fights for religious unity, and another belonging to “modern times” that fights for religious freedom. See idem, Glaubenseinheit und Glaubensfreiheit, in: idem, Predigten, 3 vols, Vienna 1862–1866, here vol. 2, Vienna 1863, 17–28 (in Hunga­ rian: Vallásegység és vallásszabadság, in: Magyar Izraelita [Hungarian Israelite] 2 [1862], no. 42, 356–358). This seems to be a veiled criticism of Catholic as well as conservative Protestant “territorialism” (ibid., 19 and 21). See Alexander Altmann, Mendelssohn on Excommunication. The Ecclesiastical Law Background, in: idem, Essays in Jewish Intellectual History, Hanover, N. H., 1981, 170–189. A conflict along similar lines within the Pest Jewish community between two of its progressive leaders, Ignác Hirschler and Henrik Pollák, is reported from the 1860s. See n. a. [Albert Farkas], El ˝oértekezletek [Preparatory Conferences], in: Magyar Zsidó [Hungarian Jew] 1 (1868), no. 11, 82. For Hirschler’s position that the organizational unity of the Pest community, and of all Hungarian Jewry, should be preserved at all costs, see [n. a.], Pesti izr. hitközség közgyülése. 1863.évi január 6-án [The General Assembly of the Pest Jewish Community. On 6 January 1863], in: Magyar Izraelita 3 (1863), no. 2, 9–22, here 10 and 19. 60 [N.  a.], Pesti izr. hitközség közgyülése, 10 and 20; Sándor Büchler, A zsidók története ˝ ol ˝ 1867-ig [History of the Jews in Budapest. From EarliBudapesten. A legrégibb id okt  est Times to 1867], Budapest 1901, 390, 398 and 483. In 1828 the fractured community launches a search for a rabbi who will be able to reconcile the parties and is “not Polish.” Ibid., 411 f. 61 Since 1835 the rabbi was supposed to deliver sermons in the two main synagogues of the community alternately in German and German-Yiddish. Indeed, this seems to have been the practice of Löw Schwab, rabbi of the community between 1836 and 1857. The multi-lingual sharing of the rabbinic sermons was partially preserved in subsequent decades with different arrangements. The main prayerhouses of the two “parties” were called the “Temple” and the “Synagogue,” respectively: [N. a.], Pesti izr. hitközség közgyülése, 10; [n. a.], Templom és zsinagóga Pesten [Temple and Synagogue in Pest], in: Magyar Izrae­ lita 3 (1863), no. 3., [25] f., here 25.

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politics.62 From 1850 onwards, Protestant as well as Jewish schools were placed under the supervision of local Catholic priests; until 1863, when the order concerning Jewish schools was finally abolished by the Hungarian Government, Jewish progressives were silent partners in the Kulturkampf against Catholic control.63 The aforementioned Orthodox strategy of politicizing the conflict proved to be quite efficient until the end of the 1850s, but had to change course under the changing political circumstances in Hungary in the following years. Yet, it seems that, in the final account, the Orthodox were more successful than their progressive counterparts in the struggle of defining the terms of debate in mid-nineteenth century Hungary. The nomenclature of the involved parties (“Orthodox” and “Neolog”) was of Conservative Christian origin. It was adopted by Orthodox Jewish propaganda; Neolog protestations and criticism of this terminology had little effect.64 Most Neologs considered the Jewish schism in Hungary (1868–1871) a failure;65 Hungarian Orthodoxy saw it as a success. Habsburg policies in the neoabsolutist era tried to further the integration of Jews into society and make them “better citizens.” At the same time, they sought to avoid sectarianism among Jews on account of the burden that prospective conflicts would put on bureaucracy and their historically experienced subversive potential for conservative-Catholic society. The conservative Catholic Leo Thun (1811–1888), Minister of Religion and Education between 1849 and 1860, had a decisive role in state policies on Jewish affairs in the Empire during his term. A letter he wrote in 1851 to Karl Geringer, provisional governor of Hungary, gives a glimpse into at least one major line of governmental thinking concerning Jews in the neoabsolutist era. Thun called for a better training of rabbis and religious teachers and for the assignment of government-appointed officials, rather than district rabbis, to oversee educational and “cultic” affairs, because “hierarchy,” as experience had shown, was somewhat alien to Judaism.66 Nationwide conferences on related issues, such as those held in Bohemia and Moravia, were 62 See Maria Theresa’s oft-quoted quip from 1770: “[D]ie Schule ist und bleibt ein Politikum […]”. See also Max Vögler, Religion und Politik. Von der Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts bis zum Beginn der Französischen Revolution, in: Peter Dinzelbacher (ed.), Handbuch der Religionsgeschichte im deutschsprachigen Raum, 6 vols., Paderborn et. al. 2000–2016, here vol. 5: 1750–1900, ed. by Michael Pammer, Paderborn et. al 2007, 59–101, here 63. 63 Lajos Venetianer, A magyar zsidóság története, 255 f. 64 Turán, Ortodox, neológ. 65 For an atypical, positive view of the schism by an apparently Neolog observer, which conforms Leopold Löw’s attitude and offers a comparative analysis of effects of kulturkampf and schisms within Catholicism and Protestantism, see Dr. S. S., Különféle kulturharczok [Various Types of Cultural Struggles], in: Egyenl ˝oség 3 (1884), no. 43, 2–4. 66 Amtliches Schreiben des Kultusministers Grafen Thun an Baron Geringer, interimistischer Statthalter von Ungarn, in: Ben Chananja 5 (1862), no. 18, 155–157, here 156.

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hindered in Hungary by the rift between the Orthodox and Reformers. This rift, Thun wrote, which stood in the way of resolving general problems facing Hungarian Jewry, needed to be contained and tensions diffused on the local community level. His views on the Jewish “parties” were instructive: “Decisive influence should be given neither to the rigid Orthodox [Altgläubige], who lack education and understanding of present needs, nor to those Reformers, who are Jews only nominally, but in fact are rationalists without any positive beliefs. The latter [the Reformers] should be considered a destructive element – as the ‘German Catholics’ [Deutschkatholiken] among Christians – and should be kept away from any influence altogether. The rigid Orthodox, on the other hand, unable as they are to provide any remedy for their coreligionists, deserve tolerance of their prejudices, as their opposition to any improvement of the current circumstances stem from genuine concern for attacks on the religion of their fathers.”67

The reference to the “German Catholics” was not accidental; Thun was certainly aware of the impact this movement had on German Reform Judaism in the 1840s.68 He also anticipated the inherent problems (and eventual failure) of the Jewish Congress. He did not offer any systematic solution for the Jewish “rift,” but two tactical considerations recur in his letter. He strongly disputed the legitimacy and wisdom of inviting what he considered merely “nominal Jews” to high-level discussions and selecting them as officials – and suggested to select only “genuine Jews” (“aufrichtige Juden”). He also warned against convening broad gremiums representing all “parties” if discussions were likely to exacerbate tensions. Through a letter of Adolf Jellinek to Leopold Löw, Rabbi of Szeged, we have a glimpse of the Catholic religious milieu which a progressive rabbi in Vienna had to take into account in 1860: “A question which most people have no idea about is the halakhic stance vis-à-vis Christianity. Catholicism and Protestantism should not be measured with the same measure. But I know well that this can not be fully discussed in Austria.”69

The same was true for Hungary, where local Protestant theology and scholarship never exerted the same direct influence on progressive Jewish reli-

67 Ibid., 157. See also Geringer’s letter to Thun from 29  November 1851, published by Abraham Hochmuth, Leopold Löw als Theologe, Historiker und Publizist, Leipzig 1871, 218–220. 68 On this impact, see Ari Joskowicz, The Modernity of Others. Jewish Anti-Catholicism in Germany and France, Stanford, Calif., 2014, 138–144. 69 Adolf Jellinek to Leopold Löw (5 March 1860), cit. in Löw, Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 5, 168 f.

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gious thought as in German lands.70 Points of contact emerged in other areas. From the 1830s onward, we see the development of common interests, and, to some extent, real political alliances, between progressive Jews and Protestants – particularly Calvinists – on the one hand, and Orthodox Jews and Catholics, on the other. The following subsections will discuss the main points of common interest as they evolved in the period under consideration in three areas: Hungarian nationalism (i.  e., cultural-political resistance to imperial policies), religious-organizational issues (i. e., autonomy, rabbinic versus lay leadership), and the role of religious-dogmatic credos in competing Jewish religious movements.

Nationalism Almost all Calvinists in the Empire were ethnic Hungarians; Hungarian Calvinism developed an identity and reputation of being the Magyar denomination.71 Jewish progressives enthusiastically embraced Hungarian nationalism and cultural-linguistic Magyarization from the 1840s.72 Orthodox Jewry, like the Catholic religious establishment, had reservations about these nationalist 70 Immanuel Löw’s publication of occasional and devotional prayers (Imádságok zsidók számára [Prayers for Jews], Szeged 1883), based on Protestant prayerbooks, was a late and exceptional case, which stirred an interesting controversy in Magyar Zsidó Szemle (vol. 5 [1888] – vol. 6 [1889]) and elsewhere in the press. Direct and indirect German Protestant influences were behind many controversies in Neolog (primarily rabbinic) circles – most notably behind ongoing debates on religious education. 71 Since the early seventeenth century Calvinism was called the “magyar hit” (Hungarian faith). See Béla Tóth, Szájrul szájra. A magyarság szálló igéi [From Mouth to Mouth. Proverbial Sayings of the Magyars], Budapest 21901, 31  f. See also Johann Mailáth, Geschichte der Magyaren, 5 vols., Vienna 1828–1831, here vol. 4, Vienna 1831, 179 f.: “[S]till nowadays, Lutheranism is called German faith [Germ. deutscher Glaube; Hung. német-hit], and Calvinism Magyar faith [magyarischer Glaube; magyar-hit], while Catholics call their faith the True faith [wahrer Glaube; igaz-hit] […].” The limits of the historical validity of this Calvinist self-definition were pointed out by many historians; more recently (concerning the Bocskai-uprising in the early seventeenth century) by András Péter Szabó, Inhalt und Bedeutung der Widerstandslehre im Bocskai-Aufstand, in: Fata/ Schindling (eds.), Calvin und Reformiertentum in Ungarn und Siebenbürgen, 317–340, here 327. 72 This enthusiasm had something to do, among other things, with the remarkable identification with the fate of Biblical Israel, displayed by numerous Christian, and particularly Calvinist, preachers and authors in Hungary, from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century and beyond. See Tamás Turán, Two Peoples, Seventy Nations. Parallels of National Destiny in Hungarian Intellectual History and Ancient Jewish Thought, in: Pál Hatos/Attila Novák (eds.), Between Minority and Majority. Hungarian and Jewish/Israeli Ethnical and Cultural Experiences in Recent Centuries, Budapest 2013, 44–73, esp. 56–58.

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aspirations and adapted to these trends only reluctantly, out of political necessities. In 1862, the famous Hungarian Jewish journalist and writer Adolf Ágai (1836–1916) reported that in the local parlance of the Hungarian Great Plain, the denominational categories of Calvinist (kálamista) and Catholic (pápista) were used to characterize Hungarian Jews, based on their linguistic behavior: The former term denoted those speaking mostly Hungarian, while the latter referred to speakers of the Yiddish language. “In my experience,” Ágai wrote, “Calvinism had the most Magyarizing effect on our coreligionists [living among them], and they markedly differ from those [Jews] living among Papists.”73 In the same years, the municipal authorities of Székesfehérvár called the progressive and conservative Jewish parties in the city the “Magyar party” and the “Orthodox party” respectively.74 In Nagyvárad, too, the separate progressive Jewish community established in 1861 called itself “Hungarian-Jewish Community” (Magyar-Zsidó község).75 Progressives often mocked Orthodox rabbis and complained to governmental authorities that those rabbis did “not know even to write and to read,”76 or to speak any of the “living” languages – that is, German and Hungarian.77 In a major policy shift after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867, Orthodox party politics endorsed, at least in terms of party platform declarations, the Magyarization process. Loyalty to Hungarian nationalism and political supremacy (if only

73 Adolf Ágai, A magyar izraelita [The Hungarian Israelite], II, in: Magyar Izraelita 2 (1862), no. 7, 64. In Hungary, Debrecen was the Calvinist “Rome.” (Its sizable Jewish community remained a “status quo” community after the split.) In contrast, Pressburg was considered to be the Jewish (Orthodox) “Rome.” See [n.  a., n.  t.], in: Magyar Izraelita  2 (1862), no. 34, 290 f. Pest may have been regarded as the Neolog “Rome.” 74 Jakab Steinherz, A székesfehérvári zsidók története. [The History of the Jews of Székesfehérvár], in: MZsSz 10 (1893), 548–558 and 622–627; MZsSz 11 (1894), 102–109, 177– 190, 539–548 and 623–637; here MZsSz 11 (1894), 189. 75 Zsigmond Groszmann, A magyar zsidók a XIX. század közepén (1849–1870). Történelmi tanulmány [Hungarian Jews in the Mid-Nineteenth Century (1849–1870). A Historical Study], Budapest 1917, 66 f. 76 A magyar országgy ˝ulés mélyen tisztelt képvisel ˝oházához intézett emlékirata az izraelita egyetemes gy ˝ulés bizottságának az 1868 évi deczember 10-ére meghivott Izraelita cong­ ressus által hozott határozatok tárgyában [Memorandum of the Committee of the Israelite General Assembly to the Deeply Honored House of Representatives of the Hungarian National Assembly, Concerning the Resolutions of the Israelite Congress Convened to 10 December 1868], Pest 1870 (henceforth Emlékirat), 39. 77 See Leon da Modena Redivivus [Leopold Löw], Die jüdischen Wirren in Ungarn. Beitrag zur Zeitgeschichte. Erster Theil: Vor dem Kongresse, Leipzig/Pest 1868, 95, about such public claims in 1847, noting with sarcasm some positive developments since then, especially among “high orthodoxy.”

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as lip service) became a key leverage of the Orthodox, who constituted the majority of Hungarian Jews, vis-à-vis Hungarian politics.78 In the Habsburg Empire, like elsewhere, the nineteenth century accelerated the “nationalization of religion and the consecration of nation.”79 Hungarian Calvinism (the Magyar denomination) was considered a hotbed of nationalist resistance and rebellion against Austria by many in the Austro-Hungarian Catholic elite since the early eighteenth century.80 Their fight against state-sponsored Catholicism and its supremacy in religious life was hardly separable from the resistance against Habsburg absolutism and Germanization in the general political arena. The successful Protestant resistance in 1859/1860 against an imperial decree reorganizing – centralizing – the Protestant denominations in Hungary gave a strong impetus to the youthful lay professional Jewish leadership launching their own campaign for autonomy, emancipation and what it entailed: Jewish educational and organizational reforms.81

78 See e. g. the comment by a Catholic priest from Sáros County (Northern Hungary, inhabited mostly by Slovaks) at an assembly meeting, cit. by a Hungarian correspondent: [n. a., n. t.], in: Die Neuzeit 1 (1861), no. 4, 39 f. After the Congress (and until World War II), Orthodox loyalty turned into patriotism. A major component of this shift was apparently their indebtedness towards the political elite for approving the split from the Neologs and the continued indifference or opposition of the government to repeated Neolog attempts at reunification. 79 Martin Schulze Wessel, Die Nationalisierung der Religion und die Sakralisierung der Nation im östlichen Europa (Einleitung), in: idem (ed.), Nationalisierung der Religion und Sakralisierung der Nation im östlichen Europa, Stuttgart 2006, 7–14, here 9. 80 Friedrich Gottas, Die Frage der Protestanten in Ungarn in der Ära des Neoabsolutismus. Das ungarische Protestantenpatent vom 1. September 1859, Munich 1965, 28–30; Bucsay, Der Protestantismus in Ungarn 1521–1978, vol. 2: Vom Absolutismus bis zur Gegenwart, Vienna/Cologne/Graz 1979, 91; János Csohány, A magyarországi protestánsok abszolutizmuskori bécsi kormányiratok tükrében [Hungarian Protestants in Light of Government Documents from Vienna in the Age of Absolutism], Budapest 1979, 7–9 and 40 f. 81 Mór Mezei, Autonómia iskoláinkban [Autonomy in Our Schools], Magyar Izraelita 1 (1861), no. 32, 272. See also Mezei’s memoirs, in: Évkönyv. Kiadja az Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat [Yearbook. Published by the Israelite Hungarian Literary Society], Budapest 1918, 11–32, here 25 f. Furthermore, see Zsigmond Groszmann, Mezei Mór és kora [Mór Mezei and His Age], in: Évkönyv. Kiadja az Izr. Magyar Irodalmi Társulat, Budapest 1936, 197–208, here 200. See also [Mór Zsengeri], Tájékozás [Orientation], in: Magyar Izraelita  2 (1862), no.  22, [189]; and the recollections of Elázár Szántó, Asszimiláczió [Assimilation], in: Egyenl ˝oség 3 (1884), no. 2, 5. The new slogan of the progressive leadership – “autonomy” – itself was borrowed from the aforementioned Protestant struggles. See also [n. a.], Quid consilii? I., in: Magyar Izraelita 3 (1863), no. 27, [233].

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Organization From the second half of the 1850s, Hungarian Calvinists fought a protracted but successful battle to maintain their traditional communal autonomy which granted a prominent role to lay leadership,82 against Habsburg efforts to create a centralized Protestant superstructure, dominated by pastors, for the entire Empire. As for local community structure, Neolog plans were similar to the Calvinist approach of reinforcing or even elevating lay leadership at the expense of ecclesiastic roles. As for rabbinic leadership, in the town of Pápa, for instance, the Protestant pastor clearly was the role model for progressive Jews between 1846 and 1850.83 Among the Orthodox, rabbinic authority retained its prestige and some of its classical prerogatives. This difference was first brought into high relief at the Paks rabbinical conference in 1844.84 Neologs later often portrayed the Orthodox insistence on rabbinic authority as “clericalism” and a predilection for “hierarchy” which they considered a­ lien to traditional Judaism.85 The accusation made against Orthodox rabbinic authority of being “hierarchical” in a generally liberal political public sphere was a calculated one. Yet, political realities of the Jewish Congress and the subsequent rift indeed pushed the Orthodox toward a more hierarchical political representation of their own.86 82 Bucsay, Der Protestantismus in Ungarn 1521–1978, vol. 1, 205–208, and vol. 2, 26–31 and 68–71. 83 Réka Jakab, Bérl  ob  ˝ ol ˝ polgár. Pápa város zsidó közösségének társadalom- és gazdaságtörténete, 1748–1848 [From Leaseholder to Bourgeois. The Social and Economic History of the Jewish Community of Pápa, 1748–1848], Budapest 2014, 112, where documents are summarized, esp. Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár [National Archives of Hungary], Veszprém Megyei Levéltára [Veszprém County Archives], IV.1.t, 22 February 1850. 84 At this conference, that failed in its aim to establish a nationwide Jewish organization, Löw Schwab represented the progressives; his proposal favouring lay participation met with strong opposition. See L. Löw, Zur neueren Geschichte der Juden in Ungarn, 200, 202, and 205. 85 Emlékirat, 31–34 and 41. “The rabbi is subordinated to the community but not vice versa. […] The congress defended this freedom bestowed on us by pristine tradition, when […] it did not allow to pave the way for priestly power.” Ibid., 41. 86 This organizational innovation was a “hard sell” to the Orthodox constituency. See Jacob Katz, A House Divided. Orthodoxy and Schism in Nineteenth-Century Central European Jewry, trans. by Ziporah Brody, Hanover, N. H./London 1998, 191. See also Hillel Lich­ tenstein’s letter to the Galician Rabbi Uri Shraga Schreier from 1887: Idem, Sefer teshuvot Bet Hillel he-hadash. Teshuvot u-mikhtevei kodesh [Responsa Bet Hillel, New Edition. Responsa and Holy Letters], New York 2005, 87–92. In addition to the local “Ashkenazic” orthodox communities, Hasidic groups, until the 1920s at least, established numerous (“Sephardic”) communities of their own in larger towns. Such communities were set up not only in parts of the country with a high Hasidic population that were allocated to neighboring countries by the Treaty of Trianon after World War I, but also in towns which remained part of Hungary, such as Sátoraljaújhely, Miskolc, Nyíregyháza.

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On the eve of the Jewish Congress, a Jewish physician from Miskolc proposed to adopt the Protestant model for the organization of the “Jewish community life of our denomination.”87 Decades-long attraction of Jewish progressives to Protestant organizational structure, and especially the role accorded to lay leadership in it, reverberated in his call. Yet this role was far from being undisputed within the Protestant denominations themselves. “Hierarchy!” – this was a battle cry (and a code word for Catholicism) in Hungarian Calvinist infighting, too, between the clerical (“hierarchic”) platforms and lay (“kyriarchic”) platforms since the end of the eighteenth century.88 Similarily, regional and nationwide organization was a divisive issue within Hungarian Calvinism and the idea and outcome of the Jewish Congress challenge, to some extent, the cross-denominational descriptive analogy outlined here. The main purpose of the Congress (held in 1868/69) and its resolutions was to create a bottom-up centralized – and, in that sense, “hierarchical” – representational structure made up of three layers.89 This project ran counter to East and Central European Orthodox Jewish emphasis on local communal autonomy and rabbinic authority, and followed the models of existing Protestant and Greek Orthodox autonomies in different ways.90

87 Áron Kaczander, Miskolcz, 1 February 1868, in: Magyar Izraelita 5 (1868), no. 6, 44 f, here 45. Apparently, the author is referring to local as well as nationwide organization. See also Sal. Blum, Ungarisch-jüdische Notablenversammlung II, in: AZJ 32 (1868), no. 10, 185 f, here 186. 88 Bucsay, Der Protestantismus in Ungarn 1521–1978, vol. 2, 68–70. The Calvinist church districts in Hungary also showed differences on this issue. 89 The supervision of the Jewish “school fund” (Schulfond), established by imperial decree in 1850, was the primary reason for convening such a congress. The status and political fate of this fund were related to similar Catholic state funds in many ways. See e. g. Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 601–620; Ungarisch israelitischer Congress, Az izraelita egyetemes gy ˝u lés I–XXXIII. ülése. 1868 Deczember 14 – 1869 Február 23 [Sessions I–XXXIII of the Israelite General Assembly, Budapest, 14 December 1868 – 23 February 1869], [Pest] 1869, session 29, 25–27. 90 There was opposition to the third, highest “countrywide” level of the proposed structure even among Neologs. One of their representatives referred in this context to the Pro­ testants (Lutherans) who lacked at that time a “nationwide” layer of their autonomous organization (and created one only in 1881, respectively 1891). Ungarisch israelitischer Congress, session 26, 26. On Greek Orthodox influences on the relevant Congress statutes in general, see ibid., session 16, 9; see also [Leopold Löw], Die Pester Eingabe beim Kultusminister, in: Ben Chananja 10 (1867), no. 10, 326–328.

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Credo Controversies over declarations of faith (“confessions”) or “dogma” in modern Judaism can be properly understood only against their Christian historical-political background. In Hungary, throughout most of the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, freedom of religion was given to the Lutherans and Calvinists only, but not to other Protestant groups. Only these two were considered by government and law as “received” or (by widespread Catholic interpretation) “tolerated” faiths and denominations.91 Thus even relative religious freedom was subject to external doctrinal scrutiny.92 Lures and pressures of the Enlightenment, absolutism, and the struggle for emancipation, combined with Protestant religious thought: these were the forces which began to transform Judaism into a “Jewish religion.” In Hungary, the same forces catalyzed the “confessionalization” of Judaism: the steady revaluation, from outside and then from inside, of its ritual and doctrinal aspects at the expense of its communal (primarily educational and judicial) autonomy, and the parting of the ways of two religious platforms.93 Protestants were in the forefront of the push for Jewish emancipation.94 The non-Jewish political elite supporting the conditional emancipation of Hungarian Jews (by far the most popular attitude in the debates about Jewish emancipation in Vormärz times) demanded in the 1840s a vaguely defined “reform” of Judaism, pertaining to laws and norms governing relations between Jews and non-Jews in particular. Authoritative declarations of faith by “synods” or other means (obviously informed by the precedent of the

91 The “Augustan and the Helvetian confessions” are explicitly mentioned for the first time in laws of the Pozsony diet in 1646/47, and then in Law XXV of the Sopron diet in 1681. Also Joseph II’s Toleranzpatent (1781) and Law XXVI (1790) confirm the freedom of religion although with substantial restrictions for “non-Catholics” (Akatholiken), respectively “evangelic” Christians. The first term denoted in contemporary terminology only the Greek Orthodox and those Protestants who profess to either the Augustan or the Helvetic confession, the second describes the two Protestant movements as specified in these laws themselves. 92 As it happened when in 1671 the bishop of Nagyvárad called for renouncing the freedom given for Protestantism, based – among other things – on the abandonment of their “confessional writings” as evidenced by modernist Protestant theological currents. See Bucsay, Der Protestantismus in Ungarn 1521–1978, vol. 1, 177. 93 On the transformation of the Jewish community of Pest from a communitas into a “religious congregation,” see Zsigmond Groszmann, A pesti zsidó gyülekezet alkotmányának története [The History of the Statutes of the Pest Jewish Community], Budapest 1934, 29 f. and 32–35. 94 See Papp, Protestantizmus és zsidóság.

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Jewish assembly in 1806 called “Paris Sanhedrin”) were often called for as the necessary medium or forum for such reforms.95 Progressive and conservative Jewish platforms responded to this challenge in different ways. In the Vormärz period, conservatives remained unimpressed with the idea of dogmatic self-definitions, but progressives, such as rabbinic leaders Löw Schwab (1794–1857), Rabbi of Pest,96 and Leopold Löw,97 attempted to come up

95 For session 231 from 27 September 1844 of the Lower House of the National Assembly: Károly Nagy (Delegate of Gömör County), see Felséges els ˝o Ferdinánd ausztriai császár, Magyar- és Csehországnak e’ néven ötödik apostoli királya által szabad királyi Po­zsony városába 1843dik esztendei Pünkösd hava 14dik napjára rendeltetett magyarországi közgy u  ˝ lésnek naplója a’ tekintetes Karoknál és Rendeknél [Protocols of the Assembly of Hungary at the Honourable Estates, Convened to 14 May 1843 in the Free Royal City of Pozsony, by Ferdinand  I, Emperor of Austria, Fifth Apostolic King of Hungary and Bohemia Under this Name], 5 vols., Pozsony 1843–1844, here vol. 5, Pozsony 1844, 199. For Adolf Rakovszky (Turóc County) and Gábor Lónyay (Zemplén), see ibid., 203; for Ferenc Kubinyi (Nógrád), see ibid., 207; for Pál Tabódy (Ung), see ibid., 209; for Menyhért Lónyay (Bereg), see ibid., 210; for Gábor Mihályi (Máramaros), see ibid., 213. The presentation of a confessio fidei or “symbolic books” was required from Jews by written instructions given to deputies of Borsod, Veszprém, Trencsén, and Máramaros Counties for the 1847 Diet (National Assembly). See Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 2 f. All these demands were obviously influenced by Lajos Kossuth’s similar call in 1844 (see below). The Act of the Hungarian Revolutionary Parliament passed on 28 July 1849 (which did not come into effect due to the Hungarians’ defeat shortly afterwards in their war of independence) granted emancipation to the Jews and enjoined on the Minister of Interior to convene a Jewish Assembly, “partly in order for them to declare their articles of faith or rather to reform them,” partly in order to amend their ecclesiastic organization. Löw, Zur neueren Geschichte der Juden in Ungarn, 187. 96 See his pamphlet against a Catholic priest: Löw Schwab, A zsidók [The Jews], Buda 1840, republ. in: Géza Komoróczy, Zsidók a magyar társadalomban. Írások az együttélésr ˝ol, a feszültségekr ol ˝ és az értékekr ol ˝ 1790–2012 [Jews in Hungarian Society. Texts on Coexistence, Tensions, and Values], 2 vols., here vol. 1, Pozsony 2015, 158–177. See also his call at the Rabbinical Synod at Paks (1844) to produce a textbook on religion which would serve as a “public declaration of faith” (öffentliche Konfession): Löw, Zur neueren Geschichte der Juden in Ungarn, 205 f.; and his bilingual (German-Hungarian) textbook serving that purpose: Löw Schwab, Erinnerung an den erhaltenen Religionsunterricht. Eine Mitgabe fürs Leben an die aus der Schule tretende israelitische Jugend, Buda 1846. 97 See Löw’s proposal Javaslat a zsidóügy iránt [Proposal Concerning the Jewish Issue], in: Pesti Hírlap [Pest Journal], 22 June 1847, 406, republ. in: Komoróczy, Zsidók a magyar társadalomban, vol. 1, 271 f. Löw’s annotated translation of the declarations of the Paris Synod (“Sanhedrin”) should be seen as providing historical support for expected similar Hungarian-Jewish declarations. See idem, Zsidó valláselvek. Megállapítva a nagy Sanhedrin által, mely 1807ik évi februarban Párisban tartatott [Jewish Religious Principles. Established by the Great Sanhedrin Held in Paris, February 1807], Pápa 1848. This publication was one of Löw’s responses to the call of Kossuth to convene a “Sanhedrin” to issue reforms or a declaration of faith. See the latter’s editorial remark, in Pesti Hírlap, 5 May 1844, 300, republ. in: Komoróczy, Zsidók a magyar társadalomban, vol. 1, 237–239.

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with a moderate reformist credo.98 The expert opinion of Schwab in support of outlawing the Reform Association added an “ecclesiastic” edge to this progressive “confessional” literature and the emerging Neolog credo. The document declared that the Reform Association, based on its “declaration of faith,” excluded itself from Judaism.99 This Neolog dogmatics emerged under political pressure – not unlike classical Protestant confessional literature in the sixteenth century. In the changed atmosphere of the 1860s, attitudes of both conservatives and progressives towards credos took a twist.

The Denominational Setting of the Political Process Leading to the Jewish Schism in the 1860s The restoration of some of the political institutions and rights of Hungary in 1860/61 accelerated shifts in Habsburg and Hungarian religious policies.100 More and more urbanized Jews began to identify themselves as “progressive”  – as per their own understanding of the term  – and in some larger towns, they outnumbered conservatives. Authorities in the 1850s and 1860s became increasingly uncertain about how to maintain organizational unity among Jews (a precondition for the efficient implementation of religious and educational policies of the state), and to avoid sectarianism, without oppressing freedom of conscience and aggravating religious tension between different Jewish parties or fractions within the communities. In keeping with Thun’s advice and instructions from 1851, authorities tried to solve local conflicts at the local level. However, the conflicts of the 1860s revealed new calculations and emphases in the religious policies of the authorities.

 98 See also the circular letter of the Jewish Community of Pest in 1847 in the name of Hungarian Jewry. Schwab’s book Erinnerung an den erhaltenen Religionsunterricht was appended to this circular. See Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 4–7.  99 Schwab makes reference to shabbat and circumcision as two fundamental commandments of Judaism that are “symbols” (oth) and have a “confessional character.” Since the “program” of the Reform Association effectively abolishes these two commandments, there is no doubt, according to him, that its members do not belong to the Israelite community. Löw Schwab, Gutachten an den israelitischen Gemeinde-Vorstand zu Pesth, in Betreff der daselbst sich gebildeten, sogenannten Central-Reform-Genossenschaft, [Pest 1848], 10 f. In 1851, in an opinion submitted to government authorities, leading progressive rabbis declared Reformers, as well as Hasidism, a “sect”: Hochmuth, Leopold Löw als Theologe, Historiker und Publizist, 214 f. 100 The Viennese government started preparatory work on new statutes for Jews and Protestants in Hungary already in the second half of the 1850s. For the former, see Büchler, A zsidók története Budapesten, 490.

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In the city of Székesfehérvár, moderate modernizers and conservatives of the Jewish community were at odds from the mid-1850s.101 In 1860, the Hungarian Royal Lieutenancy (Helytartótanács) instructed its local office not to interfere in this religious conflict, which, in the subsequent two years, lead to a de facto and de jure separation of the two fractions within the community. The compromise arrangement,102 sanctioned by the highest authorities, was based on two principles: Firstly, it was declared (maybe for the first time concerning a Hungarian Jewish local community) that the “separation of different Jewish denominations [felekezetek]” was “permissible” in order to honor freedom of religion and freedom of conscience, provided that no “new religion” was formed. Secondly, the separation was to pertain to religious institutions and services (rabbi, ritual slaughterer, school) financed and managed by the fractions respectively, while the basic administrative unity of the community remained.103 Despite the new administrative terminology, the old problem of sectarianism survived the reactionary Bach era (1851–1859). The conceptual demarcation between “religion,” “denomination,” and “sect” turned out to be an impossible task. As a characteristic conclusion of this struggle, in a minor conflict in 1866 between the local parties, the Orthodox party complained to the Hungarian Royal Lieutenancy that in 1863 the County Chief had invited Abraham Hochmuth (1816–1889), a Neolog rabbi in Veszprém, to give his expert opinion on the conflict between the parties, which, according to the Orthodox, had been as inappropriate as inviting a Protestant pastor to make a judgment in a conflict between Catholics.104 Within the Lutheran Church of Pest, conflicts between Slovaks, Germans, and Hungarians erupted already in the 1820s, which led to the formation of separate churches, along these ethnic lines, in the next decade. German-speaking Calvinists in Pest split up with their Hungarian coreligionists and were organized into their own filial church in the early 1860s. Some leaders of the Pest Jewish community counted with the possibility of separation within their congregation (as a lesser evil under certain circumstances), and referred to the examples of the Pest Lutherans and Calvinists.105 An editor of the Hungarian progressive Jewish weekly understood the creation of separate semi-autonomous progressive and conservative communities in Székesfehérvár and Nagyvárad as precedents which may lead to a “dangerous disintegration” of Jewish communities in many other places  – 101 Steinherz, A székesfehérvári zsidók története, 180–183. 102 Ignaz Deutsch had apparently a key role in it. See ibid., 548. 103 The ruling was published in Magyar Izraelita 3 (1863), no. 9, 80. See also Steinherz, A székesfehérvári zsidók története, 547. 104 Ibid., 631. 105 [Mór Mezei], Unificatio és dualismus [Unification and Dualism], in: Magyar Izraelita 2 (1862), no. 11, [93 f.].

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and which could hardly be prevented by governmental authorities, in lack of a central nationwide Jewish organization.106 In the end, the very efforts to establish such a nationwide organization proved to be the triggers for disintegration. The leading idea behind organizing the Jewish Congress and its resolutions, as well as their failure on the national level, was anticipated by the ill-conceived division between “religious” and “administrative-organizational” questions in the Székesfehérvár arrangement. As was shown above, Hungarian Protestants (Calvinists, in particular) led a cultural, political as well as religious campaign against Vienna and mostly Catholic Habsburg aristocracy in the nineteenth century;107 and a new generation of lay leaders at the helm of the 30.000 members strong Jewish community of Pest set a similar agenda in the early 1860s. This agenda received greater attention in 1863, when the lay leadership of the community became entangled in a conflict with its Rabbi, Wolf Alois Meisel (1816–1867). The dispute was occasioned by the latter’s report to Móric Pálffy (1812–1897), the Governor General of Hungary, on the state of religious and educational affairs of Hungarian Jewry.108 The lay leadership fought against everything Meisel stood for, who, in their eyes, was a Habsburg confidante who did not know Hungarian and had “hierarchic” aspirations. The former two allegations were undoubtedly correct, and the last one was apparently also not unfounded.109 When Meisel intervened at the Hungarian Royal Lieutenancy on behalf of the lay leadership of Miskolc, vilified by some ultraorthodox rabbis in 1864, the author of an expert opinion for the Government questioned Meisel’s right to intervene in affairs outside his community. The author drew attention to Meisel’s “well-known desire to be appointed a chief rabbi of the country [Landesrabbiner]” and pointed out that

106 Magyar Izraelita 3 (1863) no. 6, 55 f. 107 At least part of the Calvinist clergy felt uneasy about the overt politicization of their “denominational” struggles. A sign of this politicization was that some Jews also joined Calvinist assemblies in the time of the struggle against the Protestant Patent of 1859. See Révész Imre Jr., Révész Imre élete 1826–1881. Születésének századik évfordulóján egyedül Isten dics ˝oségére közrebocsátja a Debreczeni Református Egyház presbyteriuma [The Life of Imre Révész 1826–1881. Published, Solely for God’s Glory, by the Presbyterium of the Reformed Church of Debrecen, On the Occasion of the Centenary of His Birth], Debrecen 1926, 188. I thank Dr. Judit Szatmári for drawing my attention to this source. 108 The report was published in AZJ 27 (1863), no. 19, Beilage. On the report and the whole affair, see Meyer Kayserling, Dr. W. A. Meisel. Ein Lebens- und Zeitbild, Leipzig 1891, 76–80; Büchler, A zsidók története Budapesten, 494–498. 109 See Ben Chananja 6 (1863), no. 6, 95 f.

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“the core of the conflict […] is the struggle between the Orthodox and the Reformed Jew­ish denominations, concerning which the Hungarian Royal Lieutenancy already ruled that governmental authorities should not decide which one represents the true faith.”110

By that time, progressive lay leaders of the Pest community succeeded in limiting rabbinic influence within their community, and in neutralizing accusations of being a “sect.” The early 1860s brought political achievements for Hungarian Calvinists, the Meisel affair marked new political opportunities for the progressives, and the Kompert affair in Vienna at about the same time (1863/64) signalled that Orthodox reactionary rhetorics playing on Catholic harps, à la Ignaz Deutsch, now found less sympathetic ears than before.111 There, maybe for the first time, it was Orthodoxy that was considered a “sect” by the judiciary.112 Like Viennese Jewish leaders, the Pest community’s leadership regarded itself as the political representative of the entire Jewish community of Hungary.113 What may have appeared as a local, internal affair, quickly turned out to be a struggle over matters of principle: Debates about “Magyarism,”114 autonomy, or religious reforms were relevant to the entire community. In 1862, the Mayor of Pest was still much concerned about the statutes of the Pest Jewish community, because it expanded the power of the Board at the expense of Rabbi Meisel. This arrangement, in his view, made much room for “agitation,” which might have dangerous consequences, considering the full autonomy of the representative bodies of the community, and the lack of influence of the rabbi and the authorities on the community management.115 But politics had only limited powers to shape the overall character of the statutes of the Pest Jewish community then. As is known, the mentioned

110 Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár, D 219, 4389/1864. It is unclear which ruling of the Hungarian Royal Lieutenancy is referred to; maybe the ruling concerning Székesfehérvár (see above) is meant. 111 Deutsch, or his followers, were among the instigators of the Kompert affair. See Max Grünwald, Vienna, Philadelphia, Pa., 1936, 351; Groszmann, A magyar zsidók a XIX. század közepén (1849–1870), 73. 112 The Jewish religion was “protected” by Austrian penal law since 1781. According to an official legal interpretation from 27 May 1852, “sects” within Judaism, if and when they emerge, do not enjoy such protection. That was the main argument of the judiciary in rejecting the petition of the Orthodox claimants. See Grünwald, Vienna, 351. 113 This was so probably from the late 1830s. See Büchler, A zsidók története Budapesten, 427. 114 “Magyarisch” and “Magyarismus” were terms for Hungarian/Magyar nationalism used by its opponents and by members of Hungarian national minorities who felt threatened by it. 115 Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár, D 219, batch no. 173, Report of József Kászonyi, Mayor of Pest.

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agenda of the lay leadership later met with Eötvös’s ideas on Jewish emancipation and its implications, and was adopted by the Jewish Congress.116 One of the most divisive issues at the Jewish Congress was whether the preambles of the statutes should make reference to the Shul han . Arukh as the halakhic foundation of Jewish life for Hungarian Jewry. This issue became a ground for divorce between the conservatives and the progressives in the course of the Congress. At this stage, the conservatives felt the need of setting boundaries by a dogmatic shibboleth, a declaration of faith of sorts – emulating a traditional Christian pattern. When their proposal  – that the Congress statutes should begin with a reference to the Shulchan Aruch – was voted down by the progressive majority, they decided effectively to leave the Congress, to declare it illegitimate and to start fighting against its resolutions. At the Jewish Congress some progressive opponents warned that such a confessio fidei would unduly exclude in the future part of Hungarian Jewry from the community, and thus from enjoying certain civil and political rights.117 In fact, Jewish progressives took an anti-dogmatic stand, similar to liberal Calvinist theology which rose to prominence in Hungary after the Austro-Hungarian Compromise in 1867.118 Preparatory discussions about the Congress had already outraged and embittered the Orthodox, and drove them to claim (echoing Samson Raphael Hirsch’s remark from 1862) that Orthodox and progressive Jews were further apart from each other than Catholics and Protestants,119 or Lutherans and Calvinists. They saw no other choice but to appeal for the principle of “freedom of conscience,” applied by the Government in the case of the Eastern Greek Orthodox.120 References to changes in the political-organizational status of the Greek Orthodox denomination in Hungary carried particular weight in the debates culminating in the Jewish schism. The legal precedent 116 Some historians attributed the anti-rabbinic stance of the Jewish organizers of the conference (mostly members of the Pest community) and its outcome largely to the Meisel affair: Sándor Büchler, Eötvös József báró és a magyar zsidóság [Baron József Eötvös and Hungarian Jewry], in: Izraelita Tanügyi Értesít ˝o 38 (1913), no. 8, 302–310, here 307 f. 117 Jakab Steinhardt, Rabbi of Arad, and Moritz Wahrmann. See Ungarisch israelitischer Congress, session 16, 17, and session 20, 9 f. 118 Jen ˝o Márkus, A liberális szellem a református egyházban. A magyar református liberális teológia [The Liberal Spirit in the Reformed Church. Hungarian Liberal Reformed Theology], Budapest 2005 (first publ. Pápa 1939), 100–105. See also András Fáy, Symbolumok [Symbols], in: Protestáns Egyházi és Iskolai Lap [Protestant Church and School Journal], no. 3, 20. January 1844, [49]–57. 119 Salamon Kutna, Offen und ehrlich! Beantwortung der Fragen: I. Präcisirt die israelit. Religionslehre den Glauben an einen persönlichen Messias? II. Giebt es ein Schisma im heutigen Judenthume?, Halberstadt 1864, 33 f. 120 [N. a.], Beleuchtung der die Gemeinden- und Schulen-Organisation betreffenden Vorlagen der ungarisch-israelitischen Konferenzmajorität, in: Jeschurun  14 (1867–68), 226–249, here 229 f. and 248.

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for those seeking to convene a nationwide Jewish congress in the early 1860s was Law 20 of 1848, which enjoined on the Eastern Orthodox the right to organize such a conference to rule on their educational matters.121 After the Jewish Congress, serious doubts were raised in the House of Representatives concerning the legality of convening the Congress.122 As a remedy, Neologs wanted an ex post facto codification of the resolutions of the Congress based on the precedent of similar moves in 1868 concerning the Eastern Orthodox Congress of 1864.123 However, that Congress resulted in the formation of two separate Eastern Orthodox denominations (a Romanian and a Serbian), and the Orthodox Jews, on their part, referred to this very split as a precedent supporting their cause.124 The Catholic Ferenc Deák (1803–1876), one of the most influential supporters of the Orthodox plea, also referred to this precedent.125 The schism between Lutherans and Calvinists, and the formation of two independent ecclesiastic organizations, occurred despite state efforts to establish a single “autonomous” organization for both via a royal decree in 1790. This also served as a weighty argument in the House of Representatives in 1870 in favor of the Orthodox plea for exemption from the resolutions of the Jewish Congress.126 The two splits, and others recorded in the more recent religious history of Hungary, were perceived by many in the House of Representatives as resulting from the Government’s failure to set up “autonomous” – but centralized – denominational structures,127 and evoked strong skepticism concerning the viability of a Catholic “autonomy,”128 planned by Eötvös. Ultimately, the Orthodox call for declaring the resolutions of the Jewish Congress as

121 See [Mór Mezei], Az izraelita országos iskolai pénzalap. VI [The Israelite National School Fund. VI], in: Magyar Izraelita 2 (1862), no. 33, [277]. 122 Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 609–611 (Kálmán Ghyczy), 651 (Lajos Mocsáry), 664 (Mór Jókai), and 710–712 (Seb ˝o Vukovics). 123 See Emlékirat, 43 f.; Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 646 (Mór Wahrmann). 124 [N. a.], Beleuchtung der die Gemeinden- und Schulen-Organisation betreffenden Vorlagen der ungarisch-israelitischen Konferenzmajorität, 248 f. 125 Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 936. 126 The Calvinist writer Mór Jókai argued that the Jewish Congress was conducted as if all the Protestant denominations were forced to unite, and the minority was forced to defer to the majority. Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol. 1, 664. In the debates of the House (esp. in the years of the split, 1868–1871) we frequently find arguments based on comparisons between Jewish and other denominational affairs and characteristics, e. g. on Protestant autonomy and Jewish autonomy. Ibid. (János Ludwigh, in 1870). 127 Ibid., 765 (Ern ˝o Simonyi), 820–821 (Boldizsár Halász). 128 Ibid., 740 (Lajos Salamon), 746 (János Ludwigh), and 774–776 (Kálmán Tisza).

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non-binding by the House of Representatives  – effectively sanctioning a Jewish schism – greatly benefitted from these sentiments.129

Concluding Remarks The nature of the Christian religious environment was an important factor in shaping the political discourse on Jewish reform initiatives and their fate in Hungary. Comparisons of differences between conservative and progressive Jews to those between Catholicism and Protestantism, or between other denominations, were neither incidental nor haphazard. Some religious-philosophical similarities and common interests led to ideological and political alliances between Orthodox Jewry and Catholicism (and to some extent, conservative Protestantism), and between progressive Jewry and Protestantism (Calvinism in particular) in the nineteenth century. The intensity and outcome of the conflict between progressive and conservative Jews in Hungary was related, among other things, to the nature and after-effects of the Counter-Reformation struggles there. A tactical alliance between Orthodox Judaism and Catholicism in Austria-Hungary was built on their shared perceptions of a common enemy: the Enlightenment and its “destructive” (rationalistic-deistic) implications for religion. Alliances between the Neologs (a moderate Reform movement developed in a Catholic empire) and Protestants, on the other hand, were predicated upon some affinities, social as well as religious, beyond common foes such as authoritarian religious oppression and coercion. Accordingly, Calvinist denominational affairs remained an important model and a point of reference for Neologs until World War I at least,130 while the Orthodox in Hungary rarely ever referred to positive examples of Catholics, neither in organizational nor political matters.

129 This call – based on the claim that the resolutions adopted by the Neolog majority seek to establish a Jewish denomination substantially and dogmatically different from the Orthodox faith – was accepted by Deák as well as by the relevant parliamentary committee. Zeller, A magyar egyházpolitika 1847–1894, vol.  1, 935  f. For a brief summary of the main dogmatic differences between the Orthodox and the Neologs, from the perspective of the former, see Sigmund Krauss, Wissen und Glauben, oder: Der Mensch und der Israelit. Zwei Betrachtungen nebst einer Einleitung als Schlusswort nach beendigtem Kongresskampfe zwischen den Juden orthodoxer und neologer Richtung, Pest 1871, 18 f. 130 Issues in which Hungarian Protestantism served as a model for progressive Jewish circles included state subventions, the struggle for the “reception,” as well as – regarding inner-Jewish affairs – reunification efforts, and “cultural work” as a remedy for religious “indifference.”

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Jewish progressives fighting for social and religious progress in mid-nineteenth century Hungary found themselves in a complex ethnic, cultural, religious, and political predicament. The Calvinist resistance against Habsburg attempts to curb their organizational autonomy inspired the renewed Jewish struggle for emancipation and autonomy in the 1860s. Calvinists as well as Neologs were called the “Magyar party” at that time, as opposed to their religious-political rivals, perceived by a good part of the Hungarian public as serving Habsburg political and Germanizing cultural interests. The struggle for the equal religious standing of Judaism, which resulted in the official recognition of Judaism as a “received religion” in 1895, should also be interpreted in the context of the denominational-political agenda of the country’s political elite, the majority of which aimed at limiting Catholic influence on the state and its religious minorities.131 The first half of the nineteenth century was the period of “confessionalization” in Central-European Jewry. The transformation of bi-confessionalized (traditionalist and progressive) Hungarian Jewry, in its complex denominational environment, into a bi-denominational community in the 1850s and 1860s did not come as a surprise. The political-organizational split within Hungarian Jewry was a result of local circumstances, and decades-long cultural, religious and political processes rooted in the basic geo-demographic bifurcation of Hungarian Jewry. This split, in a way, reflected the ecclesiastical-organizational conditions of three major (Christian) religious denominations (Catholic, Protestant, Eastern Orthodox), insofar as each of them were present in Hungary in two separate sub-denominations. These duplications in the Christian denominations also had ethnic and geo-demographic components.132 On another level, it may be argued that culturally and religiously, Hungarian Jewry was rather composed of three distinct blocks,133 sharing some features with the surrounding Christian cultures: the Orthodox with Catholics, Hasidism with the Eastern Orthodox,134 and the Neologs with the Protestants. From these two vantage points one may say with some justification that in Hungary too: As the Christians go, so go the Jews.135

131 See Ferenc Mezey, A receptió [The Reception], in: MZsSz 11 (1894), 307. 132 Since the sixteenth century, Transylvania was a microcosm of these ethno-religious complexities. 133 See R. Moshe Sofer, Hatam Sofer, [I:] Orah hayim, Pressburg 1855, responsum no. 16; Leon da Modena Redivivus [Löw], Die jüdischen Wirren in Ungarn, 58 f. 134 See Igor Turov, Hasidism and Christianity of the Eastern Territory of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Possible [sic] of Contacts and Mutual Influences, in: Kabbalah 10 (2004), 73–105. 135 An earlier version of this paper was delivered at a conference titled “Always Hungarian. The Jews of Hungary Through the Vicissitudes of the Modern Era,” held in May 2016 at Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan.

Daniel Mahla

Richtungskämpfe um rabbinische Autorität und ­nationale Selbstverwirklichung: Mosche Amiel, Judah Maimon und der religiöse ­Zionismus der Zwischenkriegszeit Im Israel des 21. Jahrhunderts nehmen nationalreligiöse Stimmen und Institutionen einen zentralen Platz ein. Wenn säkulare Israelis mittels des Neologismus hadata die »Religionisierung« ihres Landes beklagen,1 dann meinen sie damit nicht nur die Aktivitäten ultraorthodoxer Parteien, sondern auch den politischen Einfluss nationalreligiöser Kräfte und insbesondere der ideologischen Siedlerbewegung. Die heutige Bewegung geht auf die zu Beginn des 20.  Jahrhunderts in Vilnius gegründete Organisation Misrachi zurück, die Grundsätze des orthodoxen Judentums mit dem Zionismus verband. Im Gegensatz zur nationalistisch-messianischen Ausrichtung gegenwärtiger Akteure gaben sich Misrachisten jedoch politisch moderat und distanzierten sich von heilsgeschichtlichen Interpretationen moderner jüdischer Staatlichkeit. Im Vordergrund ihrer Tätigkeit stand der Erhalt religiöser Lebensweisen und Grundsätze in einer überwiegend säkular geprägten zionistischen Bewegung. Dies änderte sich erst mit den Eroberungen des Sechstagekrieges und der Aufnahme ideologisch fundierter Siedlungstätigkeit in den Kerngebieten antiker jüdischer Staatlichkeit in den späten 1960er und den 1970er Jahren.2 Doch obwohl sich religiöse Zionisten vor 1967 in ideologischer Ausrichtung und politischem Durchsetzungsvermögen weitgehend von den 1 2

Zu den israelischen Diskussionen um einen übermäßigen Einfluss religiöser Akteure siehe einführend Yoram Peri, The »Religionization« of Israeli Society. Introduction, in: Israel Studies Review 27 (2012), H. 1, 1–3. Im Gegensatz zum frühen religiösen Zionismus gibt es zur ideologischen S ­ iedlerbewegung und deren Einflüssen eine ausführliche Forschungsdebatte, u. a.: Gideon Aran, Kukism. Schorasche Gush Emunim, tarbut ha-mitna halim, te’ologia  zijonit, meschi hijut be-sema. . . nenu [Kukismus. Die Wurzeln des Gush Emunim, die Kultur der Siedler, zionistische Theologie, Messianismus in unserer Zeit], Jerusalem 2013; Michael Feige, Settling in the Hearts. Jewish Fundamentalism in the Occupied Territories, Detroit, Mich., 2009; Sarah Yael Hirschhorn, City on a Hilltop. American Jews and the Israeli Settler Movement, Cambridge, Mass., 2017; Ian Lustick, For the Land and the Lord. Jewish Fundamentalism in Israel, New York 1988; David Newman, The Impact of Gush Emunim. Politics and Settlement in the West Bank, London 1985; Ehud Sprinzak, The Ascendance of Israel’s Radical Right, New York 1991; Idith Zertal/Akiva Eldar, Lords of the Land. The War over Israel’s Settlements in the Occupied Territories, New York 2007. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 95–119.

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heutigen Vertretern der Bewegung unterschieden, waren sie weit mehr als ein Ritualienmeister, der lediglich die Mesusot an den Gebäuden der Zionistischen Organisation (ZO) zu überprüfen hatte, wie ihnen spöttisch nachgesagt wurde. In vielerlei Hinsicht war der Misrachi eine dynamische Bewegung, die sich im Spannungsfeld von jüdischer Orthodoxie und modernem Nationalismus bewegte, und als solche neue Institutionen, Zugehörigkeiten und Gruppenformationen ausbildete. Anhänger des Misrachi leisteten damit einen wesentlichen Beitrag zur Anpassung religiöser Strukturen an den modernen Nationalstaat und schufen die ideellen wie organisatorischen Grundlagen des nationalreligiösen Milieus in Israel.3 In den Gemeinden Ostmitteleuropas suchten sich Misrachisten als neue politische Elite zu etablieren und stießen dabei auf den vehementen Widerstand vieler religiöser Autoritäten. Spannungen zwischen Rabbinern und Laienvorstand waren bereits in den vormodernen jüdischen Gemeinden Europas keine Seltenheit gewesen. Da das traditionelle Judentum keine klare Trennung zwischen religiösen und politischen Einflusssphären kannte, rangen deren Träger immer wieder um die Balance der Kräfte. Im Zuge von Emanzipation und Säkularisierung hatten die jüdischen Gemeinden (kehilot) an Einfluss verloren und auch die Entwicklung des modernen Staatswesens trug in vielen Teilen Europas zu deren Verfall bei. Hinzu kam das Auftreten von neuen Strömungen und Autoritäten, etwa den chassidischen Wunderrabbis, das die Frage der Führung jüdischer Gemeinschaftsstrukturen weiter verkomplizierte.4 Vor diesem Hintergrund rangen orthodoxe Kräfte wie der Misrachi zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts in Ostmitteleuropa um die Form und Zukunft der kehilot. Dabei war gerade die Frage nach dem Einfluss religiöser Autorität innerhalb der Bewegung höchst umstritten und sorgte immer wieder für Spannungen. Diese Konflikte, so die dem vorliegenden Beitrag zugrunde liegende These, waren für den Misrachi konstitutiv, da sie die Entwicklung der Bewegung maßgeblich bestimmten. 3

4

Wie bei vielen anderen jüdischen Parteien jener Jahre handelte es sich bei Misrachi und Aguda um Organisationen, deren Tätigkeit sich nicht nur auf zahlreiche Länder erstreckte, sondern weit über politische Aktivitäten hinausging. Sie errichteten für ihre Anhänger ein weites Netz gesellschaftlicher Institutionen, etwa Schulen. Darum werden Misrachi und Aguda im Folgenden je nach Kontext als Parteien und als Bewegungen bezeichnet. Zur Frage der Führung der Gemeinden und neuen Formationen unter dem Chassidismus siehe David Asaf/Israel Bartal, Schetadlanut we-ortodoksija. Zaddikei Polin be-mifgasch im ha-semanim ha- hadaschim [Schtadlanut und Orthodoxie. Polnische Zaddikim in der . Auseinandersetzung mit neuen Zeiten], in: Israel Bartal/Rachel Elior/Chone Shmeruk (Hgg.), Zaddikim we-ansche ma’ase. Me hkarim ba- hasidut Polin [Zaddikim und Prakti. . ker. Forschungen zum Chassidismus in Polen], Jerusalem 1994, 65–90; David Biale u. a. (Hgg.), Hasidism. A New History, Princeton, N. J./Oxford 2018; Glenn Dynner, Men of Silk. The Hasidic Conquest of Polish Jewish Society, New York/Oxford 2006; Marcin Wodzi ´nski, Hasidism and Politics. The Kingdom of Poland, 1815–1864, Oxford 2013.

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Um solchen Debatten nachzuspüren, analysiert der Artikel die Auseinandersetzungen zwischen zwei zentralen Führungspersönlichkeiten der Bewegung, Mosche Awigdor Amiel (1883–1946) und Judah Leib Maimon (Fischmann; 1875–1962), im Zeitraum vom Ende des Ersten Weltkrieges bis in die frühen 1930er Jahre.5 In Bessarabien beziehungsweise in Litauen geboren und in den großen Jeschiwot Osteuropas ausgebildet, arbeiteten sie daran, die Ziele des Misrachi zu verwirklichen. Beide emigrierten nach Palästina und erlangten dort Schlüsselpositionen im öffentlichen Leben der jüdischen Siedlungen. Doch standen sie innerhalb des Misrachi für höchst unterschiedliche Ansätze. Amiel unterstützte die Organisation in verschiedenen Ämtern als rabbinische Autorität. Maimon dagegen war in wechselnden Positionen einer der herausragenden Politiker dieser Bewegung. Ihre Ämter und Funktionen prägten die beiden Männer auf sehr unterschiedliche Weise. Hinsichtlich ideologischer Ausrichtung und politischer Allianzen nahmen sie nicht selten konträre Positionen ein. In der hier betrachteten Periode befand sich der Misrachi angesichts der sich rapide ändernden sozialen und politischen Rahmenbedingungen in einem tief greifenden Umbruch. In diesem Zusammenhang entspannen sich immer wieder weitreichende Debatten um Wesen und Zukunft des religiösen Zionismus. Im Folgenden werden die Hintergründe und Positionen Judah Maimons und Mosche Amiels ausgeleuchtet und in einem weiteren Schritt in den Kontext der politischen Auseinandersetzungen des Misrachi in jenen Jahren gestellt. Im Fokus stehen also weniger die Beziehungen zwischen religiösen und politischen Kräften in der Gesellschaft, sondern vielmehr die Spannungen und Dynamiken zwischen spiritueller und politischer Autorität innerhalb der religiös-zionistischen Bewegung selbst.6 Da solche Dynamiken auch weiterhin das nationalreligiöse Milieu prägen, kann ihre Analyse zum Verständnis des religiösen Zionismus weit über dessen Anfänge hinaus beitragen.

5

6

Es liegt keine Gesamtstudie über den Misrachi in diesen Jahren vor. Für dessen ­wichtigste Filiale, den polnischen Verband, siehe Assaf Kaniel, Jomra we-ma’as. Ha-Misra hi . be-Polin bein schtei mil hamot ha-olam [Streben und Erfolg. Der Misrachi in Polen zwischen den . beiden Weltkriegen], Ramat Gan 2011. Eine kurze Einführung bietet auch Dov Schwartz, Religious-Zionism. History and Ideology, Boston, Mass., 2009. Eliezer Don-Yehiya stellt die Spannungen zwischen Partei und Institutionen in den Vordergrund. Siehe ders., Manhigut politit ba-zijonut ha-datit. Ha-rav Jehuda Leib Maimon, . manhig »ha-Misra hi« . [Politische Führung im religiösen Zionismus. Der Rabbiner Judah Leib Maimon, Führer »des Misrachi«], in: Bar-Ilan. Yearbook of the Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan 28–29 (2001), 123–160. Gershon C. Bacon hat eine Typologie von rabbinischen Persönlichkeiten in der polnisch-jüdischen Politik erstellt: ders., Rabbis and Politics, Rabbis in Politics. Different Models within Interwar Polish Jewry, in: YIVO Annual of Jewish Social Science 20 (1991), 39–59.

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Wege in den Misrachi – Judah Maimon und Mosche Amiel Judah Maimon wurde 1875 in der bessarabischen Stadt M aˇ rcule s¸ti im südwestlichen Teil des russischen Zarenreichs (heute Republik Moldau) geboren. Nach einem ersten religiösen Studium in seiner Heimatstadt trat er eine Ausbildung in verschiedenen Jeschiwot des litauischen Judentums an und wurde schließlich in der weißrussischen Stadt Navahrudak (russ. Nowogrudok) zum Rabbiner ordiniert. Damit durchlief er eine für die erste Generation religiöser Zionisten typische profunde religiöse Ausbildung. Nach der Ordination diente Maimon zuerst als Prediger in seiner Heimatstadt M aˇ rcule s¸ti und ab 1904 als Gemeinderabbiner im ebenfalls bessarabischen Ungheni. Maimons Stärke war jedoch weniger die rabbinische Gelehrsamkeit als vielmehr der Einsatz für seine Gemeinde und den Klal Jisrael, die gesamte jüdische Gemeinschaft. Schenkt man der mythologisierenden Literatur des Misrachi Glauben, begann Maimon bereits im Alter von elf Jahren, sich für das jüdische Gemeinwohl zu engagieren. Er gründete eine Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Religion, sammelte Geld für die Reparatur und Anschaffung von Büchern des örtlichen Lehrhauses (Beit Midrasch) und gründete einen Hilfsverein, der sich um Feuerholz für mittellose Juden kümmerte. Solcherlei Tätigkeiten zum Wohl der jüdischen Allgemeinheit begleiteten ihn auch durch die Jahre seiner religiösen Ausbildung und machten später einen wichtigen Teil seiner Arbeit als Gemeinderabbiner aus.7 In dieser Hinsicht stellte Maimon einen typischen Vertreter der frühen religiös-zionistischen Bewegung dar. Viele seiner Mitstreiter betätigten sich in Vereinen zur Einhaltung des Sabbats, förderten jüdische Erziehung, gründeten Organisationen für die Unterstützung verarmter Mitbürger, organisierten Hilfe für Pogromopfer, später für jüdische Flüchtlinge, und engagierten sich im aufkommenden Pressewesen.8 Durch dieses soziale und politische Engagement sammelten die Aktivisten Erfahrungen, bauten weitreichende Netzwerke auf und verschafften sich Respekt und Zuspruch innerhalb der jüdischen Gemeinde. Auch leiteten sie aus dieser Arbeit nicht selten Ansprüche auf Positionen in den Gemeinden ab. Der neu gegründete Misrachi

7

8

Für Darstellungen zu Maimons Leben und Tätigkeit siehe die ausführliche Biografie seiner Tochter: Geulah Bat-Yehuda, Rabbi Maimon in His Generations, Jerusalem 1998. Außerdem der Eintrag in: Jizchak Rafael (Hg.), En ziklopedia schel ha- zijonut ha-datit. . . Ischim, musagim, mif’alim [Enzyklopädie des religiösen Zionismus. Personen, Begriffe, Aktivitäten], 5 Bde., Jerusalem 1958–1982, hier Bd. 3, Jerusalem 1965, Sp. 421–494. Siehe die zahlreichen Beispiele in ebd.

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wurde Vehikel und Rahmen dieses Aktivismus und der daraus abgeleiteten politischen Ambitionen.9 Wie viele Anhänger der Misrachi-Bewegung, verband auch Judah Maimon seinen Einsatz für das jüdische Gemeinwohl bald mit dem Zionismus. Er betätigte sich bei den Chovevei Zion, einem Vorläufer der zionistischen Bewegung, und schlug in seinen Predigten nationale Töne an. Er stand in engem Austausch mit dem als Gründer des Misrachi geltenden Rabbiner Isaak Jakob Reines und nahm an der Gründungsversammlung der Bewegung 1902 in Vilnius teil. Während sich viele seiner Mitstreiter trotz ideologischer Beteuerungen nur zögerlich Richtung Palästina aufmachten, verließ Maimon bereits 1913 das russische Zarenreich, um sich in Jerusalem niederzulassen. Kurze Zeit später, mit Ausbruch des Ersten Weltkrieges, wurde er allerdings gemeinsam mit zahlreichen anderen zionistischen Aktivisten von den osmanischen Behörden ausgewiesen. Nach einem temporären Exil in den USA kehrte Maimon nach Kriegsende in das mittlerweile unter britischem Mandat stehende Jerusalem zurück, wo er damit begann, den Misrachi als Organisation in den jüdischen Siedlungen zu etablieren.10 Auch in dem von Traditionalisten geprägten alten Jischuw versuchten Maimon und seine Mitstreiter Fuß zu fassen, jedoch ohne nennenswerten Erfolg. Wie weite Teile der europäischen Orthodoxie standen die frommen Bewohner Jerusalems, Hebrons und anderer traditioneller Siedlungen Palästinas der Nationalbewegung äußerst kritisch bis ablehnend gegenüber. Doch unter den zionistischen Einwanderern des neuen Jischuw erarbeiteten sich Misrachi-Aktivisten bald eine wichtige Stellung. Maimon stieg zu einer zentralen Führungsfigur des lokalen wie auch internationalen Misrachi auf, dessen Parteizentrale nun von Hamburg nach Jerusalem verlegt wurde. Über die nächsten Jahrzehnte bekleidete er zahlreiche Ämter in seiner eigenen Bewegung, in der Jewish Agency und schließlich in der israelischen Regierung. Sein Mitstreiter Mosche Unna bezeichnete ihn später als Archetyp eines politischen Führers, als einen, der sich vollkommen mit der eigenen Bewegung identifizierte. »Ich bin nicht in den Misrachi eingetreten«, zitierte Unna ihn, »der Misrachi trat in mich ein.«11 Maimons Mitstreiter Mosche Amiel kam 1883 in Porazava (russ. Porosowo) im russischen Zarenreich zur Welt, das nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg der Zweiten Polnischen Republik zufiel und heute zu Weißrussland gehört. Ähnlich wie Ju  9 Dazu ausführlich Daniel Mahla, Orthodoxy in the Age of Nationalism. Agudat Jisrael and the Religious Zionist Movement in Germany, Poland and Palestine 1912–1952 (unveröff. Dissertation, Columbia University New York, 2014), 30–69. Die Veröffentlichung unter dem Titel Orthodox Judaism and the Politics of Religion. From Pre-War Europe to the State of Israel (Cambridge University Press) ist für 2019 geplant. 10 Siehe Moshe Ostrovski, Toledot ha-Misra hi [Geschichte des Misrachi in . be-ere z-Isra’el . Erez Israel], Jerusalem 1943. 11 Moshe Unna, Separate Ways in the Religious Parties’ Confrontation of Renascent Israel, übers. von Barry Mindel, Jerusalem 1987, 49.

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dah Maimon erlernte Amiel die religiösen Grundlagen in seiner Heimatstadt, um dann ab seinem 14.  Lebensjahr an mehreren wichtigen Institutionen litauischer Gelehrsamkeit zu studieren. Er besuchte die berühmte Jeschiwa von Telz (lit. Telšiai) und genoss eine Ausbildung bei weltweit anerkannten rabbinischen Größen wie Chaim Halevi Soloveitchik und Chaim Ozer Grodzindski in Vilnius. Hier knüpfte er wichtige Beziehungen, die sein späteres Verhältnis zur nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie wesentlich prägen sollten. Nach seiner Ordination bekleidete Amiel mehrere Rabbinerposten in den westlichen, wenige Jahre später an Polen fallenden Regionen des russischen Zarenreichs. Als einer der ersten Rabbiner trat er dem polnischen Ableger des Misrachi bei, als dieser noch während des Ersten Weltkrieges gegründet wurde. Polen entwickelte sich schnell zum wichtigsten Zentrum der religiös-zionistischen Bewegung in Europa, von dem aus viele Impulse und Debatten auch für die internationale Bewegung ausgingen. So kam es bereits auf den Gründungskongressen des polnischen Ablegers zu Debatten, die sich auf die Entwicklung der religiös-zionistischen Bewegung im Ganzen auswirkten. Nachdem Amiel über die Grenzen Polens hinaus Bekanntheit erlangt hatte, nahm er 1920 einen Ruf als Oberrabbiner von Antwerpen an und bekleidete dieses Amt für die nächsten 16 Jahre. 1936 wanderte er nach Palästina ein, wo er bis zu seinem Tod im Jahr 1945 Oberrabbiner von Tel Aviv war. In seinen verschiedenen Positionen setzte sich Amiel nachdrücklich für den Auf- und Ausbau religiöser Institutionen ein, insbesondere für die orthodoxe Erziehung. Vor allem aber machte er sich einen Namen als Prediger und religiöser Denker, der seiner Nachwelt zahlreiche religionsphilosophische Werke hinterließ. In seiner Bewegung galt er als zentrale Instanz, die umso gewichtiger wirkte, als der Misrachi in diesen Jahren nur wenig Anerkennung unter rabbinischen Autoritäten genoss.12

12 Für Darstellungen »hagiografischer« Art zu Amiel siehe Geulah Bat-Yehuda, Isch ha-hegijonut. Rav Mosche Avigdor Ami’el [Mann des Verstandes. Rabbiner Mosche Awigdor Amiel], Jerusalem 2001; Rafael (Hg.) En ziklopedia schel ha-zijonut ha-datit, Bd. 4, Jeru. salem 1971, Sp. 189–198. Zu Amiels religionsphilosophischem Werk siehe u. a. Moshe Hellinger, Individual and Society, Nationalism and Universalism in the Religious-Zionist Thought of Rabbi Moshe Avigdor Amiel and Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel, in: Jewish Political Studies Review 15 (2003), H. 1/2, 61–121; ders., Mischnato ha-datit-ha-medinit schel ha-rav Mosche Avigdor Ami’el [Die religiös-staatliche Philosophie des Rabbiners Mosche Awigdor Amiel], in: Bar-Ilan. Yearbook of the Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan 28– 29 (2001), 189–232; Avinoam Rosenak, Ha- zijonut ke-mahapecha a-medinit be-mischna. to schel ha-rav Mosche Avigdor Ami’el [Der Zionismus als nicht staatliche Revolution in der Philosophie des Rabbiners Mosche Awigdor Amiel], in: Avi Sagi/Dov Schwartz (Hgg.), Mea schanot zijonut  . datit [Einhundert Jahre religiöser Zionismus], 3 Bde., hier Bd. 1: Ischim we-schitot [Personen und Methoden], Ramat Gan 2003, 287–306; Avinoam Rosenak/Alick Isaacs, Peace, Secularism, and Religion, in: Yigal Levin/Amnon Shapira (Hgg.), War and Peace in Jewish Tradition. From the Biblical World to the Present, London/New York 2012, 139–164.

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Im Spannungsfeld von Orthodoxie und Zionismus Den gegensätzlichen Positionen, die Judah Maimon und Moshe Amiel oftmals vertraten, lagen keine persönlichen Animositäten oder Rivalitäten zugrunde. Auch wenn sie sich inhaltlich teilweise scharfe Schlagabtausche lieferten, blieben die beiden Männer in Freundschaft verbunden. So war es etwa Judah Maimon, der 1936 eine Kandidatur Amiels zum Oberrabbiner Tel Avivs ins Spiel brachte und sich dann nachhaltig für den Bewerber einsetzte, wofür dieser sich nach seiner Wahl in einem überschwänglichen Brief bedankte.13 In ihren Debatten machten sich Spannungen bemerkbar, die nicht nur den Misrachi, sondern religiöse Bewegungen der Moderne insgesamt begleiteten. Solche Bewegungen haben sich mit der Bedeutung religiöser Autorität auseinanderzusetzen, wobei nicht selten Konflikte zwischen Führungsansprüchen der politischen Elite auf der einen und der Einflussnahme spiritueller Größen auf der anderen Seite entstehen.14 Diese Zeit seines Bestehens vorhandene latente Spannung innerhalb des Misrachi hatte mit der doppelten Ausrichtung der Organisation zu tun, die sich einerseits als Teil der jüdischen Nationalbewegung verstand und andererseits die Neubelebung und Stärkung religiöser Werte propagierte. Von Beginn an stritten seine Vertreter über das zentrale Ziel der Bewegung. Sollten in erster Linie die orthodoxen Juden Europas dem Zionismus zugeführt werden? Oder bestand die Hauptaufgabe darin, religiöse Werte in die zionistische Bewegung hineinzutragen und säkularen Zionisten religiöse Lebensweisen näherzubringen?15 In der ZO wurde der Misrachi wiederholt mit dem Vorwurf konfrontiert, klerikale Elemente in die ansonsten säkulare Organisation hineinzutragen. Auch den traditionellen religiösen Eliten war der Misrachi ein Dorn im Auge. Diese sahen im jüdischen Nationalismus eine Gefahr für die kehilot. Insbesondere säkulare Zionisten hatten bereits früh dazu aufgerufen, diese zum Nukleus der neuen Nationalbewegung zu machen, und sich angestrengt, traditionelle Institutionen mit neuen Inhalten zu füllen. Daher betonten die Hüter der Tradition die Unterschiede zwischen ihren Gemeinden und zionistischen Juden. Dem Misrachi warf man vor, solche sorgfältig kultivierten 13 Siehe Bat-Yehuda, Isch ha-hegijonut, 98. 14 Zum Problem der religiösen Autorität in modernen und postmodernen religiösen Bewegungen siehe z. B. Torkel Brekke, Fundamentalism. Prophecy and Protest in an Age of Globalization, New York/Cambridge 2012, 64–87. Zur Bedeutung religiöser Autorität als Indikator der Säkularisierung siehe Mark Chaves, Secularization as Declining Religious Authority, in: Social Forces 72 (1994), H. 3, 749–774. 15 Für eine Darstellung dieser Spannungen in den frühen Jahren des Misrachi siehe Yaakov Zur, Bein ortodoksija le- zijonut. Ha- zijonut ha-datit we-mitnagdeiha (Germanija 1896– . . 1914) [Zwischen Orthodoxie und Zionismus. Der religiöse Zionismus und seine Gegner (Deutschland 1896–1914)], Ramat Gan 2001.

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Grenzen zu verwischen und den modernen Nationalismus in die traditionellen Gemeinden Europas zu tragen.16 Zur ideologischen Konkurrenz traten Konflikte um Macht und Einfluss, da die Ambitionen der Bewegung notwendigerweise mit den Ansprüchen anderer Eliten kollidierten. Misrachisten wollten sich nicht aus religiösen Zusammenhängen lösen, wodurch sie solche Konflikte direkt in die traditionellen jüdischen Gemeinden hineintrugen. Diese Spannungen wirkten nunmehr auf den Misrachi selbst zurück und bestimmten maßgeblich dessen Geschicke. Religiöse Zionisten hatten große Schwierigkeiten, spirituelle Autoritäten für ihre Bewegung zu gewinnen.17 Auch hegten viele Mitglieder eine äußerst ambivalente Einstellung gegenüber der rabbinischen Elite. Der Intimfeind des Misrachi im orthodoxen Feld, die nichtzionistische Agudat Jisrael, löste die Spannungen zwischen politischer und spiritueller Elite, indem sie die religiöse Autorität in einem nicht gekannten Maß überhöhte. Die rabbinische Elite entschied hier nicht nur über rituelle Fragen, sondern bestimmte auch ideologische Ausrichtung und politisch-strategische Angelegenheiten. Nominell hatte sich deren politische Führung strikt an die Weisungen eines rabbinischen Leitungsgremiums, des Rates der Thora-Gelehrten, zu halten, auch wenn dies im politischen Tagesgeschäft eher selten praktiziert wurde.18 Viele Mitglieder des Misrachi dagegen lehnten rabbinische Weisungen nicht nur strikt ab, sondern sie versuchten, Rabbiner gänzlich aus der Politik zu drängen. Selbst Judah Maimon äußerte sich ambivalent über die rabbinische Elite. Obgleich er maßgeblich daran beteiligt war, religiöse Institutionen in den jüdischen Siedlungen Palästinas und insbesondere ein einheitliches Oberrabbinat aufzubauen, suchte er den Einfluss der Rabbiner auf spirituelle Fragen zu beschränken. Immer wieder äußerte er sich äußerst negativ über deren politische Einmischung. 1920 geriet er in direkten Konflikt mit Abraham Isaak Kook, dem späteren aschkenasischen Oberrabbiner Palästinas, als dieser sich im heftig geführten Streit gegen das Frauenwahlrecht innerhalb politischer Institutionen der zionistischen Siedlungen aussprach. Maimon griff Kook für dessen Stellungnahme scharf an. In rituellen Dingen, erklärte

16 Artikel mit solchen Vorwürfen erschienen regelmäßig in der Aguda-Presse, so z. B. Emdato schel ha-Misra hi . [Die Stellung des Misrachi], in: Kol Jisrael [Stimme Israels], 4. April 1924, 3. 17 Wie diese kurze Darstellung bereits zeigt, lag dies aber nicht nur an dem etwaigen Zögern der Rabbiner oder tiefer ideologischer Ablehnung, sondern war in der Grundausrichtung des Misrachi selbst angelegt. 18 Zur Agudat Jisrael in Polen und zur Funktion der rabbinischen Elite in der Bewegung siehe Gershon C. Bacon, The Politics of Tradition. Agudat Yisrael in Poland, 1916–1939, Jerusalem 1996.

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er, würde man rabbinische Autorität akzeptieren, »auf dem Marktplatz« dagegen hätten sich die Rabbiner strikt an die politische Führung zu halten.19 Bei diesen Debatten ging es nicht nur um die Konkurrenz zwischen verschiedenen Eliten. Die Frage nach der Bedeutung religiöser Autorität wirkte in viele Grundsatzfragen der Misrachi-Bewegung hinein und beeinflusste deren gesellschaftliche Ausrichtung und politische Allianzen. Mosche Amiel und Judah Maimon wiesen regelmäßig auf das Fehlen einer stringenten religiös-zionistischen Ideologie hin und riefen ihre Mitstreiter zur inhaltlichen Auseinandersetzung mit den Kernfragen misrachistischen Selbstverständnisses auf. So klagte Maimon im Jahr 1919: »Es gibt eine Misrachi-Organisation, es gibt Mitglieder, es gibt einen Schekel [Mitgliedsbeitrag], aber es gibt immer noch keinen ›Misrachismus‹, d. h. eine spezifische Weltanschauung.«20 In diesem Sinne, so scheint es, agierten sie während der 1920er und frühen 1930er Jahre oftmals gemeinsam für Veränderungen im Misrachi. Sieht man sich die inhaltlichen Aussagen der beiden Männer in diesem Kontext genauer an, stößt man jedoch auf widersprüchliche Positionen. Sowohl Amiel als auch Maimon bedauerten in den Nachkriegsjahren, dass der Misrachi es trotz seines zwanzigjährigen Bestehens nicht geschafft habe, seine religiösen und nationalen Ambitionen zu vereinen. Dabei verstehe sich die Bewegung maßgeblich als eine Verbindung dieser beiden Zugehörigkeiten. Das Judentum aber, so ihre Kritik, sei weder Religion noch Nation, sondern immer nur als Ganzes zu denken. Auf einer landesweiten Zusammenkunft im Jahr 1919 sprach Amiel seine polnischen Kollegen mit den Worten an: »Tatsächlich ist es unmöglich, das lebendige Judentum auf einen religiösen oder einen nationalen Rahmen zu verkürzen, denn es ist weit davon entfernt, lediglich eine Religion oder etwa eine Nation im herkömmlichen Sinne zu sein. Das Judentum ist eine Einheit.«21

Auch Maimon lehnte die Trennung in nationale und religiöse Sphären strikt ab. Beide kritisierten die säkularen Zionisten für deren Entfernung von religiösen Lebensweisen, während sie der nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie unter[Im Zuge der Versammlung der Gewählten], 19 Judah Maimon, Likr’at asefat ha-niv harim . in: Do’ar Ha-Jom [Tagespost] 18. April 1920, 2. Die radikalsten Kritiker der rabbinischen Elite kamen aus der religiösen Kibbutz-Bewegung. Siehe hierzu Aryeh Fishman, Judaism and Modernization on the Religious Kibbutz, Cambridge/New York 1992, 141–157. Zu Kook siehe u. a. Yehudah Mirsky, Rav Kook. Mystic in a Time of Revolution, New Haven, Conn., 2014. 20 Zit. nach Avraham Rubinstein, Tenu’a be-idan schel temura. Perek be-re’schit ha-Misra hi . be-Polin [Eine Bewegung im Zeitalter der Veränderung. Die Anfänge des Misrachi in Polen], Ramat Gan 1981, 128. 21 Ha-weida ha-misra hit . ha-schnia [Die zweite Versammlung des Misrachi], in: Ha-Misrachi, 14. Mai 1919, 35.

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stellten, das Judentum seiner nationalen Elemente beraubt zu haben und in eine Religion nach christlichem Vorbild verwandeln zu wollen.22 Allein der Misrachi, so stimmten sie überein, verkörpere »den goldenen Mittelweg« und könne das Judentum in seiner Ganzheit repräsentieren.23 Die Meinungen der beiden einflussreichen Protagonisten darüber, was eine solche Erkenntnis für die religiös-zionistische Arbeit konkret bedeuten sollte, gingen jedoch weit auseinander. Für Judah Maimon lag die Aufgabe des Misrachi auf der Hand: Die abnormale Existenz der Juden in der Diaspora hatte die Spaltung in religiöse und nationale Loyalitäten verursacht. Nur die Rückkehr der Juden nach Erez Israel konnte die Einheit wiederherstellen.24 Entsprechend stellte Maimon die Siedlungsarbeit in Palästina in den Mittelpunkt seines eigenen Schaffens und erklärte sie gleichermaßen zur zentralen Aufgabe seiner Bewegung. Auch im Denken Amiels nahm Erez Israel eine wichtige Bedeutung ein. Säkularen wie orthodoxen Juden seien in der jahrhundertelangen Diaspora Teile ihrer Tradition abhandengekommen, klagte er im September 1919 im Parteiorgan Ha-Misrachi. Das Judentum brauche das Land Israel, um in allen seinen Facetten zu gedeihen. Doch gehe es hierbei nicht nur um die »partielle Lösung der Judenfrage«, sondern um eine Lösung für das gesamte Judentum.25 Damit wollte er zum Ausdruck bringen, dass Palästina nicht nur ein sicherer Zufluchtsort sei, an dem die verfolgten europäischen Juden in Selbstverwaltung leben konnten. Der zionistische Traum von einem jüdischen Staat sollte gleichzeitig den Verfall jüdischer Traditionen stoppen und dem Judentum seine Lebenskraft zurückgeben. Auf die Probleme diasporischer Existenz wies er zwar hin, gleichzeitig stellte er sich aber scharf gegen die zionistische Negierung der Diaspora. Diese sei ein ebenso unabdingbarer Bestandteil der jüdischen Nationalidee wie Erez Israel. »Unsere Nationalität ist kein rein geografischer Begriff«, rief Amiel

22 Diskussionen um die begriffliche und konzeptionelle Einordnung des Judentums zwischen kultureller und nationaler Zugehörigkeit waren natürlich nicht auf den Misrachi beschränkt. Für eine Einführung in die Thematik siehe Leora Batnitzky, How Judaism Became a Religion. An Introduction to Modern Jewish Thought, Princeton, N. J., 2011. Auch aus wissenschaftlicher Sicht ist gerade der Begriff der »Religion« höchst problematisch, da er einem spezifisch christlichen (protestantischen) Zugang zur Moderne entspringt. Für eine Kritik daran siehe z. B. Talal Asad, Genealogies of Religion. Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam, Baltimore, Md., 1993, 27–54. 23 Immer wieder bezeichneten Misrachisten ihre Bewegung als »goldenen Mittelweg«, so etwa Mosche Amiel,  Zijonut we-jahadut [Zionismus und Judentum], in: Ha-Misra hi, . . 23. Juli 1919, 3 f. 24 Der Begriff Erez Israel für das den Juden von Gott versprochene Land ist ideologisch aufgeladen und wird daher nachfolgend im Kontext religiöser oder ideologischer Aussagen verwendet. Wo es um den konkreten geografischen Bezugsrahmen des britischen Mandatsgebietes geht, wurde der Begriff Palästina gewählt. 25 Mosche Amiel,  Zijonut we-jahadut [Zionismus und Judentum], 5 f. .

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1934 seinen Mitstreitern zu. »Auch in der Diaspora haben wir signifikante und erhabene Geisteswerke vollbracht […]. Der babylonische Talmud ist uns nicht weniger teuer als der Jerusalemer.« In diesem Sinne müsse »das Judentum in jedem Land und nicht nur in Israel gestärkt werden«.26 Im Gegensatz zu Maimon war für ihn die Siedlungsarbeit also kein Selbstzweck, sondern nur insofern zu unterstützen, wenn sie die Stärkung des traditionellen Judentums fördere.27 In diesem Punkt wurde Amiel zu einem der schärfsten Kritiker seiner eigenen Bewegung. Auch den jüdischen Nationalismus beurteilten Amiel und Maimon sehr different. Für Amiel unterschied er sich seinem Wesen nach grundlegend von anderen Nationalbewegungen. Die klassische Spannung zwischen Partikularismus und Universalismus löste er zugunsten des Letzteren auf.28 Der jüdische Nationalismus müsse vor allem zur moralischen Erhöhung der Juden führen, damit diese gleichsam Vorbild für andere Völker würden. »Unser Nationalismus ist tatsächlich Internationalismus«, formulierte er in Erinnerung daran, dass der jüdische Gott der Herrscher der gesamten Welt sei.29 Im säkularen Zionismus hingegen sah er eine Spielart des europäischen Nationalismus. 1933 verkündete er in einer Grundsatzrede: »Unter dem Einfluss Bismarcks, des eisernen Predigers des Nationalismus, der vor allem die animalischen Instinkte des Menschen anspricht und am Ende den Hitlerismus hervorbrachte […], unter diesem Einfluss wurde der neue Nationalismus Israels geboren, welchen unsere Väter und Vorväter nicht kannten.«30

Den Chauvinismus und Militarismus europäischer Art aber, davon war er überzeugt, sollten jüdische Aktivisten um jeden Preis vermeiden. Er ging sogar so weit, dem Militarismus die Rolle eines modernen Amalekiters  – theologischer Erzfeind des Gottesvolkes – zuzuweisen.31 26 Ders., Schuv al ha-jesodot ha-ide’ologiim schel ha-Misra hi . [Erneut zu den ideologischen Grundlagen des Misrachi], in: Ha-Tor, 10. August 1934, 3–5, hier 5. 27 In diesem Punkt wies Amiels Ansatz durchaus Ähnlichkeiten mit dem späteren Umgang der Ultraorthodoxie mit dem Staat Israel auf. Diese wollte staatliches Handeln daran messen, inwiefern ultraorthodoxes Studium ermöglicht und gefördert würde. Zu diesen Diskussionen siehe Menachem Friedman, Ha- hevra ha- haredit. Mekorot, megamot we-taha. . likhim [Die ultraorthodoxe Gesellschaft. Ursprünge, Tendenzen und Prozesse], Jerusalem 1991; Aviezer Ravitzky, Messianism, Zionism, and Jewish Religious Radicalism, Chicago, Ill., 1996, 4–144. 28 Für die Diskussion um Partikularismus und Universalismus im zionistisch-israelischen Kontext siehe Michael Brenner, Israel. Traum und Wirklichkeit des jüdischen Staates. Von Theodor Herzl bis heute, München 2016. 29 Siehe die Artikelserie in Ha-Tor, 24. August 1934, 3. 30 Zu der Grundsatzrede siehe im Folgenden. Sie wurde veröffentlicht als: Mosche Amiel, Ha-jesodot ha-ide’ologiim schel ha-Misra hi . [Die ideologischen Grundlagen des Misrachi], Warschau 1934. 31 Rosenak/Isaacs, Peace, Secularism, and Religion, 152 f.

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Im Gegensatz zu Amiels Sichtweise vertrat Maimon immer wieder dezidiert nationalistische Positionen. Für ihn stand die Schaffung eines starken und verteidigungsfähigen Nationalstaates im Vordergrund. Metaphysische Ansprüche auf Land und Kultstätten wollte er ohne Abstriche in die physische Realität Israels umgesetzt sehen. Dies galt etwa für das Areal um die Klagemauer in der Jerusalemer Altstadt, wo es in den 1920er und 1930er Jahren immer wieder zu Unruhen gekommen war. Zudem stellte er sich vehement gegen den in der zweiten Hälfte der 1930er Jahre von den Briten propagierten Vorschlag zur Teilung des Mandatsgebietes in einen jüdischen und einen arabischen Staat.32 Der Idee zionistischer Wehrhaftigkeit stand Maimon weit unkritischer gegenüber als Amiel. Als 1929 bei Spannungen an der Klagemauer zahlreiche Juden durch einen aufgebrachten arabischen Mob getötet wurden, reagierte er nicht nur mit Trauer, sondern forderte harte Konsequenzen.33 In der von ihm herausgegebenen Zeitung Ha-Tor attackierte er die Briten und warf ihnen vor, die Juden in Palästina nicht genügend vor solchen Übergriffen zu schützen. Das bei den Pogromen vergossene Blut werde für die Briten »ein Zeichen der Schande und Fleck der Scham«, gleichzeitig jedoch ein »Zeichen des ewigen Bundes zwischen uns und dem Land. Das Land wird unser sein. Zuletzt wird das Blut ein Zeichen dafür sein, dass die Nachfahren der Hasmonäer nicht untergegangen sind.«34 Mit diesem Hinweis auf das antike jüdische Herrschergeschlecht, das den militärischen Aufstand gegen die Seleukiden angeführt hatte, wies er gezielt auf eine Tradition hin, die auch den gewaltsamen Konflikt nicht scheut. Die unterschiedlichen Ansichten der beiden Männer beschränkten sich jedoch nicht auf das theoretisch-philosophische Feld, sondern wirkten sich in der politischen Praxis aus, auf den Umgang mit bestimmten Vorstellungen innerhalb der Bewegung etwa oder mit Bündnispartnern des Misrachi. Mosche Amiel stand einer Zusammenarbeit mit säkularen Zionisten zutiefst kritisch gegenüber. Anders als viele Mitglieder des Misrachi gab Amiel sich nicht der Hoffnung hin, diese würden im Laufe der Zeit die religiösen Wurzeln ihres Nationalismus erkennen und sich traditionellen Lebensformen zuwenden. Um der zunehmenden Säkularisierung entgegenzutreten, suchte er

32 Zu den sich verändernden Einstellungen zur Teilung Palästinas unter zionistischen Akteuren siehe Yossi Katz, The Partition of Eretz Israel (Palestine) in Historical Perspective, in: Yehuda Gradus/Gabriel Lipshitz (Hgg.), The Mosaic of Israeli Geography, Beer Sheva 1996, 307–317; Colin Shindler, Opposing Partition. The Zionist Predicaments after the Shoah, in: Israel Studies 14 (2009), H. 2, 88–104. 33 Zu den Ausschreitungen und deren Bedeutung für den politischen Konflikt zwischen Zionisten und palästinensischer Nationalbewegung siehe Hillel Cohen, Year Zero of the Arab-Israeli Conflict: 1929, Waltham, Mass., 2015. 34 Judah Maimon, We-haja ha-dam le-ot [Und das Blut wird ein Zeichen sein], in: Ha-Tor, 6. September 1929, 1 f.

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die Annäherung an die nichtzionistische Orthodoxie und trat insbesondere für die Zusammenarbeit mit deren politischem Hauptvertreter Agudat Jisrael ein. Judah Maimon dagegen propagierte als scharfer Gegner der nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie eine enge Zusammenarbeit mit säkularen Kräften in der ZO.

Die Aushandlung der unterschiedlichen Positionen ­während der 1920er Jahre In den ersten zwei Jahrzehnten des 20. Jahrhunderts wurde der Misrachi zu einer wichtigen politischen Kraft. Obwohl das Aktionsfeld ost- und zentraleuropäischer Juden in dieser Zeit stark eingeschränkt war, hatten der Zerfall der Imperien im Ersten Weltkrieg und das neu entstehende Staatensystem Ostmitteleuropas zugleich weitreichende Veränderungen gebracht und neue Handlungsräume erschlossen, so insbesondere in der Zweiten Polnischen Republik.35 Zudem wurde die Arbeit der Zionisten entscheidend durch die Balfour-Deklaration von 1917 sowie die spätere Errichtung des britischen Mandats befördert. Auch der Misrachi bekam nun erhöhten Zulauf, was eine klare ideologische Ausrichtung und ein politisches Bekenntnis umso notwendiger machte. In den folgenden zwei Jahrzehnten führten Misrachisten immer wieder Grundsatzdebatten, um ihre Organisation auf dem sich stark wandelnden Feld jüdischer Politik zu verorten. In den frühen 1920er Jahren brachte die zionistische Einwanderung starke demografische Veränderungen in den jüdischen Siedlungen. Gleichzeitig etablierte sich die ZO als international anerkannter Vertreter der Juden Palästinas. Mosche Amiel, der diese Veränderungen kritisch beobachtete, mahnte an, dass Palästina nicht in ein Land der Zionisten verwandelt werden dürfe, sondern als Erez Israel das Land aller Juden bleiben müsse. Mit großer Sorge verfolgte er den wachsenden Einfluss europäischer Ideologien auf die jüdischen Siedlungen und rief seine Gesinnungsgenossen dazu auf, die Interessen des orthodoxen Judentums mit Nachdruck gegenüber den säkularen Zionisten zu verteidigen. Insbesondere die Entwicklung weg von einem

35 Für die Anfänge zionistischer Organisation in der Zweiten Polnischen Republik siehe Ezra Mendelsohn, Zionism in Poland. The Formative Years, 1915–1926, New Haven, Conn., 1981. Für die Anfänge des Misrachi siehe Yosef Elihai, Tenu’at ha-Misra hi . be-Polin ha-Kongresa’it 1916–1927 [Die Misrachibewegung in Kongresspolen 1916–1927], Tel Aviv 1993.

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vorrangig politischen Zionismus nach Theodor Herzl hin zu einer größeren Betonung zionistischer Kulturarbeit suchte Amiel zu verhindern.36 Da mit dem Aufbau einer hebräischen Kultur auch eine Säkularisierung jüdischer Traditionen einherging, stellte er für religiöse Zionisten eine ständige Bedrohung dar. Judah Maimon begegnete dieser Herausforderung auf politischem Wege. Immer wieder suchte er die Auseinandersetzung mit seinen säkularen Kollegen in der ZO und arbeitete an Koalitionen zur Durchsetzung der religiösen Forderungen des Misrachi. Der Aufbau von Organisationsstrukturen und Institutionen hatte das Ziel, die Partei zu stärken und sie als ideale Synthese von Orthodoxie und Zionismus zur stärksten politischen Kraft innerhalb der zionistischen Bewegung zu machen.37 Obwohl auch Mosche Amiel die großen organisatorischen und politischen Fortschritte anerkannte, die der Misrachi seit seiner Gründung im Jahr 1902 erreicht hatte, bemängelte er, dass sich seine Bewegung inhaltlich nicht weiterentwickelt habe. In seinen Augen machten die historischen Veränderungen eine Neujustierung nötig. Unter Isaak Reines war das Streben nach einem sicheren Zufluchtsort aufgrund des massiven Widerstands gegen die zionistische Idee unter orthodoxen Juden richtig gewesen. Doch die Zeiten hätten sich gewandelt und Amiel verkündete in einem Artikel von 1922, dass der Misrachi, wenn er tatsächlich Vertreter aller Orthodoxen sein wolle, »zum spirituellen Zentrum werden und sich mehr um die Entwicklung geistiger Dinge kümmern« müsse: »Wir dürfen nicht alle Tatkraft ausschließlich für die Diplomatie und zur Geldbeschaffung einsetzen, als ob alles Judentum mit der Balfour-Erklärung beginne und mit ihr ende.«38 Amiel forderte also kritische Selbstreflexion und eine stärkere inhaltliche Arbeit, wozu der Einfluss der Rabbiner im Misrachi gestärkt werden sollte. Darüber hinaus sah Amiel die Zeit gekommen, die politische Ausrichtung des Misrachi zu überdenken. Die fortschreitende Säkularisierung machte eine stärkere Zusammenarbeit mit orthodoxen Kräften nötig und die Grundlagen dafür schienen durch Veränderungen aufseiten der Agudat Jisrael günstig. Diese hatte nach dem Krieg begonnen, organisatorische Strukturen in Palästina aufzubauen und sich vermehrt für orthodoxe Siedlungstätigkeit einzusetzen. Amiel erblickte darin eine wichtige Wende agudistischer Politik, die eine Kooperation der beiden Kontrahenten möglich machen sollte. 36 Mosche Amiel, Al ha-ja has . ha-Misra hi . el ha-miflagot ha-shonot [Über die Beziehung des Misrachi zu den verschiedenen Parteien], in: Ha-Misra hi, . 14.  Mai 1919, 17–21; ders., Ne hapesa darkenu [Lasst uns unseren Weg suchen], in: Ha-Misrachi, 22. Juni 1922, 2–4. . 37 Eine Hoffnung, die immer wieder in der Parteipresse geäußert wurde, aber auch beispielsweise in der Broschüre des polnischen Aktivisten Yehuda Leib Zlotnick, Religijeser nazijonalism un zijenism [Religiöser Nationalismus und Zionismus], Warschau 1917. 38 Amiel, Ne hapesa darkenu [Lasst uns unseren Weg suchen],  2. Das Akronym Misrachi . steht für »Merkas Ru hani« (Spirituelles Zentrum). .

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Um die orthodoxen Kräfte in Palästina zu stärken, forderte er im gleichen Artikel die Einberufung eines allgemeinjüdischen Kongresses, der auch der nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie eine Beteiligung am gemeinsamen Aufbau jüdischer Siedlungen in Palästina erlauben sollte.39 Judah Maimon beschäftigten die Veränderungen in der agudistischen Politik ebenfalls und so setzte er sich in Ha-Tor immer wieder mit dem orthodoxen Kontrahenten und den sich wandelnden Beziehungen zwischen den beiden Organisationen auseinander. Beispielsweise berichtete er im Juli 1921 über die Palästina-Reise von Abraham Mordechai Alter, dem Gerer Rebben  – einer der wichtigsten Autoritäten der Aguda und entscheidende Triebkraft des gesteigerten Engagements in Palästina. Maimon freute sich über diese Entwicklung und behauptete, die Aguda sei nun endlich »in die Fußstapfen des Misrachi« getreten; es bleibe zu hoffen, dass sie auch weiterhin von den religiösen Zionisten lerne und sich dem Misrachi annähere.40 Maimon versuchte also, die agudistischen Siedlungstätigkeiten in Palästina zu einem ideologischen Sieg der eigenen Bewegung umzudeuten. Hinter solchen rhetorischen Kniffen stand jedoch ein schwieriges Dilemma: Seit zwei Jahrzehnten hatten Misrachisten unter orthodoxen Juden für das zionistische Projekt geworben und insbesondere der Aguda immer wieder vorgeworfen, das gemeinsame Ziel  – die Errichtung Erez Israels  – zu vernachlässigen. Als die orthodoxen Kräfte jedoch begannen, sich tatsächlich für Palästina einzusetzen, wurden sie zu einer gewichtigen politischen Konkurrenz. Ein Weg, mit dieser Konkurrenz umzugehen, war die Forderung der eigenen Parteiorgane nach Kooperation zwischen Aguda und Misrachi, um den politischen Gegner im Falle des Nichtzustandekommens verantwortlich zu machen. In diesem Sinne griff auch Maimon den von Amiel befürworteten Plan zur Durchführung eines allgemeinjüdischen Kongresses mit allen zionistischen und nichtzionistischen Kräften auf. Allerdings tat er dies erst, nachdem im Januar 1923 eine erste Tuchfühlung bereits gescheitert war. Dementsprechend attackierte er die Agudisten scharf. Sie seien machtbesessene Politiker, denen es mehr um die eigene Stellung als um das Wohl der jüdischen Bevölkerung gehe. »Doch sind wir uns sicher, dass […] die Massen des orthodoxen Judentums, die tatsächlich an die Heiligkeit des Landes und die Ewigkeit der jüdischen Nation glauben, sich an einem allgemeinjüdischen Kongress beteiligen werden.«41

39 Ebd., 3. 40 Judah Maimon, Be-ikvot ha-Misra hi . [In den Fußstapfen des Misrachi], in: Ha-Tor, 1. Juli 1921, 1. 41 Judah Maimon, Ha-kongres ha-jehudi we-Agudat Jisra’el [Der jüdische Kongress und Agudat Jisrael], in: Ha-Tor, 5. Januar 1923, 1.

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Auch Amiel hielt sich mit Kritik gegenüber der Aguda nicht zurück. Immer wieder griff er Agudisten für deren Versuche an, Trennlinien zwischen ihren Gemeinden und anderen Juden zu ziehen, und beschuldigte sie des Separatismus.42 Amiel suchte die Fehler jedoch nicht nur beim politischen Gegner, sondern nahm seine eigene Bewegung in die Pflicht, über Wege orthodoxer Annäherung und Kooperation nachzudenken. Im Gegensatz dazu versuchte Maimon, über gezielte Polemiken und politisches Taktieren Nutzen aus den Auseinandersetzungen mit Agudat Jisrael zu ziehen. In den 1920er Jahren verschärfte sich der Konflikt zwischen beiden Ansätzen zusehends. Die von Amiel und Maimon aufgegriffene Idee eines allgemeinjüdischen Kongresses zur Stärkung der Siedlungstätigkeiten in Palästina war eng an zionistische Debatten geknüpft. Seit den frühen 1920er Jahren bemühten sich zionistische Politiker und insbesondere der Präsident der ZO, Chaim Weizmann, um die Schaffung einer Organisation für jüdische Belange im Mandatsgebiet. Da man auch nichtzionistische Kräfte einbinden wollte, traf sich Weizmann 1925 mit führenden Aguda-Politikern.43 Durch die Verhandlungen um eine Jewish Agency sahen sich die religiösen Zionisten wiederum gezwungen, sich mit den Inhalten und der politischen Ausrichtung ihrer Organisation zu beschäftigen. Vor diesem Hintergrund wurde 1926 ein Parteitag in Antwerpen anberaumt, der sich vor allem mit der Konsolidierung der Bewegung befassen sollte. Als Oberrabbiner der Stadt war Mosche Amiel Vorsitzender des Organisationskomitees. Er beklagte in seiner Eröffnungsrede, dass der Misrachi trotz seiner weitreichenden Erfolge noch immer nicht den Platz in der ZO innehabe, der ihm gebühre. Die Bewegung könne sich nicht mehr darauf beschränken, die Zionisten von antireligiösen Beschlüssen abzuhalten. Man müsse in die Offensive gehen, um den Säkularismus zu bekämpfen und das orthodoxe Judentum zu stärken. Amiel verkündete, dass die religiösen Zionisten auch mit der Aguda zusammenarbeiten und in der Jewish Agency eine orthodoxe Mehrheit stellen könnten, wenn man nur die religiöse Erziehung ausbaue und sich auf seine spirituellen Grundlagen besinne.44 Obgleich der Kongress ihm zujubelte und Kooperationsgespräche mit der nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie angestrengt werden sollten, blieben Amiels Mahnungen weitgehend folgenlos. Stattdessen traten Misrachi-Politiker immer wieder lautstark gegen eine Annäherung zwischen ZO und Aguda

42 So etwa in Amiel, Ne hapesa darkenu [Lasst uns unseren Weg suchen], 2–4. . 43 Für diese Verhandlungen siehe die Dokumente in einer Akte zu Kontakten zwischen der zionistischen Führung und Agudat Jisrael in den Central Zionist Archives (nachfolgend CZA), S22/174. 44 Ha-weida ha-olamit schel ha-Misra hi . [Der internationale Kongress des Misrachi], in: HaTor, 22. September 1926, 10 f.

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auf.45 Diesem Tenor hatte sich auch Judah Maimon angeschlossen. In seiner Berichterstattung über den Kongress stellte er mit einem unzweideutigen Seitenhieb auf die Aguda fest, dass diese aufgrund der dort herrschenden chaotischen Verhältnisse niemals einen so gut organisierten Parteitag zustande gebracht hätte. Darüber hinaus behauptete er, dass die eigene Bewegung nun konsolidiert sei und die Siedlungsarbeit in Palästina im Zentrum der misrachistischen Politik stehen müsse.46 Amiels Aufruf zur Besinnung auf die spirituelle Dimension des religiösen Zionismus schob er so beiseite.

Richtungsentscheidungen in der Krise der frühen 1930er Jahre Die zweite Hälfte der 1920er Jahre stellte die Misrachi-Führung vor weitere Herausforderungen. Zum einen hatte sich die ökonomische Situation weltweit verschärft, zum anderen war nach dem Enthusiasmus der frühen Nachkriegszeit der politische Fortschritt des zionistischen Projekts ins Stocken gekommen. In Palästina erreichten die Spannungen zwischen jüdischen Siedlern und arabischer Bevölkerung mit den Ausschreitungen von 1929 einen traurigen Höhepunkt. Im Zuge dessen kam es zu einer ersten überregionalen Zusammenarbeit von Agudat Jisrael und der ZO, die sich in den folgenden Jahren intensivieren sollte.47 Hinzu kam eine Machtverschiebung innerhalb der ZO. Während bislang die bürgerlich ausgerichteten Allgemeinen Zionisten die Organisation dominiert hatten, stieg nun die zionistische Arbeiterbewegung zur stärksten Kraft auf. Die dezidiert antireligiöse Einstellung weiter Arbeiterkreise bereitete vielen Misrachi-Anhängern große Sorgen und verstärkte die ohnehin vorhandenen Bedenken gegenüber einer Annäherung zwischen nichtzionistischer Orthodoxie und ZO. Der Misrachi sah jetzt nicht mehr nur die eigene politische Position, sondern das gesamte religiös-zionistische Projekt in Gefahr. In den 1920er Jahren hatten Mitglieder des alten Jischuw unter Leitung der Aguda den Briten das Recht abgerungen, ihre eigenen Gemeinden separat 45 So kam es immer wieder zu Spannungen zwischen den religiösen Zionisten und der zionistischen Führung um die Verhandlungen mit der Aguda im Rahmen der Jewish Agency. Siehe Zionistische Exekutive an den polnischen Misrachi, 9. Juni 1926; CZA, Z4/42611, J.T.A. Bulletin, 1. Juni 1926. 46 Judah Maimon, A harei ha-weida ha-olamit [Nach dem internationalen Kongress], in: Ha. Tor, 8. Oktober 1926, 1–3 sowie 15. Oktober 1926, 3–6. 47 Zur langsamen Annäherung zwischen Agudat Jisrael und Zionisten siehe Yosef Fund, Perud o hischtatfut. Agudat Jisra’el mul ha- zijonut we-medinat Jisra’el [Abschottung oder . Beteiligung. Agudat Jisrael gegenüber dem Zionismus und dem Staat Israel], Jerusalem 1999, 164–177.

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von den zionistischen Strukturen zu errichten.48 Einige im Misrachi fürchteten, dass es zu einer klaren Trennung zwischen säkular-zionistischen und orthodoxen Strukturen käme, wenn sich die Arbeiterzionisten mit der Aguda einigten. Maimon hatte schon während der ersten Verhandlungen zwischen Aguda und ZO 1925 geklagt, »die Zionistische Organisation ignoriert den Misrachi völlig und verhandelt in religiösen Fragen ausschließlich mit der Aguda«. Er warnte eindringlich, ein Übereinkommen zwischen den beiden Organisationen komme »einer Zerstörung des Judentums [gleich], da das Gemeindegesetz in der Fassung der Agudat Jisrael eine direkte Gefahr für den Einheitscharakter der palästinischen Judenheit bedeutet«.49 Aufgrund dieser Entwicklungen sowie des stetig wachsenden Einflusses säkularer Lebensweisen auf die jüdischen Siedlungen gerieten die religiösen Zionisten in der ersten Hälfte der 1930er Jahre in eine tiefe Krise. Als die Repräsentanten des Misrachi aus Europa und Palästina im Spätsommer 1933 anlässlich ihres regelmäßig stattfindenden Weltkongresses zusammenkamen, traten diese Spannungen offen zutage. Wie schon einige Jahre zuvor hielt Mosche Amiel eine ideologische Grundsatzrede, in der er seine Bewegung zu kritischer Selbstreflexion aufrief. Dieses Mal blieben seine Worte jedoch nicht ohne Wirkung, sondern lösten eine Debatte aus, die in den da­ rauffolgenden Jahren mit wechselnder Intensität auf Parteitagen sowie innerhalb der verschiedenen Parteiorgane geführt wurde. Unter dem Titel Über die ideologischen Grundlagen des Misrachi50 warf Amiel dem Zionismus vor, eine Art kopernikanische Wende vollzogen zu haben, indem er nicht mehr Gott und die Einhaltung der religiösen Gesetze, sondern einzig und allein die Besiedlung Palästinas in den Mittelpunkt jüdischer Gruppenidentität gestellt habe. Gleichwohl hatte Amiel in früheren Reden regelmäßig Forderungen abgelehnt, der Misrachi solle aus der ZO austreten, und selbst 1933 wollte er nicht so weit gehen. Er schlug aber eine Lockerung des institutionellen Rahmens vor: Der Misrachi solle nur noch in einem losen Bündnis mit der ZO stehen, das beiden Seiten größere Unabhängigkeit gewähre. Er hoffte darauf, dass diese Lösung es den religiösen Zionisten erlaube, eine Allianz mit der orthodoxen Agudat Jisrael einzugehen. Ein Vorbild für ein solches Modell fand er ausgerechnet im sozialistischen Lager. Amiel argumentierte damit, dass schließlich auch Arbeiterzionisten wa-dat. Ha-ortodoksija ha-lo- zijonit 48 Siehe dazu ausführlich Menachem Friedman, Hevra  . . be-Ere z. Jisra’el 1918–1936 [Gesellschaft und Religion. Die nichtzionistische Orthodoxie in Erez Israel 1918–1936], Jerusalem 1977, 129–145. 49 Der Israelit, die Parteizeitung der deutschen Aguda, zitierte Maimons Aussagen, sicherlich zu eigenen Zwecken. Siehe Die Weltkonferenz des »Misrachi«, in: Der Israelit, 27. August 1925, 6. 50 Mosche Amiel, Ha-jesodot ha-ide’ologiim schel ha-Misra hi . [Die ideologischen Grundlagen des Misrachi].

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in organisatorische Rahmen außerhalb der ZO eingebunden seien: »Wenn es eine Liga für ein arbeitendes Erez Israel gibt, warum kann es nicht auch eine ›Liga für ein Thora-observantes Erez Jisrael‹ oder etwa eine ›Liga für ein heiliges Erez Israel‹ geben?«51 Seine Rede beinhaltete darüber hinaus beißende Kritik am Misrachi selbst. Dieser habe sich in den letzten Jahren auf Kosten anderer Aspekte ausschließlich auf seine Zugehörigkeit zum Zionismus konzentriert. Im Misrachi feiere man »den Todestag Theodor Herzls mit größerer Hingabe als den von Mose, unserem Lehrer«.52 Es gebe in der Bewegung zwar viele, »die sich an die religiösen Gesetze halten, aber es fehlt der Geist der Thora«. Religiöse Zionisten hätten sich von der spirituellen Elite losgesagt. »Aber die Thora in ihrer Gesamtheit können nur einige Auserwählte einer Generation kennen und verstehen.« Die rabbinische Autorität als eine Grundlage des orthodoxen Judentums sei essenziell für dessen Fortbestand.53 Amiel setzte sich jedoch nicht nur für eine Stärkung des rabbinischen Einflusses im Misrachi ein. »Jegliche politische Partei basiert auf dem Grundsatz, ›der Zweck heiligt die Mittel‹«, der Misrachi dagegen müsse nach anderen Regeln spielen, »denn diese Prämisse ist grundsätzlich gegen den Geist der Thora. Nicht nur heiligt der Zweck nicht die Mittel, sondern unlautere Taktiken verletzen und besudeln im Gegenteil auch das noch so heilige Ziel.« Der religiöse Zionismus müsse stattdessen über den Parteien stehen, »eine Brücke bilden, welche die verschiedenen Parteien verbindet«.54 Damit setzte Amiel nicht nur hohe moralische Maßstäbe, sondern er kritisierte die grundsätzliche parteipolitische Ausrichtung des Misrachi und das parteiübergreifende politische Tagesgeschäft. Amiels Rede löste heftigen Widerspruch aus. Viele Anwesende wehrten sich gegen die Fundamentalkritik an der eigenen Bewegung. Auch Judah Maimon meldete sich auf dem Parteitag und in der Presse zu Wort. Zwar dankte er Amiel für seine intensive Auseinandersetzung mit dem Wesen und der Ausrichtung der Bewegung, wies dessen Kritik jedoch als verfehlt zurück. Obwohl auch Maimon die spirituelle Situation im Misrachi als verbesserungsfähig ansah und zugab, dass man sich von der geistigen Elite entfernt habe, setzte er Amiel entgegen, dass die Rabbiner sich auf das spirituelle Wohl des jüdischen Volkes konzentrieren müssten.55

51 52 53 54 55

Ebd., 34. Ebd., 44. Ebd., 53. Ebd., 46. Ein paar Monate später publizierte Maimon seine Kritik: Judah Maimon, Heschbonut  . schel histadrutenu [Selbstbetrachtung unserer Organisation], in: Ha-Tor, 22.  Juni 1934, 3 f. sowie 29. Juni 1934, 3–5.

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Zudem ging Maimon auf die Beziehung von Misrachi und nichtzionistischer Orthodoxie ein und griff die Aguda abermals scharf an. Gleichzeitig rief er sie zur Zusammenarbeit auf und schlug die Einberufung eines Weltkongresses der jüdischen Orthodoxie vor. Diese Idee wurde von den Delegierten in Krakau mit Enthusiasmus aufgenommen.56 In den folgenden Monaten warben Misrachi-Politiker bei der Agudat Jisrael für Maimons Vorschlag. Diese lehnten jedoch nach einigem Hin und Her ab.57 Inwieweit Maimon selbst ernsthaft auf eine positive Resonanz der Aguda gehofft hatte, kann anhand der Quellen nicht mehr nachvollzogen werden. Sicher ist jedoch, dass der Vorschlag aus taktischer Sicht ein geschickter Schachzug war. Amiels Forderung nach kritischer Selbstreflexion hingegen wurde einmal mehr hintangestellt und durch politischen Aktivismus ersetzt. Ein Weltkongress unter der Leitung des Misrachi hätte diesem – unabhängig von konkreten Resultaten – die schmerzlich vermisste Anerkennung in orthodoxen Kreisen verleihen können. Genau aus diesem Grund aber war ein öffentlicher Kongress unter lautstarker Bewerbung für die Aguda eine heikle Angelegenheit und deren Zustimmung höchst unwahrscheinlich. Nach der Absage ergriff Maimons Ha-Tor prompt die Gelegenheit, dem politischen Kontrahenten ein weiteres Mal vorzuwerfen, durch seine Verweigerung ihren gemeinsamen religiösen Interessen zu schaden und das orthodoxe Judentum zu spalten.58 Maimon nutzte die Kongressidee zudem, um Druck auf die säkularen Partner in der ZO auszuüben. Zwischen ihnen und dem Misrachi war es in diesen Jahren zu großen Spannungen wegen der Einhaltung jüdischer Feiertage und halachischer Speisevorschriften in öffentlichen Einrichtungen der jüdischen Siedlungen gekommen. Die nun tonangebende Arbeiterbewegung zeigte sich jedoch kaum bereit, auf entsprechende Forderungen religiöser Zionisten einzugehen. Im Juli 1934 verließen religiös-zionistische Repräsentanten schließlich aus Protest den zionistischen Nationalrat, jedoch ohne nennenswerten Erfolg.59 Die Auseinandersetzungen mit den säkularen Kräften in der ZO führten wiederum zu tiefen Spannungen im Misrachi selbst, da nicht alle

56 Zur Konferenz und den Debatten siehe Bat-Yehuda, Isch ha-hegijonut, 88–97. 57 Für einen der zentralen Briefwechsel siehe Archives of Religious Zionism, Mosad ha-rav Kook, Jerusalem, MO 1934 A–B, Jacob Rosenheim an das Internationale Misrachibüro in Jerusalem, 7. Dezember 1933, sowie Internationale Agudat Jisrael an das Internationale Misrachibüro in Jerusalem, 30. Januar 1934. Zu den Verhandlungen mit der Aguda siehe Daniel Mahla, No Trinity. The Tripartite Relations between Agudat Yisrael, the Mizrahi Movement, and the Zionist Organization, in: Journal of Israeli History 34 (2015), H. 2, 117–140. 58 Elijahu Inselbuch, Ada’in lo [Noch nicht], in: Ha-Tor, 9. Februar 1934, 5 f. 59 Der Israelit berichtete und hoffte, der Misrachi würde nun der Aguda beitreten. Siehe Der Austritt des Misrachi aus dem Waad Leumi, in: Der Israelit, 5. Juli 1934, 2.

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den Austritt aus dem Nationalrat für eine legitime Option hielten.60 Die Veröffentlichung von Plänen für einen Weltkongress der Orthodoxie signalisierte den säkularen Parteien in der ZO, dass man im Misrachi durchaus bereit war, über politische Alternativen nachzudenken. Amiel selbst warf Maimon später vor, die Gespräche mit der Aguda lediglich aus politischem Kalkül geführt zu haben, um Verhandlungsspielraum gegenüber seinen Kollegen in der ZO zu gewinnen.61 Tatsächlich kam es auf dem 19. Zionistenkongress im August 1935 zum Ausgleich zwischen den religiösen und den säkularen Kräften. Während die ZO sich verpflichtete, die Feiertage zu achten und die Speisegesetze in öffentlichen Küchen einzuhalten, traten die Vertreter des Misrachi im Gegenzug wieder dem zionistischen Nationalrat bei. Auch mit den Arbeiterzionisten kam es zu einer Annäherung. Diese Allianz war von historischer Dimension, da sie bis zum Ende der Hegemonie der Arbeiterpartei in den 1970er Jahren bestehen bleiben sollte.62 Zudem konnten die parteiinternen Konflikte 1935 beigelegt und eine Spaltung abgewendet werden. Die Diskussionen um Amiels Forderung nach einer Revision des Parteiprogramms und einer Annäherung an die nichtzionistische Orthodoxie klangen ab63 – Maimon hatte sich durchgesetzt. Auch in den folgenden Jahren wurden immer wieder inhaltliche Debatten um einzelne Richtlinien und Strategien im Misrachi geführt, in Reichweite und Ausmaß blieben sie jedoch weit hinter den Grundsatzdebatten der 1920er und 1930er Jahre zurück. Über seine Allianz mit der Arbeiterpartei hatte sich der Misrachi fest im zionistischen Lager verankert. Auch mit der Aguda wurden wiederholt Verhandlungen über mögliche politische und strategische Bündnisse 60 Einige Mitglieder unter der Führung Mosche Ostrovskis verließen den Misrachi in Palästina und schlossen sich unter dem Namen Altgedienter Misrachi wieder dem Nationalrat an. Die deutschen und holländischen Filialen des Misrachi folgten dem Beispiel. Für eine Zusammenfassung der Debatten in der polnischen Parteipresse siehe Der wikuach arum dem heskem mit’n misrachi-ha-watik [Der Streit um das Abkommen mit dem altgedienten Misrachi], in: Di Yudishe Shtime, 4. Januar 1935, 3 und 7. ha-kongres we-lifnei ha-kongres [Nach dem Kongress und vor dem 61 Mosche Amiel, A harei . Kongress], in: Ha-Tor, 6. April 1934, 3 f. 62 Diese Entwicklungen sind wiedergegeben in: Stenographisches Protokoll der Verhandlungen des XIX. Zionistenkongresses und der vierten Tagung des Council der Jewish Agency für Palästina. Übersetzung aus dem Hebräischen. Luzern, 20.  August bis 6.  September 1935, Wien 1935. 63 Amiel hatte seinen Kritikern 1934 und 1935 noch weiter ausführlich geantwortet und damit die Debatte am Leben gehalten. Siehe ders., Schuv al-ha-jesodot ha-die’ologiim schel ha-Misra hi . [Erneut zu den ideologischen Grundlagen des Misrachi], in: Ha-Tor, 10. August 1934, 3–5; 17. August 1934, 3 f.; 24. August 1934, 3 f.; 23. September 1934, 4–6; 19. Oktober 1934, 6–9; 16. November 1934, 2 f.; 30. November 1934, 3–5; 12. Dezember 1934, 4–6; 21. Dezember 1934, 2; 28. Dezember 1934, 1 f.; 5. Januar 1935, 2; 12. Januar 1935, 2; 26. Januar 1935, 2; 23. Februar 1935, 1 f.; 2. März 1935, 3; 9. März 1935, 1 f.

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geführt. Im Umfeld der Staatsgründung 1948 kam sogar ein Wahlbündnis zustande, die Vereinigte Religiöse Front (Ha- hasit ha-Datit ha-Me’u hedet). . . In ihr hatten sich alle orthodoxen Parteien Israels zusammengeschlossen, jedoch ohne nennenswerte inhaltliche Annäherung der Beteiligten, sondern lediglich mit dem Ziel der Durchsetzung religiöser Rahmenbedingungen im entstehenden Staatswesen.64 Mosche Amiel zog sich in den folgenden Jahren mehr und mehr aus dem politischen Tagesgeschäft seiner Bewegung zurück. Nachdem er 1936 nach Tel Aviv gegangen war, widmete er sich ganz dem Aufbau religiöser Institutionen in dieser Stadt und den jüdischen Siedlungen. Von nun an meldete er sich nur noch vereinzelt öffentlich zu Wort, etwa 1937 mit einem kritischen Beitrag zur spirituellen Lage des Zionismus oder mit gelegentlichen Kommentaren in der religiös-zionistischen Presse.65 Sein vorrangiges Interesse galt jetzt der Errichtung religiöser Erziehungsinstitutionen in Palästina. 1937 gründete er beispielsweise eine Jeschiwa in Tel Aviv, in der sowohl religiöse als auch säkulare Fächer unterrichtet wurden. Die Gründung des jüdischen Staates durfte Amiel, der 1946 verstarb, nicht mehr miterleben. Im Gegensatz zu Amiel blieb Judah Maimon eine zentrale politische Kraft im Misrachi. Die harten Richtungskämpfe der frühen 1930er Jahre hatten jedoch Wirkung gezeigt. Maimons Verhandlungstaktik gegenüber der ZO und das unter seiner Leitung erwirkte zeitweilige Ausscheiden des Misrachi aus dem zionistischen Nationalrat waren einigen in der Bewegung zu weit gegangen. Es gab also durchaus Misrachisten, für die eine feste Anbindung an den säkularen Zionismus noch stärkere Priorität hatte als für Maimon. Aufgrund dieser innerparteilichen Opposition wurde Maimon 1935 nicht wieder in die Parteiführung gewählt.66 Noch im selben Jahr wechselte er in das Leitungsgremium der Jewish Agency, wo er den Misrachi künftig vertrat. In dieser Funktion unterzeichnete er 1948 die Unabhängigkeitserklärung. In den ersten zwei Legislaturperioden der Knesset war er Minister für Religion und Kriegsopfer. Maimon verstarb im Juli 1962.

64 Auführlich zu den Verhandlungen um die Wahlallianz siehe Zev Bauer, Ha-ja hasim . ha-pnimiim be-jahadut ha-datit likr’at hakamat medinat Jisra’el we-be-ikvoteiha we-kinun ha- hasit ha-datit ha-me’u hedet [Die inneren Beziehungen im religiösen Judentum . . im Umfeld der Gründung des Staates Israel und danach und die Errichtung der Vereinigten Religiösen Front], (unveröff. Dissertation, Hebräische Universität Jerusalem, 2011), 273–326. 65 Siehe Mosche Amiel, Heskem ha-«Misra  hi« . we-ha-»Aguda« [Abkommen zwischen dem »Misrachi« und der »Aguda«], in: Ha- Zofe, 13. Mai 1938, 2 sowie ders., Asefat-am . le-i hud ha-jahadut ha-datit [Volksversammlung zur Vereinigung des religiösen Juden. tums], in: ebd., 27. Februar 1940, 3. 66 Siehe dazu Don-Yehiya, Manhigut politit ba- zijonut ha-datit [Politische Führung im reli. giösen Zionismus], 139 f.

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Fazit Die 1920er und 1930er Jahre waren von herausragender Bedeutung für die religiös-zionistische Bewegung. Die Transformation von einer kleinen Aktivistengruppe zur Massenbewegung mit Anhängern in mehreren ostmitteleuropäischen Staaten, aber auch die Aufnahme der Siedlungstätigkeit in Palästina brachten weitreichende Veränderungen und stellten den Misrachi vor große Herausforderungen. Vor dem Hintergrund verwundert nicht, dass es gerade in dieser Periode immer wieder zu heftigen Auseinandersetzungen über die ideologische wie auch politisch-organisatorische Ausrichtung der Bewegung kam. Zwar waren sich alle über das programmatische, im Logo der Partei geführte Motto einig: Der Misrachi kämpft um »Erez Israel für das Volk Israel auf der Grundlage der Thora Israels«. Auch das Ziel der Gründung eines jüdischen Staates in Palästina wurde nie infrage gestellt. Darüber, auf welchem Wege dieses Ziel zu erreichen war und wie dieser Staat genau aussehen sollte, ließ sich jedoch trefflich streiten. Judah Maimon und Mosche Amiel waren wesentlich an diesen Debatten beteiligt. Während sie im Privaten respektvoll und kollegial miteinander umgingen, gerieten sie in der Sache immer wieder in harte Auseinandersetzungen. Dabei spielten sicherlich persönliche Charaktereigenschaften eine Rolle. Vor allem aber vertraten sie zwei Perspektiven, die maßgeblich aus ihren unterschiedlichen Funktionen innerhalb des Misrachi erwachsen waren. Mosche Amiel stieß als rabbinische Autorität immer wieder Debatten über spirituelle Fragen des religiösen Zionismus an und forderte ein grundsätzliches Nachdenken über Werte und Normen der Bewegung. Für ihn war der jüdische Staat kein Selbstzweck, vielmehr sollte er religiöse Traditionen verkörpern und zu deren Weiterentwicklung beitragen. Diese Überzeugung Amiels spiegelte sich auch in seiner theologisch-philosophischen Auseinandersetzung mit dem jüdischen Nationalismus. So betonte er regelmäßig die Besonderheit jüdischer Formationen und deren Vorbildfunktion. Die spirituelle Ausrichtung stand für ihn dabei stets im Mittelpunkt der nationalen Bestrebungen. Den Nationalismus um seiner selbst willen verurteilte er dagegen scharf als Form moderner Götzenanbetung.67 Im Gegensatz dazu war Judah Maimon in seiner Position als einflussreiche organisatorische Leitungsfigur des Misrachi vor allem an dessen Einfluss, Durchsetzungsfähigkeit und dem Ausbau politischer Strukturen interessiert. Somit stand für ihn die Gründung des jüdischen Staates im Vordergrund. Deswegen betrachtete Maimon auch die enge Zusammenarbeit mit den sä67 Nationalismus war in Amiels Augen schlimmer als Häresie. Siehe Amiel, Schuv al-ha-jesodot ha-ide’ologiim schel ha-Misra hi . [Erneut zu den Grundlagen des Misrachi], in: HaTor, 24. August 1934, 4.

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kularen Kollegen in der ZO trotz oftmals tiefer ideologischer Gegensätze als alternativlos. In diesen Debatten kam eine grundsätzliche Spannung zum Ausdruck, die den Misrachi als nationalreligiöse Bewegung prägte. Obgleich sich Amiel wie auch Maimon gegen eine Klassifikation jüdischer Gruppenzugehörigkeiten als Religion oder Nation aussprachen, zeigte sich in ihren Positionen immer wieder die unterschiedliche Gewichtung religiös-spiritueller und national-politischer Aspekte. Insbesondere die Bedeutung religiöser Autorität spielte in diesen Debatten eine zentrale Rolle. Als moderne Nationalbewegung setzte der Misrachi auf sozialen und politischen Aktivismus, aus dem Misrachisten oftmals Ansprüche auf Einfluss und Mitsprache in den jüdischen Gemeinden ableiteten. Auf diese Weise gerieten sie in Konfrontation mit anderen Führungsansprüchen. Im Gegensatz zu ihren säkularen Kollegen in der ZO konnten sie religiösen Autoritäten und Strukturen jedoch nicht einfach deren Legitimität absprechen. Ständige Spannungen zwischen verschiedenen Akteuren waren die Folge. Während Judah Maimon und andere versuchten, diese durch eine klare Aufteilung der Einflusssphären zu unterbinden, betonte Mosche Amiel die Zentralität spiritueller Autorität und setzte sich für eine Stärkung des rabbinischen Einflusses ein. Zwar kritisierte er regelmäßig das rabbinische Leitungsgremium der Aguda, den Rat der Thoragelehrten. Gleichzeitig stellte Amiel die Existenz eines solchen Gremiums nie prinzipiell infrage. Seine Kritik richtete sich vielmehr gegen dessen Einbindung in die parteipolitischen Interessen der Aguda. Daher forderte Amiel die Errichtung eines rabbinischen Rats, der über Partikularinteressen stehen und zugleich die Grundlinien orthodoxer Politik vorgeben sollte.68 Damit räumte Mosche Amiel der rabbinischen Autorität eine Machtstellung ein, die ihr kaum jemand aus dem Misrachi zubilligen wollte. Mit der politischen Richtungsentscheidung des Sommers 1935 wurden solche Spannungen zwar gelindert, jedoch nicht ausgeräumt. Auch in den 1940er und 1950er Jahren kam es zwischen den politischen Kräften und der rabbinischen Elite zu Konflikten, vor allem zwischen Judah Maimon und Oberrabbinern jüdischer Siedlungen beziehungsweise des Staates Israel. Ab den späten 1960er Jahren gewannen dann rabbinische Stimmen zunehmend an Einfluss. Die Krise, in die der religiöse Zionismus infolge der Staatsgründung und des sozialen und politischen Bruchs mit der nichtzionistischen Orthodoxie geraten war, konnte die ideologische Siedlerbewegung der späten 1960er Jahre mit gesteigertem politischen Aktivismus überwinden. Diese schuf ein neues Pionierideal sowie neue religiöse Autoritäten, die aktiv in die Politik eingriffen. Die dadurch entstandenen Spannungen auszuloten, könnte 68 So etwa in einem Kommentar in der Zeitschrift Ha- zofe von 1938. Siehe Amiel, Heskem . ha-«Misra hi« . we-ha-»Aguda« [Abkommen zwischen dem »Misrachi« und der »Aguda«].

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sowohl neues Licht auf die Dynamiken der religiösen Siedlerbewegung und deren Platz in der israelischen Gesellschaft werfen wie auch Kontinuitäten zu ihren Vorgängern im Ostmitteleuropa und Palästina der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts aufzeigen.69

69 Ich danke der Studienstiftung des deutschen Volkes, dem Leo Baeck Institute London und der Minerva Stiftung (Max-Planck-Gesellschaft) für die finanzielle und ideelle Förderung meiner Forschung.

Miriam Szamet

The Zikhroynes of Glikl bas Judah Leib: Interpreting the Concept of Koved in ­Early ­Modern ­History Glikl bas (“the daughter of”) Judah Leib Pinkerle (1645–1724) was born into the family of a tradesman and notable of the German Jewish community in Hamburg, eventually becoming a merchant woman herself, as well as a mother of fourteen children and a grandmother, with an afterlife as the famous author of an autobiography written in early modern Western Yiddish. She is better known as “Gluckel of Hameln” or “Glückel von Hameln,” the name given to her in 1896 by the famous scholar and author of Wissenschaft des Judentums, David Kaufmann (1852–1899), who edited her remarkable memoirs for a wider audience five generations after her death.1 These Zikhroynes (Memoirs) remain to this day one of the most fascinating ego-documents available from the early modern period, and is now finally accessible in an annotated Hebrew translation, published by Chava Turniansky in 2006.2 Glikl’s memoirs are unique in many ways, from their literary genre and author’s purpose, to their use of Western Yiddish filled with Hebrew expres-

1 David Kaufmann (ed.), Zikhronot Marat Glikl Hamil, mi-shenat 407 ’ad 479. Die Memoiren der Glückel von Hameln 1645–1719, Frankfurt a. M. 1896. The Kaufmann edition is a transcription from a copy in Western Yiddish made by Glikl’s son Moses, Rabbi of Baiersdorf, supplemented with a historical introduction. This copy, which was in the Bibliotheca Merzbacheriana Monacensis of Abraham Merzbacher (1812–1885), is now preserved in the University Library Frankfurt a. M., Ms. hebr. oct. 2: Zikhronot, (4 March 2018). The Kaufmann edition paved the way for the enthusiastic reception of this text in the twentieth century. Glikl’s memoirs were soon translated, among other languages, into German by Bertha Pappenheim (Die Memoiren der Glückel von Hameln, geboren in Hamburg 1645, gestorben in Metz 19. September 1724, autorisierte Übertragung nach der Ausgabe von Prof. Dr. David Kaufmann, Vienna 1910), and into English by Beth-Zion Abrahams (The Life of Glückel of Hameln, 1646–1724. Written by Herself, London 1962; henceforth AL) – the two most comprehensive translations in these languages. More popular in Germany, however, was the edition by Feilchenfeld: Denkwürdigkeit der Glückel von Hameln, aus dem Jüdisch-Deutschen übersetzt, mit Erläuterungen versehen und hg. von Alfred Feilchenfeld, Berlin 1913. 2 Glikl, Memoirs, 1691–1719, ed. and transl. by Chava Turniansky, Jerusalem 2006 (Heb.). This critical and bilingual edition includes the entire original Yiddish version, a Hebrew translation and introduction, and a comprehensive commentary on the life and work of Glikl bas Judah Leib. It is presently being translated into English, but the translation is not yet available. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 121–147.

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sions and paraphrases of verses and sayings from Jewish sources, to the fact that the author was an active businesswoman. In light of all of the above, Glikl’s preoccupation with the concept of “honor” stands out as a significant characteristic of the text. Koved, the Yiddish word for honor (originally derived from the Hebrew word “‫[ ”כבוד‬kavod]), and its various derivatives, are extremely prominent in her writings. The broad concept of “honor” has many different meanings and has undergone many significant changes over time.3 Glikl’s idiosyncratic use of the term in her writings affords an opportunity to explore this concept and its different layers of meaning in this prominent source of the social, economic, and cultural history of Jewish life in the early modern period. Her personal experiences provide a glimpse of the social elite of Jewish society and the writing conditions of women at the time.4 Glikl’s memoirs describe economic successes and failures, business partnerships, and family relationships on a broad scale. She may not be representative of German Jewry, but we can learn from her memoirs about the commonly held views and traditions of an important social group. This group, comprising merchants, community leaders, and shtadlanim (advocates for Jewish interests), was to a large extent responsible for the interactions between the Jewish Community and the non-Jewish rulers of Hamburg, Metz, and other German territories, thus exercising a decisive impact on Jewish life and culture.5

3

See e. g. Josef Stier, Die Ehre in der Bibel. Eine religionswissenschaftliche Studie, Berlin 1897; Monika Preuß, …  aber die Krone des guten Namens überragt sie. Jüdische Ehrvorstellungen im 18. Jahrhundert im Kraichgau, Stuttgart 2005; Robert Jütte, Ehre und Ehrverlust im spätmittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Judentum, in: Klaus Schreiner/ Gerd Schwerhoff (eds.), Verletzte Ehre. Ehrkonflikte in Gesellschaften des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 1995, 144–165. For an overview of conceptual changes and shifts in meaning that are closer to the German language and the German cultural sphere, see Friedrich Zunkel, s. v. “Ehre, Reputation,” in: Otto Brunner/Werner Conze/Reinhart Koselleck (eds.), Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, 8 vols., Stuttgart 1972–1997, here vol. 2, Stuttgart 1975, 1–63. 4 For a comparative perspective, see Shulamit S. Magnus, How Does a Woman Write? Or, Pauline Wengeroff’s Room of Her Own, in: Marion  A. Kaplan/Deborah Dash Moore (eds.), Gender and Jewish History, Bloomington, Ind./Indianapolis, Ind., 2011, 13–26. 5 Natalie Zemon Davis focused on Glikl’s life and provided an in-depth analysis of the social and economic background of the Jews in Germany and France. See idem, Women on the Margins. Three Seventeenth-Century Lives, Cambridge, Mass./London 1995, 8–62. See also Michael A. Meyer (ed.), German-Jewish History in Modern Times, assisted by Michael Brenner, 2 vols., New York 1996–1997, here vol. 1: Tradition and Enlightenment, 1600–1780, ed. by Mordechai Breuer and Michael Graetz, transl. by William Temp­ler, New York 1996; Rotraud Ries, Politische Kommunikation und “Schtadlanut” der frühneuzeitlichen Judenschaft, in: Rolf Kießling et al. (eds.), Räume und Wege. Jüdische Geschichte im Alten Reich 1300–1800, Berlin 2007, 169–189.

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The present essay focuses on this single concept – “honor” – from Glikl’s world, based on a close reading of her memoirs. The essay begins with an introduction of the historical context into which Glikl was born, and an explanation of the significance of the consolidation of the German Jewish elite. It will then present an in-depth survey of the appearance of the word koved and its derivatives in Glikl’s memoirs, followed by an analysis of events she describes that are related to honor. It will conclude that Glikl’s understanding of honor is a product of the historical circumstances under which she and others of her social group lived. The examination of the way in which this socio-economic class perceived honor is only one of many prisms through which one could observe and identify the diffuse impact that the surrounding world had on the Jewish community, or the effect that religion and social status had in conferring meaning to cultural symbols.

The Boundaries of Glikl’s Milieu Glikl bas Leib was born just a brief historical moment before the signing of the Peace of Westphalia in 1648, which brought the Thirty Years’ War to an end, and she died at the age of 79, twenty years before Moses Mendelssohn (1729–1786) arrived in Berlin in 1743. This era from 1648 to 1743 is distinguished by rebuilding following the long religious wars in Europe and the opening of new economic channels for Jews in the German-speaking lands, providing them with relative stability and physical security.6 Glikl lived in an era between two stormy periods for European Jewries, a time of anticipated transformation. The elite to which Glikl belonged established themselves economically in the wake of the religious wars, and eventually became to a great extent the bearers of the ideas of enlightenment

6 This can at least be said of the Holy Roman Empire. By contrast to the Jews in Glikl’s circles, the situation of the Jews of Eastern Europe in 1648 was grim, faced with the Cossack uprising led by Bohdan Khmelnytsky. See Gershon Bacon, “The House of Hannover.” Gezeirot Tah in Modern Jewish Historical Writing, in: Jewish History 17 (2003), no. 2 (special issue: The Chmielnitzky Massacres, 1648–1649. Jewish, Polish, and Ukrainian Perspectives), 179–206. Jacob Katz defined the century between 1650 and 1750 as “a time of slow preparation for the great upheaval that shook European society to its very foundations,” explaining that, during this period, “some alterations in both Gentile and Jewish ideologists in defining their attitudes to one another became evident.” See his seminal work: idem, Out of the Ghetto. The Social Background of Jewish Emancipation, 1770–1870, Cambridge, Mass., 1973, 28 and 41. Shulamit Volkov began her discussion of German Jews facing modernity in the 1780s with the Edict of Tolerance issued by Joseph II in 1782: idem, Germans, Jews, and Anti-Semites. Trials in Emancipation, Cambridge 2006, 159–169.

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and religious tolerance in Jewish society. The most prominent members of the Jewish merchant class were the so-called “court Jews.” This status was limited to families with close relations to royalty and nobility in the many courts in German-speaking territories from the end of the sixteenth century onward, and later in Poland and Denmark as well, where they could achieve legal privileges and were responsible for supplying goods and money to the local government.7 They provided metals and produced coins, supplied the army with food and equipment, represented the ruler in diplomacy and commerce, and initiated new opportunities in trade and industry. Thus, court Jews could play a decisive role in the development of international credit in Central Europe. Many of them were not themselves the owners of significant capital, but through personal and familial relations were able to organize large amounts of credit. Such commercial and financial networks drew upon relations in communities throughout Europe, often grounded in familial ties, strategic marriages, and extensive economic and communal exchanges.8 While the institution of the court Jew might suggest the existence of a wealthy Jewish stratum, quite the opposite was true: It was this very institution that was largely responsible for the development of such a sphere. Court Jews depended on merchants as commercial partners, suppliers of credit, and possible marital partners for their children, and these economic processes helped to establish a Jewish social elite in trade and business. It is important to note that only a select few were close to this elite: “[B]ecause German Jewry was still primarily characterized by its wretched poverty, it simply could not afford to participate in the new public life. [It] could not even see them [court Jews] as potential role models.”9 This minority of economically developed Jews was also distinguished by their leading role in community life. Glikl, for instance, told of quarrels among community members over positions in the kehilla (Jewish community organizations). She presented the claims made by Eli Cohen, her father’s brother-in-law, to be parnass, a community elder, like her father was: “Why should I not become warden like my brother-in-law Leib? Am I not as clever? Am I not as rich? Do I not come 7 8

9

See Jonathan I. Israel, European Jewry in the Age of Mercantilism, 1550–1750, Oxford 1985. On the role of European court Jews, see Vivian B. Mann/Richard I. Cohen (eds.), From Court Jews to the Rothschilds. Art, Patronage, and Power, 1600–1800, Munich/New York 1996; Rotraud Ries, s. v. “Hoffaktoren,” in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie zu Leipzig ed. by Dan Diner, 7 vols., Stuttgart 2011–2017, here vol. 3, Stuttgart 2012, 84–89; idem/J. Friedrich Battenberg (eds.), Hofjuden. Ökonomie und Interkulturalität. Die jüdische Wirtschaftselite im 18. Jahrhundert, Hamburg 2002. On their role specifically in the German-speaking lands, see Selma Stern, The Court Jew. A Contribution to the History of Absolutism in Europe, New Bruns­ wick, N. J., et al. 1985. Volkov, Germans, Jews, and Anti-Semites, 174 f.

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from as fine a family as he?”10 His words reveal the criteria for obtaining the position of parnass, criteria which were likely only met by members of the elite. From Glikl’s later comments on this affair it is apparent that the community operated autonomously and without external interference.11 An important communal task, tzedakah, was to care for the poor and needy.12 Glikl described how, when she was a child, there was a community fund, and her father put up and cared for sick Jews who had fled from Vilnius to Hamburg. In addition, she described the variety of ways in which charity was given. For instance, Abraham Stadthagen of Emden “entertained six billet strangers who had seats at the same table and ate and drank the same food as we. And I may add that I have never seen the like at any other wealthy man’s board.”13 Or, referring to her son-in-law Moses Krumbach of Metz: “His door is wide open to the poor, and he is now parnass of the Community.”14 When Samson Baiersdorf, another in-law and court Jew, was in a critical condition, “the Holy One saw the great good that came from his house, the hospitality to rich and poor alike,” and his problems were solved.15 All these descriptions portray a community in a dire situation attempting to provide care and financial support for the poor, leading to the “privatization” of its institutions of charity by giving wealthy members a central place in society and depending on them.16 At the same time, the Jewish community, as a social organization, was unable to provide its wealthy members with security. The risks they faced were nearly all in the economic realm: from the loss of large sums of money

10 Glikl, Memoirs, 68; AL, 18. 11 Glikl, Memoirs, 69–71: “[T]here were many quarrels in the community, and, as is the way of the world, each person belonged to a different party. So, unhappily, many misfortunes befell the community.” She continued writing about the elders dying one after another and concluded: “In this way God settled the quarrels among the parnassim.” (AL, 18 f.; italics in original). 12 Maintaining the dignity of the weak and needy is a religious and social imperative in Jewish life. The poor are not excluded from society; even those supported by charity are not exempt from participating in communal efforts, including the obligation to give charity to others. 13 Glikl, Memoirs, 281 and fn. 199 on the same page; AL, 82. Poor students and wandering scholars were provided with board and lodging by members of the community. 14 Glikl, Memoirs, 565; AL, 171. 15 Glikl, Memoirs, 489; AL, 148. 16 Many aspects of Glikl’s life and writing are discussed in Monika Richarz (ed.), Die Hamburger Kauffrau Glikl. Jüdische Existenz in der Frühen Neuzeit, Hamburg 2001. See also Robert Liberles, “She Sees that Her Merchandise Is Good, and Her Lamp Is Not Extinguished at Nighttime.” Glikl’s Memoir as Historical Source, in: Nashim. A Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies & Gender Issues 7 (5764/2004), 11–27; Iris Idelson-Shein, “What Have I to Do with Wild Animals?” Glikl Bas Leib and the Other Woman, in: Eighteenth-Century Studies 44 (2010), no. 1, 57–77.

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all the way to bankruptcy. These dangers were beyond the jurisdiction of the community because wealthy Jews maintained business relations with nonJews as well. These were threats that exceeded the real economic capacities of the local community, as they concerned massive sums in trade and loans. In some cases, the local Jewish community suffered due to the fall of its richest members, the court Jews, and, as Natalie Zemon Davis showed, even faced the risks of economic downfall and expulsion.17 What emerges from all of the above is that, despite the fact that court Jews and the wealthy elite were involved in community life, there were aspects in their lives that they did not share with others in the Jewish community. It is important to note that, like most Jews of the period, the elite drew their beliefs and sense of morality from Jewish tradition. Thus these Jews, who were exposed to new worlds and dangers, were still firmly rooted spiritually and religiously in a Jewish worldview. In many ways, this seems to be the most unique characteristic of this period in Jewish history: The fact that it was possible to develop ties with non-Jews and to earn their esteem and trust, all while maintaining a traditional Jewish lifestyle. In other words, despite their extensive contact with the non-Jewish world, members of this social group exhibited the influence of that world to a limited degree only. This was in sharp contrast to the position in which German-speaking Jews were to find themselves only a few decades later.18 The traditional religious world of experience is the foundation of Glikl’s memoirs. In her writings, she engaged in an on-going conversation with God, organized her life in accordance with the daily Jewish routine and the Jewish calendar, lives solely amongst Jews, and often spoke of the Jewish community in the first person plural. Similarly, Glikl wrote in Western Yiddish, the internal language of Jews in Central Europe, and her vocabulary, associations, and images are to a large extent drawn from Jewish sources.19 One can see in her memoirs that it would be inconceivable for her to deviate

17 On this aspect, see Natalie Zemon Davis, Riches and Danger. Glikl bas Judah Leib on Court Jews, in: Mann/Cohen (eds.), From Court Jews to the Rothschilds, 45–59. 18 Heinz Mosche Graupe, Die Entstehung des modernen Judentums. Geistesgeschichte der deutschen Juden 1650–1942, Hamburg 21977, 79. Jacob Katz held the same view, see idem, Out of the Ghetto, 35–38. Azriel Shochat, however, disagreed, see idem, Beginnings of the Haskalah among German Jewry, Jerusalem 1960, 13 f. (Heb.). See also Shmuel Feiner, The Jewish Enlightenment, transl. by Chaya Naor, Philadelphia, Pa., 2004; idem/ David B. Ruderman (eds.), Special Issue: Early Mo­dern Culture and Haskalah. Reconsidering the Borderline of Modern Jewish History, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/ Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 6 (2007), 17–266. 19 See Israela Klayman-Cohen, Die hebräische Komponente im Westjiddischen am Beispiel der Memoiren der Glückel von Hameln, Hamburg 1994.

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from this Jewish world, notwithstanding the contacts that she and her family members maintained with non-Jews.20 Glikl and the members of her environment were affected by their activities in trade and finance and by their contacts with non-Jewish culture in those fields. These effects are especially reflected in “materialistic tendencies,” as Turniansky described Glikl’s motivation to estimate the wealth and property of certain individuals, to specify dowries and profits earned from business deals and matchmaking.21 Thus, she used a scale of wealth to explain the economic and social status of her family to her children: “Chaim Fürst, peace unto him, possessor of 10,000 reichstaler, was the wealthiest; my father, peace unto him, had 8,000, and there were others with 6,000, some 3,000 – all lived well and at peace with one another; even people who possessed only 500 taler were content with their portion, not as the wealthy of these days, who are never content.”22

Glikl often described the splendor and magnificence of events, of food and of property, her own and that of others, praising the beauty and prestige of objects, furniture, and homes. These tendencies did not necessarily attest to the influence of her exposure to a non-Jewish environment. Rather, they were products of the nature of the era’s economy.23 Its symbolic conventions and economic rules provided protection against downfalls and losses; thus, each side needed to gain the other’s trust and economic commitment. To advertise such information was just one way of obtaining trust; another was to flaunt one’s wealth by hosting guests and displaying property.24 The Jews of Glikl’s era improved their standard of living and developed ties with non-Jews. The end of the religious wars, the existence of noblemen with ambitions for centralized rule, and the demise of the Holy Roman Empire led local princes to seek to acquire tremendous economic power. Jews, who until then had been excluded from the economic sphere of the courts, 20 For a discussion of the genre of Glikl’s text, see Gabriele Jancke, Die ‫( זכרונות‬Sichronot, Memoiren) der jüdischen Kauffrau Glückel von Hameln zwischen Autobiographie, Geschichtsschreibung und religiösem Lehrtext. Geschlecht, Religion und Ich in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Magdalene Heuser (ed.), Autobiographien von Frauen. Beiträge zu ihrer Geschichte, Tübingen 1996, 93–134. 21 Chava Turniansky, The Character of the Work and the Integration of Its Materials, in: Glikl, Memoirs, 23. 22 Glikl, Memoirs, 53; AL, 14. 23 Most of the scholars agree on this point. See Turniansky, The Character of the Work and the Integration of Its Materials, 23; Shochat, Beginnings of the Haskalah among German Jewry, 30. 24 Those symbolic interactions are stressed in recent literature. See Matthias Morgenstern, Unterwegs in symbolischen Räumen. Mobilität in der späten jüdischen Vormoderne am Beispiel der Glückel von Hameln, in: Henning P. Jürgens/Thomas Weller (eds.), Religion und Mobilität. Zum Verhältnis von raumbezogener Mobilität und religiöser Identitätsbildung im frühneuzeitlichen Europa, Göttingen 2010, 59–73.

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established the necessities for organizing and managing the rulers’ finances. However, as noted, the work of these wealthy Jews came at the price of many risks to their status and property. Jewish merchants frequently went bankrupt, and only some were able to rehabilitate themselves and succeeded in rebuilding their business and reputation.25 Such a life was extremely fragile and unstable, the individual’s and family’s fate precarious by necessity: “No one should boast before he knows his own end,” as Glikl quoted the legend of the philosopher Solon.26 Glikl, herself the daughter of wealthy parents, whose children married court Jews, whose daughter’s wedding was attended by the nobility, and whose standard of living was high, eventually lost everything. At the end of her life she and her second husband lost all their property and Glikl became destitute and dependent upon her daughter. Nevertheless, throughout these tribulations, she maintained her faith and sense of morality, and held on to her traditional way of life. Her memoirs thus became one of the founding texts of Yiddish autobiographical writing.27

Glikl’s Use of Koved and Its Derivatives A number of different words and their derivatives are associated with the concept of honor in Western Yiddish: koved (“honor,” a word of Biblical Hebrew origin) occurs in the memoirs around eighty times;28 khoshev (“honorable” or “respected,” a word of Mishnaic Hebrew origin) occurs around 25 times;29 and er (“honor,” a word of German origin) occurs around twenty

25 On these aspects, see Cornelia Aust, Between Amsterdam and Warsaw. Commercial Networks of the Ashkenazic Mercantile Elite in Central Europe, in: Jewish History 27 (2013), no. 1, 41–71. 26 Glikl, Memoirs, 321; AL, 94. 27 See Marcus Moseley, Being for Myself Alone. Origins of Jewish Autobiography, Stanford, Calif., 2006, 155–175. 28 The word koved and its derivatives are to be found in Glikl, Memoirs, 7, 19, 61, 77, 81, 127, 131, 175, 221, 229, 231, 253, 261, 269, 271, 273, 287, 313, 315, 317, 323, 337, 355, 371, 373, 389, 391, 397, 413, 447, 449, 451, 453, 455, 457, 459, 461, 463, 475, 477, 489, 497, 503, 523, 525, 527, 529, 531, 533, 565, 577, 579, 581, 583, and 585 (sometimes more than a single instance occurs on one page). For the whole semantic array of koved, see the remarks in Yitskhok Niborski (ed.), Dictionnaire des mots d’origine hébraïque et araméenne en usage dans la langue Yiddish, with collaboration of Simon Neuberg, Eliezer Niborski and Natalia Krynicka, third, corrected and enlarged edition, Paris 2012, 206 f. 29 The word khoshev and its derivatives are to be found in Glikl, Memoirs, 107, 139, 271, 273, 291, 297, 313, 337, 339, 347, 351, 355, 389, 393, 413, 425, 487, 499, 539, 545, and 573.

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times.30 The importance of this concept and its symbolic connotations are stressed on different occasions in Glikl’s autobiographical writing: “In Frankfurt, I received all the honor a woman could possibly desire, as well as on the whole journey  – more, indeed, than of which I was worthy. Especially in Fürth […]. Shall I write of the honor accorded me by his whole household? I could not write enough of it.”31

An analysis of the occurrences of koved, khoshev, and er throughout the text sheds light on the meaning of “honor” in Glikl’s world.32 In order to reveal the entire semantic domain of this concept, it was necessary to survey the entire text, including those passages in which the concrete word was absent but its meaning present. First, the derivatives of these words appear in the memoirs about 125 times, appearing as “my honor,” “with honor,” “in his honor,” the “honorable” (male, female; singular, plural), “distinguished,” and “honor/honors given.” This moreover includes various Biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew expressions in which the word koved is a component, for example: “in riches and honor,” “all of the honor in the world,” “the day of his honor,” “in an honorable status,” “honor and prestige,” and “honoring one’s father and mother.” Second, about one third of Glikl’s references to honor appear in the context of weddings and matchmaking. In such cases, she described the wedding, the in-laws, the setting, and the match itself as a kind of successful symbolic and economic transaction.33 Finally, about fifty, so more than a third, of the references to “honor” appear in the economic sphere and often in relation to wealth: money and its expenditure, betrothal agreements, and the purchase and exchange of expensive goods such as fruits, sweets, and jewelry. Among these, the expression “in riches and honor” (toch oysher ve’koved, all words pertinent to the Hebrew component of Yiddish) can be singled out as unique to Glikl, as they do not appear in any of the available Yiddish dictionaries. This seems to have been one of her favorite expressions. Thus, for example, in almost all of her descriptions of weddings Glikl concluded by saying that the wedding ceremony was performed “in riches and honor.” This habitual expression reflects societal desires in a fixed and repetitive linguistic form.

30 The word er and its derivatives are to be found in ibid., 7, 53, 63, 137, 147, 177, 179, 181, 317, 319, 369, 429, 519, 535, 539, 545, and 565. 31 Ibid., 526–528; AL, 159. 32 Natalie Zemon Davis based part of her arguments on a rendering of the noun “honor” in Abrahams’s and Pappenheim’s translations. See idem, Women on the Margins, 32–38 and 241–243, esp. fn. 119. 33 For further evidence suggesting such a perception of marriage, see her description of the wagers in the Börse with regard to her daughter’s wedding: Glikl, Memoirs, 265; AL, 77.

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The distribution of the references in the text is significant. In the first chapter of seven, honor is mentioned only three times. The content of this chapter is significantly different from the content of the other six, since Glikl here scarcely mentioned her own life story, and instead set forth her beliefs and opinions while presenting the foundations of her spiritual world. The three lone references to honor relate, in the spirit of the chapter, to God and the act of creation, and to the commandment to honor one’s parents. The first is a paraphrase in Hebrew of the sentence from the Gemara: “All that the Lord has created, He created for His glory.”34 The second is a Yiddish translation of a similar expression: “everything is for His great glory.”35 The third, “the commandment enjoining us to honor our parents,” also refers to familiar verses.36 Thus, when Glikl discussed ethics or moral and proper conduct with other human beings and with God, these were not described using the concept of honor, which was mediated by the words of Hebrew and German origin mentioned above. The references to honor in the six following chapters can be divided into a number of categories. First, as an adverb: “With honor” or “with great honor.” The author used this form to describe many activities: “To make a living,” “to marry off,” “to make a match,” “to receive another,” “to host,” and so forth. Second, as an adjective for wealthy men or people in influential positions in the Jewish community or in Christian society: “was very wealthy and an honorable and decent man,” “the most distinguished masters in the kingdom,” “and so they honored the honorable ones in accordance with their honor,” “there were also many distinguished Portuguese,” “and honorable householders from throughout the country,” “he is an honorable Jew, a scholar and wealthy,” and “such a devout and honorable and decent father.” Third, as an adjective referring to weddings and matches or meals and wedding accommodations, but also to other subjects: “The most honorable matches at

34 Glikl, Memoirs, 6 f., see also fn. 3; AL, 1. The word in the Yiddish original is er, in reference to the glory of God. There are only six instances throughout the work where er is used rather than koved. See Davis, Women on Margins, 243. See also Erika Timm, Historische jiddische Semantik. Die Bibelübersetzungssprache als Faktor der Auseinanderentwicklung des jiddischen und des deutschen Wortschatzes, with collaboration of Gustav Adolf Beckmann, Tübingen 2005, s. v. “er gotes,” 215 f. Timm and Beckmann took this allocation as evidence that, in Glickl’s daughter’s home in Metz, these German words were used only in a specific literary and linguistic context, such as references to folk tales, idiomatic expressions, and a Yiddish rendering of fixed formulations such as “Zucht und Ehre.” 35 Glikl, Memoirs, 7 f. This phrase is missing in the English translation. 36 Glikl, Memoirs, 19; AL, 4.

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that time,” “a quite honorable household,” “extremely honorable privilege,”37 “honorable gifts,” “an extremely honorable wedding,” “an extremely honorable circumcision,” “such honorable food,” “an extremely honorable meal,” and “honorable homes.” Finally, as an idiomatic expression: “[in/with] all of the honor in the world,” “in riches and honor,” “[with] all the honor,” “in riches and honor and a good name” (for one who passed away), “honor of father and mother/he who honors his father and mother,” “honor of kings” (a single occurrence), “with the best and with honor,” and “honor and prestige.” This survey suggests a preliminary understanding of Glikl’s use of the word “honor”: It shows, on the one hand, the extensive presence of “honor” in her life, and on the other hand the contexts in which this word and its derivatives were used in the memoirs. For the most part, they related in some form to money as a symbol of wealth, whether with regard to a wealthy man, an event, a gift, or property of great value. However, in order to achieve an understanding of the meaning of “honor” and its related expressions, we must examine not only its linguistic forms, but also the context of these appearances. The picture would be incomplete without an exploration of the stories and situations in Glikl’s text that revolve, whether implicitly or explicitly, around the concept of “honor.”

Events of “Honor” in Glikl’s Memoirs In her second chapter, Glikl presented a brief overview of the history of her family and of the Jews of Altona and Hamburg prior to her birth and childhood. She explained: “Counting those that had come from Hamburg, there were at that time about forty householders. There were then no very wealthy men and each earned his living in an honest [erlikh] way.”38 Glikl offered this portrayal several decades after the fact, from an adult perspective and based on a value system that guided her descriptions of the past.39 Her assertion evinced that Glikl drew a clear connection between honor and wealth – albeit, in the case described here, that Jews were honorable even 37 The Yiddish word is kiyumim, literally “sustenances.” Turniansky noted that this is a calque of the German term Stadtigkeit(en), referring to the writs of privilege (Privilegium) granted to the Jews by local rulers, allowing them to reside in the region and maintain their communal institutions in exchange for the payment of taxes. 38 Glikl, Memoirs, 53; AL, 14. Here, the word translated as “honest” would be more faithfully rendered as “honorable”. 39 The first five chapters were written in the decade between 1691 and 1700, see Chava Turniansky, The Structure of the Work and the Manner of its Composition, in: Glikl, Memoirs, 10–39, here 14.

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though they were not very wealthy. Later, when Glikl described her and her husband’s first year of economic independence, she expressed herself in a similar manner: “So, while still very young, we went to live in our own house. Though we were economical, we had everything necessary for the upkeep of a fine [erlikhe] house.”40 Glikl’s perspective is presented not only in hindsight but also in describing the present.41 An example of this would be the description of her daughter’s household in Metz: “Though she [Glikl’s daughter Esther] was often sad over the loss of her children, she did not allow this to be seen in her household affairs. Though she was very economical and exact, everything was carried out in fine [erlikh] style.”42 These statements represent Glikl’s perception of honor, which she repeated and explained on numerous occasions in her memoirs: Honor could be guaranteed by wealth, but it could also be achieved through proper behavior such as living economically on one’s own means, frugality, and the careful management of money: “My mother imagined it [Hameln] a town like Hamburg, and that, at the very least, a carriage would be sent for the bride and her parents. On the third day three or four farm-wagons arrived, drawn by such old horses that looked as if they should themselves have been given a lift in the wagons. My mother was greatly offended […]. My parentsin-law were good honest people, and my father-in-law, Reb Joseph, of blessed memory, had few to equal him. At the feast he toasted my mother with a large glass of wine. She was still offended that no carriage had been sent to meet us. My father-in-law noticed her ill-humor and being a lovable and witty man set out to humor her: ‘Harken, my dear makhuteneste. I beg you not to be offended’ he said. ‘Hameln is not Hamburg, and being plain country folk we have no carriages.’”43

How is honor expressed, what is the praxis of giving, receiving, and understanding honor, and how is it derived from wealth? These are the questions that arise from the basic connection that Glikl drew between wealth and honor. She often mentioned that she was accorded great honor, or that certain events were extremely honorable, and, describing them in detail, she referred to different kinds of foods and beverages and other material expressions of appreciation such as Sabbath gifts. For example, when she described how she was welcomed in Berlin:

40 Glikl, Memoirs, 136; AL 40. The word translated as “fine” would be more faithfully rendered as “honorable.” 41 Part of the memoirs were apparently written near the time of the described events’ occurrence, during the second period of writing, between 1712 and 1719. See Turniansky, The Structure of the Work and the Manner of its Composition. 42 Glikl, Memoirs, 545; AL, 164. Here too, the word translated as “fine” is better rendered as “honorable.” 43 Glikl, Memoirs, 111; AL, 32 (italics in the original). Makhuteneste is Yiddish for the sonin-law’s or daughter-in law’s mother.

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“How shall I write of the high honor paid me by Hirschel, his uncle Reb Benjamin and other well-known Berlin people? I cannot describe it, especially how I was honored by the distinguished and wealthy Reb Judah Berlin and his wife. […] he sent me Sabbath gifts, the finest that could be had, and besides, made a great feast in my own honor. In short, I received more honor than I deserved.”44

She went into similar detail when describing how she was received by Samson Baiersdorf, after the signing of the betrothal agreement between their children: “It was then the beginning of the month of Ab, when we must diminish pleasures. That was why we had only a light meal on the first evening; especially as on these days of mourning there was little to be bought. But the following day Samson sent for all sorts of excellent fish and other dairy foods, which could be quickly prepared, for I would be delayed no longer.”45

Glikl described in detail how she was received by her future husband in Metz: “As we ate, the servant boy Solomon, […] and the maid, entered with two large gilt dishes. In one were the best and finest confects, in the other beautiful foreign fruits. On it lay a golden chain with one piece of gold and two very large gilt goblets full of wine. This was my Sabbath gift; it was very costly.”46

These descriptions show that the practice of welcoming a guest expressed the host’s honor for the guest, a purpose that is evinced not only by Glikl’s own voice, but also and especially by the behavior of her hosts. One of the most honorable events described in the memoirs is the wedding of Zipporah, Glikl’s daughter, to the son of the court Jew Elia Cleve.47 Glikl noted that Elia Cleve honored the guests and “immediately after the marriage ceremony, there was a collation of all kinds of the finest sweetmeats, foreign wines and out-of-season fruits.”48 Later in the event, as Glikl declared: “all the guests [khoshuvy] were led into a great hall, the walls of which were lined with gilded leather. A long table crowded with regal delicacies stood in the center, and each guest [khashuvim] was served in order of rank [lefi kvodehem].”49

44 45 46 47

Glikl, Memoirs, 388; AL, 115. Glikl, Memoirs, 462; AL, 141. Glikl, Memoirs, 535; AL, 161. See Israel, European Jewry in the Age of Mercantilism, 1550–1750, 144. Israel emphasized the contact between Jews and the princely class and their transnational connections. 48 Glikl, Memoirs, 268; AL, 79. 49 Glikl, Memoirs, 270; AL, 79. The last part of the sentence should be translated more literally: “they honored the honorable in accordance with their honor.” The reference here is to non-Jewish guests, among them the Elector Frederick of Brandenburg, later King Frederick I of Prussia.

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From this we can see that the practice of bestowing honor referred to and reflected the status of both the guest and the host. In the various examples cited above, Glikl appeared as both the giver and receiver of honor, as a hostess and as a guest, and it seems that honor was promised in both roles. That is, the practice of hospitality served as a means of attaining, accumulating, and affirming the honor of the guests as well as the hosts. However, the relationship between wealth and honor did not end there, for Glikl also described situations other than the accordance of hospitality in which people displayed their wealth in order to obtain honor. Another type of event in which the display of wealth was appropriate was the Spinholz parties, an event that took place in honor of a betrothed couple on the Sabbath evening before the wedding, during which the young couple’s belongings were sometimes displayed.50 Glikl described such a party and noted: “When they came to the Spinholz, on the table was displayed the most expensive vessels and it was evident that there was great wealth.”51 The parents, and even the marrying couple, asserted their honor by displaying the economic status of the relationship: the wealth of both sides and the initial capital of the betrothed couple. A similar practice of displaying wealth is evident in the story of Moses Helmstadt. Glikl saw Moses as moved by a contemptible desire for honor. She wrote that her husband, Chaim, lent him money to open a mint in Stettin (Szczecin), even though “we did know that he was not a wealthy man” because he “enjoyed remarkable privileges” from the local government to operate the mint.52 However, after the venture’s initial profits, the business became a source of great disappointment for Chaim and Glikl. This happened, Glikl explained, because “he was false, and dishonest hearts have no rest when they have money in hand, whether their own or someone else’s.”53 So Moses Helmstadt “never gave a thought that this [money] was not his, and that he must return it to the person who had credited it to him, as an honest man always has in mind. But his thoughts went no further than to enjoy himself with money while he had it in his hand. He had a fine carriage driven by two of the best horses in Stettin, two or three men and maid servants, and lived like a prince.”54

50 Glikl, Memoirs, 120. On the Spinholz party, see Turniansky’s references in Glikl, Memoirs, 120, fn. 376. This passage does not appear in the English translation. 51 Glikl, Memoirs, 120; AL, 35. 52 Glikl, Memoirs, 290; AL, 85. 53 Glikl, Memoirs, 296; AL, 87. 54 Ibid. The word “money” is omitted in the translation. The word Glikl used is maoth, a word of Hebrew origin.

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But the most dangerous and frivolous thing that Moses did, according to Glikl, was to return to Berlin, which he had left on account of his prior debts, where he “began to jingle his money [because] an animal and money will not be hid.”55 Glikl proposed an explanation for Moses’ journey to Berlin: “Perhaps he thought, ‘I must show my enemies in Berlin what a great man I have become.’”56 In other words, she thought that Moses’ purpose was to induce recognition of his honor, esteem, and jealousy among those people from whom he had earlier fled in humiliation, bereft of honor and money. This he did by flaunting wealth, since he traveled with his carriage, his servants, and with a stock of cash. Although the word “honor” is not explicitly mentioned in this passage, it is obvious that his honor was at stake. It should be noted that, eventually, Moses Helmstadt was arrested and Glikl and Chaim lost most of the money they had lent him, a fact that explains the intensity of Glikl’s negative feelings for him. Another anecdote that illustrates the desire to display wealth is that of the postponement of Glikl’s son Moses’ wedding to the daughter of Samson Baiersdorf. Glikl informs us that Samson wrote “that it was impossible for him to prepare for the wedding in the agreed time. As God had given him the merit that he should live to marry off his youngest child, he could not have the wedding in his old house. He had already begun to build a new one, and when it was finished he would write to me so that we could all celebrate the marriage in splendor and honor [toch oysher ve’koved].”57

She went on to add that she later discovered another reason for the postponement, namely that the Margrave of Bayreuth’s new counsel was abusing Samson Baiersdorf’s business.58 In any case, whether the construction of the new house was the real reason or an excuse, the fact that Glikl mentioned it in this context and manner shows that, in their social milieu, it would have been customary to postpone the wedding until the house was built. Wealth could be displayed by giving gifts to family members or guests. In the fourth chapter, Glikl described her visit together with her husband and some of her children to the home of her in-laws in Hildesheim: “We took with us what we thought were honorable gifts, and suitable for Hildesheim. After three weeks spent happily together, we returned home joyous and well. My fa­ ther-in-law made us a present of a tankard worth about 20 reichstaler; it was as precious to us as if worth a hundred. My father-in-law was then a wealthy man, worth about 20.000 reichstaler, and had already married off all his children. Though the journey had

55 56 57 58

Glikl, Memoirs, 298; AL, 88. Glikl, Memoirs, 298; AL, 87 f. Glikl, Memoirs, 486; AL, 147 f. Glikl, Memoirs, 488; AL, 148.

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cost us more than 150 reichstaler, we nevertheless rejoiced over our small 20 reichstaler tankard, not eager like modern children to skin their parents, without asking whether they are in a position to spend much.”59

On the face of it, this passage seems like an anecdote meant to express Glikl’s opinion regarding how things were at the time of her writing, when children “exploit[ed]” their parents. A deeper reading, however, suggests that Glikl was here attempting to explicate the puzzle of the inexpensive gift they received. She needed to do this in order to preserve her positive feelings toward her father-in-law and to avoid feeling insulted. Glikl drew up a complete reckoning: How much the tankard cost, how much money her in-laws had, the fact that they were not expecting any major expenses in the near future because they had already married off all their children, how much the trip cost Glikl and Chaim, and which gift they had brought with them. After this reckoning, she explained that she and her husband were satisfied nonetheless, but she did not really explain why – after all, based on the calculations she made, it is apparent that the gift they received was not honorable, certainly not by comparison to their own gifts. This anecdote suggests that gift-giving functioned, much like hospitality, as an act that affirmed the honor of both giver and receiver. Glikl was puzzled by her father-in-law’s relatively inexpensive gift because it deviated from this custom, and was therefore expected to be less honorable for both sides. Additional gestures were also meant to honor both sides in events such as weddings. For instance, one might send accompaniment or carriages to those arriving from afar. A good example of this is the quote cited above, in which Glikl’s mother complained about the wagons sent to them by her inlaws, rather than the carriages she considered worthy of them in light of their degree of honor. In this case, the insult was forgiven on account of Glikl’s father-in-law’s character as a “lovable and witty man.”60 Joseph Hameln, Chaim’s father, explained to Glikl’s mother that the type of carriages she expected could not be found in Hameln, adding another story about how he had arrived at his own wedding on foot, not even riding a horse.61 Another instance in which Glikl described the dispatch of an entourage as a gesture of honor was when relating her journey to her second wedding in Metz: “Two miles from Metz we were met by my husband’s clerk on horseback. He rode beside the carriage until we reached the inn. He had all sorts of food and drink with him – as much as his horse could carry. This clerk, Lemle Wimpfen, had welcomed me in my husband’s place.”62 59 60 61 62

Glikl, Memoirs, 262; AL, 77. Glikl, Memoirs, 110; AL, 32. Glikl, Memoirs, 112; AL, 33. Glikl, Memoirs, 530; AL, 159.

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Glikl’s memoirs abound in examples of situations wherein interactions related expressly to the honor of those involved. We may now attempt to draw some conclusions based on the cases cited above regarding the significance of honor for Glikl and her environment.

“Honor,” Social Mobility, and the Dawn of Modernity In 1905, Max Weber (1864–1920) published his famous work The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Here, Weber focused on how the interactions between people’s religious lives and their behavior shaped reality. He claimed that the new ethos created through Luther’s Reformation and developed by other thinkers exercised a powerful influence upon the economic behavior of its followers. The development of modern capitalism – the heart of which is the amassment of profit, the accumulation of capital, and its reinvestment to obtain yet more profit – is intrinsically related to the new Protestant ethic. One should not make light of the diffuse cultural impact that Protestantism had among the wealthy merchants and the non-Jewish nobles, as well as the Jewish economic elite and its concepts and modes of daily operation. Even if during Glikl’s time Jews lived in a separate, traditionally shaped world governed by their own norms and rules, the Jewish elite was undoubtedly affected by the secular world via its business relations. This can be seen in Glikl’s perception of “the right way” to earn money, the right way to spend it, and its tremendous significance in her life. It seems obvious that the wealthier Jews to whose circle Glikl belonged were not among the adherents of the new ethos, but rather were rooted in the world of a much older ethos. When Werner Sombart (1863–1941) discussed Glikl’s memoirs in his widely received study Die Juden und das Wirtschaftsleben from 1911, he focused only on the display of wealth and money, completely overlooking the influence of concepts of “honor” on the self-perception of Jews in the early modern period and on the shaping of the book’s autobiographical discourse.63 Yet Natalie Zemon Davis has already shown that the acquisition of wealth

63 Werner Sombart, Die Juden und das Wirtschaftsleben, Leipzig 1911, here 155 f. and passim; idem, The Jews and Modern Capitalism, transl. by M. Epstein, Glencoe, Ill., 1951, 131 f.: “In very truth, money is the be-all and end-all with her, as with all the other people of whom she has anything to say. Accounts of business enterprise occupy but a small space in the book, but on no less than 609 occasions (in 313 pages) does the authoress speak of money, riches, gain, and so forth. The characters and their doings are mentioned only in some connexion or other with money.”

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was for the Jewish merchants in this period based, above all, on honesty as a mandatory virtue.64 In his book Tradition and Crisis (1958), Jacob Katz addressed the question of the relationship between Judaism and the rise of wealthy Jews in Glikl’s era. Katz claimed that the situation in Judaism undoubtedly differed from the way Weber presented it in his study of Protestantism.65 Indeed, “It would be equally justified to regard Judaism – or rather its specific way of life  – as affording a psychological and ‘rational’ training for that type of economic activity.”66 However, Katz unequivocally concluded: “[A]dmittedly the acquisition of wealth was permitted, sometimes even commended, but worldly success never served as the basic criterion of virtue in the sight of God and man. This could only be achieved by the practical performance of the precepts of Judaism and the cherishing of its ideals traditionally summed up in the threefold phrase: ‘Torah, worship, and good works.’ Money facilitated the achievement of religious ideals but it was not an essential precondition.”67

Katz claimed that Judaism developed a tolerant attitude toward the accumulation of capital, and in any case does not support the idea of poverty, and therefore “vocational occupations could not be gainsaid, but they remained workday in character. Nothing short of a complete inversion of Jewish values could have won direct religious sanction for economic activities.”68 By contrast to Weber, Katz saw the development of the Jewish economic elite in this era as the product of historical circumstances, and not based on the intellectual foundations of the Jewish religion. Therefore, according to Katz, relations with non-Jews had a limited impact, and thus are an insufficient explanation for the perception of honor among the elite Jewish economic group. Natalie Zemon Davis perceptively noted the significant gap between Glikl’s almost obsessive preoccupation with honor and the fact that the non-Jewish environment never even considered the possibility that a Jew could have honor.69 While the court Jews were an exception, even their honor was only acknowledged by few. This issue only strengthens the claim that the main significance of the concept of honor was psychological. For those Jews who had been exposed to the different beliefs of their business partners and who had happened upon the opportunity to live lives of wealth, honor 64 Natalie Zemon Davis, Religion and Capitalism Once Again? Jewish Merchant Culture in the Seventeenth Century, in: Representations 59 (1997) (special issue: The Fate of “Culture.” Geertz and Beyond), 56–84, here 68. 65 Jacob Katz, Tradition and Crisis. Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages, New York 1961, 73. 66 Ibid., 72. 67 Ibid., 73. 68 Ibid., 75. 69 Davis, Women on the Margins, 34–36.

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served as a means of deflection when dealing with money and the temptation of greed. Engagement in the basic practices that characterized the “capitalist method” is not evidence of adoption of the values and norms belonging to the new ethos discussed by Weber, nor was it a product of the Jewish world view. Rather, this praxis served as a means of survival that suited the historical circumstances. These findings lead to a number of conclusions regarding the meaning of honor in Glikl’s world. While the first and most unambiguous conclusion relates to the cultural and symbolic meaning of the connection between honor and money, other conclusions relate to the different practices of accumulating and validating honor. At the time that Glikl wrote, the social group to which she belonged was at a unique point in the history of German-speaking Jewry. The wealthy Jews, and in particular the court Jews, owed their fortunes to their ties with noble non-Jews. As noted above, their situation made the accumulation of wealth possible, but at the same time placed them in very real danger of the total loss of their riches. With this in mind, one can understand the significance that money had for them: Not only did it guarantee enjoyment and pleasures, it was the means of securing their basic existence.70 Writs of privilege were often only granted to Jews who were able to contribute economically to the city’s ruler or dukes, thus the entire local Jewish community depended on the wealthy few. This era was unique for the Jewish elite in that they were living economically integrated lives on the one hand, and yet maintained a particularly devout Jewish praxis on the other. As we have seen, this position between the two worlds was a tenuous one. Due to their ability to obtain writs of privilege, the Jewish elites were able to assume responsibility for sustaining their communities and as a result often served in leadership roles as well. However, these communities were never in a position to reciprocate the security or support provided to them by their elite non-Jewish benefactors (non-Jewish rulers, princes, dukes etc.). Under these circumstances, the display of wealth had a critical function for members of this social group at points of contact with one another. It was their only possible means of “insurance.” This unique function gave birth to the perception that “honor goes hand in hand with money,” and that when the latter is lost, so is the former. This is why marriages were accorded such primary importance, much like that of a major business deal. Economically successful marriages were the

70 This aspect was stressed in several articles in Rebecca Kobrin/Adam Teller (eds.), Purchasing Power. The Economics of Modern Jewish History, Philadelphia, Pa., 2015. See esp. Cornelia Aust, Daily Business or an Affair of Consequence? Credit, Reputation, and Bankruptcy Among Jewish Merchants in Eighteenth-Century Central Europe, in: ibid., 71–90, here 78–80.

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only way to preserve the status of the young couple. This was especially true in a society in which the social status of Jews was not protected or inherited like that of the nobility. Every couple had to establish its status from the point at which they joined their lives together. In accordance with the developing capitalist rules, marriage needed to be profitable and to have great economic potential – that is with low risk of financial loss. For this purpose, it was necessary to embed the marriage contract within a set of practices and symbolic signs that would indicate the economic significance of the coupling between groom and bride, as well as between their families. These matters were expressed openly at the beginning of the relationship, in the matchmaking phase, through stipulation of the size of the dowry. This was a practice drawn from the world of commerce: an investment of a certain amount combined with the signing of an economic contract, with expectation of profits. Additional non-verbal practices were enacted in the subsequent stages of implementation, such as: mutual hospitality in the homes of the prospective in-laws and other events related to the marriage, the bestowing of gifts, and additional gestures. These practices did not address the issue of money directly, but rather manipulated the symbols derived from it – meaning honorable things.71 The economic and “honor” discourse in the context of events related to marriage is explicit and direct, and Glikl’s memoirs are filled with references to amounts of money and the value of property, and with words that describe the honor attributed to people and their deeds. Glikl even delimited bound­ aries for the legitimate pursuit of money: “One sees great vanity in this world. There are people who have no children at all and nonetheless they pursue money with a vengeance while they close their hands tightly in the face of the poor and the destitute. Even though they know that they have great wealth that will last them for their entire lives, they nonetheless are fearful and spend their money reluctantly, never having enough.”72

Her perception of the importance of wealth is clear: It provided sustenance in the present and guaranteed the existence of the coming generations, to the greatest possible extent. Outside these specific circumstances, the pursuit of wealth was considered improper. Thus it is apparent that the normative preoccupation of her social group with wealth and honor as desired qualities reflected not greed, but existential anxiety. Glikl herself is a tragic character, first of all because she lost her first husband, “my friend and love of my heart,” at a relatively young age. Beyond

71 As is evidenced by the expression Glikl used, originally in Hebrew: “The day of his wedding, the day of his honor […].” Idem, Memoirs, 146. 72 Ibid., 254. This part was not translated into English, see the note in AL, 76.

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that, however, her biography revolved tragically around two axes: money and honor, which were essentially linked. The story of her and her husband Chaim’s economic success, the loss of her property after his death, and the subsequent bankruptcy in her second marriage to Hirsch Levy is a story of ascent and decline, accomplishment and loss. In one of her petitions to God, Glikl explained this linkage very clearly: “Thou, O Lord, know how I pass my days in sorrow and anxiety. I was a woman held in high esteem by her devout husband, and was to him like the apple of his eye. But with his death my honor and wealth went. For him I have to lament and mourn all my days and years.”73

A similar formulation appears elsewhere: “May my end be as was his. May his merits rank for me and his sons and daughters. When his soul fled away, my riches and fortune departed from me. It was his good fortune to depart from this sinful world in riches and honor, and suffer no trials through his children. As the proverb says, because of sinners, the saint dies.”74

Here, too, we see that loss of wealth entailed loss of honor. It is important to remember that Glikl wrote her memoir after her husband died, enabling her to draw such a clear line between his death and her state at the time of writing. Thus it turns out that Glikl’s autobiography embodies the Jewish elite’s worst nightmare, despite her having taken the best possible precaution: entering a marriage with high economic potential. Moses Krumbach, Glikl’s son-in-law, wrote to her from Metz “that Reb Hirsch Levy had become a widower. He extolled him as a fine [khoshev], upstanding Jew, very learned in Talmud, possessed of great wealth and a magnificent household. In short, he praised him highly and according to all accounts what he wrote was true.”75

Glikl wrote frankly about her motives for remarrying: “I entered into this marriage, for I feared that if I remained single longer, I might lose everything and be disgraced so that – God forbid – I would harm other people, Jews and gentiles, and then be dependent on my children. […] Though not through me, yet still through my [second] husband [Hirsch Levy], because of whom I had thought to live in honor and wealth, I now find myself in such a position that I do not know if in old age I shall have a place to rest overnight, or a slice of bread to eat. […] I hoped to benefit my children by marrying such a well-known businessman, but it did not come to pass.”76

73 Glikl, Memoirs, 228; AL, 69. 74 Glikl, Memoirs, 372; AL, 110. 75 Glikl, Memoirs, 498; AL, 150. Here, the word translated as “fine” would be better rendered as “honorable”. 76 Glikl, Memoirs, 502; AL, 152.

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Glikl’s choice reflects the desperate desire of her milieu to protect their wealth, and the fateful consequences of using family ties to guarantee economic protection. This stress on marriage as a form of economic security determined the nature of practices surrounding it. In all of these – from the parents’ meeting, the organization of the wedding itself, and the reception of family members after the wedding – nuance had tremendous importance. Small details, such as the types of wines, the value of gifts, and the furnishings in the reception hall, all indicated the quality of the “deal.” It was important to display these details before participants who were not themselves party to the marriage: the guests. They were, essentially, potential business partners who in such events were given an opportunity to gather information about the economic status of the marrying families. Undoubtedly, beyond the display of economic capacity, there was also genuine pleasure in drinking choice wines, eating imported fruits, and wearing beautiful jewelry. It is also possible, and Glikl’s memoirs provide support for this claim, that there were not many legitimate opportunities in Jewish society for such pleasures and for the display of wealth. Family events, and first and foremost weddings, were the exception.77 The idea that honor is a quality acquired through material things, and Glikl’s perception of this quality as essential for life, emerges clearly from the above analysis. Glikl wrote “in riches and honor” (toch oysher ve’koved) – for those living and those who had passed away, in reference to special events and to the management of daily life. However, we must ask: How did this concept of honor accord with the Jewish worldview held by Glikl and nearly all members of her social environment?78 The answer can be found in Glikl’s editing of her book. As previously mentioned, the memoirs are presented in seven chapters, with the first differing significantly from all the others. The following six chapters are filled mostly with Glikl’s memories of her life, family, and immediate environment, and with stories she heard about exceptional events. Throughout, she provided her own comments about the ways of God and the world, the right way to live and the right way to understand life. By contrast, Glikl in the first chapter presented her religious outlook, weaving together her insights as a mature woman with well-formed

77 Jacob Katz explained this correlation in an article. See idem, Traditional Society and Modern Society, in: Megamot 10 (1960), no. 4, 304–331 (Heb.). An abridged version of this article was published later: idem, Traditional Jewish Society and Modern Society, in: Shlomo Deshen/Walter P. Zenner (eds.), Jews among Muslims. Communities in the Precolonial Middle East, Basingstoke 1996, 25–34. 78 Chava Turniansky, The Author’s Worldview and the Representation of Reality in the Work, in: Glikl, Memoirs, 29–31, here 29 and fn. 94.

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views.79 As we saw above, the word koved is barely mentioned in this first chapter, and when it is, it does not relate to money or wealth. It seems that its absence, in this case, is of great importance. By mapping the presence of honor in Glikl’s memoirs, it is possible to learn about the domain and limits of the honor-related discourse. Thus it appears that the concept of honor is intimately connected to daily, secular life, but by contrast it has no place in the chapter that lays out a religious worldview and addresses the relationship between human and God: “Beila, peace unto her, was held in higher esteem than any other Jewish woman in all Germany. But, for our sins, where the pull is strongest, there the rope breaks. In her best years she was forced to leave all. […] How did all her wealth and honor help her? Nothing was of use. Her great humility and the good that she did, will stand her in good stead; that is all that remains to her of her great wealth.”80

The tension between life in this world and proper relations with God is mentioned frequently in the book. In one of the places where she addressed it directly, Glikl wrote: “See, my dear children, what a person does to obtain the favor of a monarch who is himself no more than flesh and blood, here today and tomorrow in his grave. Who knows how long he will live, or how long the receiver of his favors will live, or even what he will receive from an earthly king. He can raise him to riches – but this is only temporary, not for ever. […] When bitter death comes all is forgotten; and his riches and honor are less than nothing! There is no ruler on the day of death [Eccles 8:8]. […] Also, the gifts of an earthly monarch are as naught compared with those which the blessed Lord gives to those who fear Him. It is eternity that has no measure, aim or passing.”81

Thus, being an honorable and wealthy human was an accomplishment that could only be achieved in this world which, by contrast to eternity, has mea­ sure and size and is fleeting. Elsewhere she added: “Afterwards the wealthy and fat and self-satisfied, who spent all their time feasting and drinking while giving no thought to God or His commandments, are brought in. They too are asked then why they did not study Torah or perform the commandments. […] We see then clearly that our excuses will be of very little use in the next world, and the best thing to do is to always be with the Lord your God.”82

Glikl pointed with deep conviction to the distinction between wealth obtained in this world and the status it conveys, and that which awaits the individual in the next world through honest worship and Torah study. From

79 For more on the meaning of the different parts of the work, see idem, The Character of the Work and the Integration of Its Materials, 18–25. 80 Glikl, Memoirs, 476; AL, 145 f. 81 Glikl, Memoirs, 230–232; AL, 70 (italics in the original). 82 Glikl, Memoirs, 260. This passage does not appear in the English translation.

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these examples, we gather that in Glikl’s view, honor and wealth serve only in this world, while pious devotion will be the measure of our character in the world to come. Moreover, Glikl testified on the basis of her life experience to the relative importance of money. For instance, in discussing her personal loss upon the death of her husband Chaim, she explained: “Though my husband left money and wealth enough, this was nothing against the great loss.”83 Thus she also explained her sorrow regarding her son who did not succeed in business: “When the Börse was open and I wanted 20.000 reichstaler, cash, I could get it. Yet all this availed me nothing, for I saw my son Leib, a pious young man, well versed in Talmud, doing nothing!”84 When all is said and done, Glikl clarified throughout the entire book, money is of no import. At the same time, Glikl did elaborate on the connection between fleeting wealth and worship of the Lord: “But next to it is written ‘and with all your might’  – that refers to money,85 for also through it one must worship the Holy One Blessed Be He. This does not only mean that one should give large gifts from his money, for that is a way to worship the Holy One which He likes greatly. But in my humble understanding, the meaning is certainly the following: Just as one must sacrifice oneself for the Holy One Blessed Be He, one should also sacrifice one’s money for the Holy One Blessed Be He, for there are people whose money is more precious to them than themselves. And this is the proper worship with all your soul and with all your might. When you no longer consider the money that has become despicable, and when someone to whom the Lord has granted wealth invests it properly and cares well for his responsibilities.”86

Money, according to Glikl, needs to be invested properly, in daily life and in worship of the Lord, beyond which everything is temptation stemming from the “evil inclination.”87 How, then, should money not devoted to charity be used? Glikl explained: “There are many people who are very keen on making money and are never satisfied, so that much evil comes of it. Yet it does not do to be too easy either, for a man should not spend his money on unnecessary things, for the groschen that is honestly earned is hard to come by. One must know that there is moderation in all things, and learn how to conduct himself. There is an ordinary proverb for this: ‘Stinginess does not enrich; charity does not impoverish’. Everything has its own time when to spend and when to save.”88

83 Ibid., 356; AL, 105. 84 Glikl, Memoirs, 416; AL, 126. 85 Glikl was referring to the verse “With all your soul and with all your might” (Deuteronomy 6:5). 86 Glikl, Memoirs, 252. This passage does not appear in the English translation. 87 Ibid. This passage does not appear in the English translation. 88 Ibid., 550; AL, 166.

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Glikl struggled, like the other wealthy Jews surrounding her, with the challenges posed by wealth, and in her effort to maintain a Jewish way of life she formulated “the right way” for herself. The first truth of this way is that greed is unacceptable. Second, in order to accumulate money honestly, one must work hard, and one should not spend frivolously and “waste” it. Finally, one must take care to give to charity throughout one’s life.89 For Glikl, honor is unrelated to money when it derives from “the right way” or from the relationship between human and God. Thus, although in other contexts honor and money are almost inseparable, in the context of “the right way” honor cannot be achieved just by giving money to charity or by saving money. Honor is portrayed, through Glikl’s eyes, as a fundamental concept in secular life – and it seems this developed out of a materialistic and almost obsessive preoccupation with money. Nevertheless, not only was greed unacceptable according to her circle’s religious world-view, but, to judge by Glikl, it was not the main motive underlying their preoccupation with money. It seems that they associated wealth with the positive meaning of “honor,” instead of the negative meanings of “greed” or “evil inclination.” For example, specific sums of money were stipulated for an engagement, but no one ever criticized the wedding by saying “that huge sums of money were spent.” Rather, they would say it was a very “honorable affair” and that all the arrangements were made “in riches and honor.” Glikl addressed the tension she experienced around the material nature of business, its inclination towards greed, and the conflict this posed in light of her religious conviction in numerous ways: in opinions, through storytelling, and in her interpretation of verses and sermons. One of her stories is about Alexander the Great.90 It describes Alexander’s arrival at the gates of paradise and his request to enter. An eye is thrown out at him from paradise, and he is told to place it on one side of a scale and on the other to put silver and gold. He does this and discovers that no matter how much silver and gold he places on the scale, they do not outweigh the eye. He asks about this and is answered with a suggestion to throw a handful of dirt. Alexander does this and discovers that a tiny speck of dirt outweighs the eye.

89 Azriel Shochat claimed that “[this] woman, with her tendency toward piety and asceticism in her old age, enjoyed life when she could – and that is why, apparently, she was later anguished when she saw herself as sinful.” Yet Shochat did not offer supporting evidence for this claim – regarding a connection between her perception of herself as a sinner and her hedonistic lifestyle, as it were, during her lifetime – neither in Glikl’s own words, nor in any other form. Idem, Beginnings of the Haskalah among German Jewry, 29 f. (Heb.). 90 Turniansky remarked that this story is an “embellishment of a brief formulation in the Gemara (Babylonian Talmud, Tamid 32b).” Glikl, Memoirs, 546, fn. 331.

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“‘Hearken you, Alexander,’ he was told, ‘know that as long as an eye is in a living person, it cannot be satisfied. The more a person has, the more he desires. Therefore the eye outweighs gold and silver. But as soon as a person dies and earth is thrown over him, he has enough. […] You, Alexander, can see for yourself. […] While you live there is no contentment in you and you have no rest. I tell you that of a certainty you will shortly die in a foreign land. And when earth is scattered over you, you will be satisfied with four ells of earth – you, for whom the whole world was too small.’”91

On this issue, it seems that Glikl throughout the book adopted the view that greed was a quality that grew ever more common with time. In many places, she added comments such as: “My God! When I begin to reflect on those days and compare them with the present, they were happy times, though people did not have half of what they have now. God increase – not diminish – their fortunes.”92 It deserves to be mentioned that in a few places Glikl described honor of a different kind: that of Jewish scholars. For instance, she wrote in the beginning of her memoirs of her husband’s brother, Abraham, who was a Torah scholar and was sent by his father to learn in Poland where he achieved “great fame” and was given an honorable match. Abraham, Glikl went on to relate, “continued studying after his marriage and was famed far and wide as a great scholar.”93 Another place in which honor was linked to the personality of a rabbi is in the last chapter, in which Glikl described “with what honor” the community of Metz received the rabbi they had invited when he arrived in the town. Yet these references are few, and the vast majority of instances in which Glikl related to and described honor were separated from the world of Torah.

Conclusion This paper explored the meaning of “honor” in Glikl’s memoirs based on a survey of the occurrences throughout the text of the words koved, khoshev, and er and their derivatives, all of which are associated with the concept of honor in Western Yiddish. This analysis sheds light on Glikl’s world and on her social group and suggests that it is a marker that this unique social group was not fully engulfed by the major cultural and political transformations that the surrounding society was undergoing at that time. Thus, in not adopting the simple understanding of economic success in the capitalist value system, 91 Glikl, Memoirs, 548–550; AL, 166. 92 Glikl, Memoirs, 108; AL, 32. 93 Glikl, Memoirs, 116; AL, 34.

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this social group of wealthy Jews was a remnant of traditional Jewish society. Their lives were extremely fragile and unstable, the individual’s and family’s fate precarious by necessity. Glikl herself serves as a fine example of this, as the daughter of wealthy parents, whose children married court Jews, whose daughter’s wedding was attended by the nobility, and whose standard of living was high, but who eventually lost everything. In this context, the concept of honor served as a means of channeling the materialistic impulse toward a positive outlet for the Jewish elite struggling to maintain their dignity via a linkage between “honor” and the display of wealth, thereby also signaling to each other the value of possible future economic and personal “deals.” Against this background, the concept of honor in Glikl’s memoirs appears to be complex and serves different purposes. In the secular world, it was closely linked to economic survival, indicating the rising impact of the Protestant/capitalist value system, and of Jews finding themselves in the precarious position of mediators between the non-Jewish rulers and the generally impoverished Jewish community. Yet, on the deeper level of religious and ethical convictions, which in this period were hardly influenced by external norms, honor was seen as a reflection of the moral standing of an individual in their dealings with their fellow humans and with God. This explains the scarcity of the appearance of the word “honor” in Glikl’s opening chapter by comparison to the rest of her memoirs. Honor was still, for her milieu, a concept and part of the sacred realm, difficult to relate to the day-to-day “honor” – important as it was in mundane dealings – that went along with “riches.”94

94 This article emerged from a seminar I took with Israel Yuval (Jerusalem) about honor and shame in history and society. I want to thank him warmly for many years of guidance and advice in thinking about this topic. Chava Turniansky (Jerusalem) was decisive in understanding the meaning of Glikl’s memoirs and the peculiarities of her language and writing in a comparative perspective. I am deeply indebted to her. For their critiques and help in revising this paper for publication I owe a big thank you to Rachel Bickel and Arndt Engelhardt.

Schwerpunkt Forced Migration and Flight: New Approaches to the Year 1938 Edited by Elisabeth Gallas, Philipp Graf, and Frank Mecklenburg

Introduction

Frank Mecklenburg

The Year 1938 through the Eyes of the ­Jewish ­Telegraphic Agency: A Historical Overview For the Jews of Central Europe, 1938 was the year of displacement, as citizens were turned into refugees and home was transmuted into emigration and exile.1 This historical overview aims to present a framework for these experiences by looking at the daily news coverage from a Jewish perspective provided by the Jewish Telegraphic Agency (JTA), based in New York, with correspondents all over European countries and elsewhere. What could people know of what was going on around the world? How did events in other places in Europe and the countries of potential exile influence decisions and prospects? We need to be clear about the distinction between what we know today about the year 1938, and what was impossible for people to know at the time; what they could not know as they went about their daily lives and what they were going to face as the year moved along. In the beginning of the year 1938, it was reported that by the end of the preceding year the “Reich Jewish Population Declined One-Third; 135,000 Left in 5 Years.”2 By this point, Jews were already coming under increasing pressure to leave Germany by way of new measures: Jews Barred from Leaving Unless Emigrating was the 1 January headline of the news service, the Jewish Telegraphic Agency JTA. Founded in 1917 as a volunteer organization and initially called the Jewish Correspondence Bureau, “In 1921, JTA moved its headquarters from London to New York. From both sides of the Atlantic, JTA correspondents continued to report pivotal events affecting the Jewish community and the global political landscape, including anti-Semitism in Europe and America, immigration to Palestine and the rising threat of Nazism.”3

1

Starting in January 2018, the Leo Baeck Institute is presenting a new website depicting a year-long calendar of 1938 with daily entries of personal documents from the collections showing the personal side of individual experiences, (26 February 2018). 2 JTA, 21 January 1938 (henceforth all dates given in brackets in the main text refer to JTA reports). 3 See ; the archive of all news bulletins since 1923 is available online at (both 26 December 2018). JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 153–162.

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However, as dramatic as the situation was after five years of the Nazi regime, at the start of 1938 people could not have known what was going to develop that year. The Anschluss of Austria in March triggered unprecedented levels of violence against Jews: “Anti-Semitic measures are being issued with swiftness surprising even to Nazi extremists. At this pace, Austrian Jewry will be reduced in a few weeks to the position in which Germany’s Jews now find themselves after five years of Nazi rule.” (JTA, 17 March 1938)

It became quickly apparent how these excesses figured as a model for a new degree of antisemitic radicalization for Germany proper. In mid-June, a new wave of systematic anti-Jewish mob violence erupted in Berlin. Anti-Jewish Drive “Just Begun,” Nazis Declare, read the JTA headline of 17 June, while the report continued: “a new series of cafe raids in Berlin had raised the total Jewish arrests in a four-day nation-wide drive to an estimated 2,000 or more.” Only after the Anschluss did planning for ’an inter-governmental conference on the refugee crisis begin, initiated by the Roosevelt administration, to take place in the French spa Évian-les-Bains on Lake Geneva during the first half of July and to be followed by the establishment of a permanent office in London. However, in late August, yet a new level of uncertainty and conflict emerged when Germany threatened war against Czechoslovakia, leading to the Munich Agreement in late September and the subsequent occupation of the Sudetenland in early October. Later that month, Germany expelled all Jews of Polish nationality within its borders,4 which was followed shortly thereafter by the November Pogrom, involving the mass deportation and incarceration of some 30,000 men, numerous deaths, and the destruction of some 7,500 private and 260 communal Jewish properties.5 Finally, a new and unimaginable drama emerged with the mass exodus of children to the United Kingdom (UK), the so-called Kindertransport, which began in early December.6 After all that had happened in the course of 1938, Jewish parents were desperate to send their children and young teenagers out of harm’s way to the UK, already sensing that they might not see them again. By the end of 1938, Jews in Central Europe were facing mortal danger without a clear sense of options of escape.

4 5 6

JTA, 30 October 1938. The news item was dated 28 October, a Friday. JTA did not issue reports on Shabbat. JTA, 13 November 1938. The headline was: 25,000 Jews Under Arrest in Wake of Worst Pogrom in Modern German History. JTA, 4 December 1938. 200 Young Refugees Land in England, the headline read. The news item was from 2 December, a Friday.

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The Invasion of Austria The invasion of Austria beginning on 12 March was a dramatic turning point in 1938. The onslaught of antisemitic measures and the urgent need for escape and emigration changed the already highly fragile social balance in Central Europe. On 15  March, JTA reported citing Associated Press that “one of the first official decrees of the day […] deprived the Jews of their citizenship. In their new status the Jews will not be permitted to vote in the April 10 plebiscite.” (JTA, 16 March 1938) The same day, JTA reported that the “Royal Dutch Airline disclosed today that it has dispatched many planes to Austria to augment the regular service from Vienna to Praha and Budapest. Handling of refugee traffic has taxed the line’s facilities beyond capacity.” And from Jerusalem, it was reported that “Palestine Jewish leaders considered’ [sic] today plans for aiding Jews forced out of Austria by the Nazi regime, while the swastika flag was unfurled by the Austrian consulate here. Among plans considered was the advisability of sending a delegation to the United States to raise funds for the rescue of Austrian Jews, and also the possibilities of facilitating their immigration into the Holy Land by an arrangement with Austria similar to that in effect with Germany, under which Jewish emigrants are permitted to withdraw part of their capital as goods.”7

Rumors were swirling around, for instance that Argentina had suspended issuing visas, or that “So extensive has the anti-Semitic banditry been that today’s Vienna edition of Voelkischer Beobachter […] was compelled to assert that the persons really responsible were Communists wearing Nazi uniforms.” (JTA, 17 March 1938) Reports from Vienna conveyed a situation of chaos and panic. “Suicides mounted and desperate Jews besieged foreign consulates to find a way to leave the country […].” (JTA, 16 March 1938) A week later, JTA wrote: “More than 2,000 persons, half of them Jews, crowded the American Consulate today seeking visas or food and financial help under the misapprehension that charity funds were available there. Hundreds came in the belief that The United States was prepared to admit and to pay the passage of 20,000 immigrants. Consular authorities addressed groups of applicants, explaining the real situation.” (25 March 1938)

7

JTA, 16 March 1938. Until 1938, Palestine had been the main immigration country, taking in more than one third of German refugees between 1933 and 1938. See Kurt Zielenziger’s report for the Union for Scientific Study of Population Problems in Amsterdam, in: JTA, 23 January 1938.

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Consulates were jammed: “The fact that the Nazi regime has suspended all emigration of Jews until after the plebiscite on April 10 to ratify Austro-German Anschluss did not deter the Jews, who formed long queues in front of the consulates beginning with early morning. The British consulate general admitted the would-be emigrants in groups of a hundred, giving out applications for visas and information on requirements for settlement in all parts of the British empire. In the last four days 6,000 applications have been received for emigration to Australia alone.” (JTA, 29 March 1938)

For days and weeks to follow, the daily reporting of events around Europe and the world demonstrated that the Anschluss was a turning point in the violence against Jews, forcing them to leave the country. However, governments were not willing to make major – or any – changes for higher immigration quotas.

Persecution in other Countries At the same time, Jews faced persecution and displacement in other European countries as well. For instance, the Jewish population in Romania was similar in size to that of Germany. At the beginning of the new year, the Romanian Prime Minister Octavian Goga pronounced: “Rumania is tolerant to minorities, but after the War Jewish refugees from Russia, Hungary and Germany invaded Rumania and we have, therefore, a half million vagabond people whom we cannot regard as Rumanian citizens.”8

The anti-Jewish measures in Romania amounted to a major crisis which called for immediate action by a number of international Jewish organizations. They went to the League of Nations Council in Geneva and proposed organizing a conference in Paris for the spring of that year to address the situation, “to coordinate the activities of all organizations fighting for the rights of national minorities.” (JTA, 21  January 1938) A Romanian government official said in an interview with the Nazi newspaper Völkischer Beobachter: “We are forced […] to confront the Western democracies with a dilemma: either to open new territories to Jewish immigration or to accept, for better or worse, the solution of force. Only with difficulty do we restrain the people from the path of pogroms. Let London and Paris know that we shall not always be able to do it. A decision must be made quickly.”9

8 9

JTA, 6 January 1938: Rumania Has 500,000 “Vagabonds” […]. Reported in JTA, 10 February 1938.

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This was script language applying to Nazi claims about the Jews in Germany. International observers then started to discuss the matters. On 10 February, JTA reported that “a convention aimed at regulating the legal status of refugees from Germany in the countries in which they reside was adopted today by an inter-governmental conference attended by delegates and observers from fourteen countries. […] The convention comprises 25 articles. It extends the term ‘German refugee’ to include those ‘Staatenlose’ (stateless persons) who previously were refugees in Germany […] and it is modelled on the Nansen convention of 1933 governing stateless persons.”10

Nevertheless, the situation among the more than 100,000 German refugees worldwide was precarious, although there were also signs of recognition and attempts to help, so for instance when Brazil halted the deportation of Jews who had overstayed their ninety-day tourist visas. This affected between 800 and 1,000 Jews from Germany, yet the authoritarian government of president Getúlio Dornelles Vargas wanted to demonstrate their anti-Nazi and anti-racist position.11

The International Response to the Refugee Crisis: Évian In the summer of that year, international attempts were made to deal with the ever escalating persecution of Jews after the Anschluss in March. The American president had proposed a meeting of government representatives to address the increasing plight of the Jews in Germany and Austria. 32 governments sent 100 delegates to Évian-les-Bains, where forty non-governmental organizations “representing Jewish, Catholic, Protestant and non-sectarian organizations, met under the chairmanship of professor Norman Bentwich, of the Council for German Jewry, and named a 14-member coordinating committee to unify their activities and arrange the order of their appeals before the subcommittee to be established by the intergovernmental conference” (8 July 1938).12

A number of Latin American countries indicated their willingness to admit refugees, and finally on 12 July a permanent intergovernmental committee was formed to continue these efforts from a London office starting on 3 August that year. 10 JTA, 13 January 1938. See also New York Times, 9 February 1938. 11 JTA, 13 January 1938, reported under the headline Brazil Halts Deportation of Jews to Demonstrate Hostility to Nazism. 12 JTA, 8 July 1938: 40 Private Refugee Bodies Form United Front at Evian.

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We know today that these efforts did not have a lasting impact since subsequent developments during the summer and fall changed the political landscape for the worse. However, at the time, and with the experience of the rules of international diplomacy in mind, the concerted effort of more than thirty governments offered hope. On 23  July, the newsletter of the Jewish community of Rhineland and Westphalia, published in Cologne, had a lead article written by the paper’s editor, Fritz Becker, who wrote: “We understand that Jews in Germany who are reflecting on their current situation and looking at their immediate future have a very negative opinion about Evian […]. We understand that the many words of sympathy which we were able to listen to are clearly overshadowed by the urgent question ‘when and where can I emigrate,’ and that the declaration of any country that it will open its doors for a certain number of Jews would be more favorable than the conclusion that we see, which is a drawn out resolution in the old-fashioned diplomatic manner […].”13

However, the author continued that “our hopes and wishful thinking cannot be the standard for the concerted decision of thirty-two governments of the old and the new world,” stating that there was no legal claim to aid from the world community, and that thanks needed to go to President Roosevelt for taking the initiative. Becker stated, as can in hindsight easily be seen as a naïve downplaying of the situation, that the Jewish question was a small issue in the overall world affairs of the time, and that since the Jews did not form a political entity, this was a clear disadvantage. The only way to evaluate the results of the conference was to look at all the factors in play. The author underlined that, for the first time, it had been acknowledged in such a forum and on such a broad base that the fate of more than 500,000 people was at stake.14 On the other hand, he pointed out that “as with all conferences of the international kind and so also at Evian, the dealings in the background are of no lesser importance than the conference itself […]. We can assume that some conversations between diplomats or with representatives of the important Jewish aid organizations, or from the memoranda handed in by those organizations, something practical will result for the future and provide better chances for the methods of individual emigration.” (JTA, 1 January 1938)

For instance, the plan of the Reichsvertretung der Juden in Deutschland for an annual emigration rate of 35,000 people from Germany including Austria depended on such results, although the actual need was clearly much greater. Becker concluded that subsequent meetings and a permanent office in London would achieve such improvements. 13 Leo Baeck Institute Library Archives, MF B466.1, Jüdisches Gemeindeblatt für Rheinland und Westfalen, 23 July 1938, 1 (translation by the author). 14 After 135,000 Jews had left Germany between 1933 and 1938, the Anschluss had added 200,000 Austrian Jews to this figure.

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These assumptions were based on previous, rather successful efforts. Individually or with the aid of Jewish organizations, approximately 135,000 Jews had decided and managed to leave Germany since 1933. The main organization was the Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden, founded in 1901 to aid Eastern European Jews and forced under the Nazis in 1935 to rename itself Hilfsverein der Juden in Deutschland. With eighteen offices in various cities in Germany, the Hilfsverein brochure of 1 March 1938 listed liaison offices in many countries around the globe, twenty-three in various countries in Europe, nineteen in the Americas, three in Africa, seven in Asia, and one each in Australia and New Zealand. “Day by day, the urge to emigrate grows – every day, 1,500 or more people come to the Hilfsverein in Berlin and in the Reich in order to speak to the advisers about their plans to emigrate. Every single consultation means decisions about the course of a life, a task burdened with the heaviest of responsibilities.”15

Efforts and Obstacles after Évian Over the weeks following the conclusion of the Évian Conference, Myron Charles Taylor, the US representative and co-chair at the conference, held meetings with various European representatives, starting on 9 August with Jan Masaryk, at the time Czechoslovakia’s ambassador to the UK (JTA, 10 August 1938). On 18 August, he met with George Rublee, the appointed director of the Intergovernmental Refugee Bureau in London, and Lord Winterton, the British refugee committee chairman (JTA, 19 August 1938). But ten days later, attempts to negotiate with the German government were rejected (JTA, 29  August 1938). And in another turn of events, Germany threatened war against Czechoslovakia, which set in motion what culminated in the Munich Conference and the subsequent invasion of the Czech borderlands, the Sudetenland. On the daily news level, the post-Évian onslaught of events also kept getting worse. On 22 July, the daily JTA news brief reported that Julius Strei­ cher’s paper Der Stürmer had demanded the uprooting of all synagogues on German soil. Other headlines of this day read: Arabs Slaughter 5 Jews […] in the British Mandate; Estonia Bars Jewish Refugees; and Jews Virtually Excluded from Polish Universities. The previous week, JTA had reported that the US consulate in Berlin had stopped accepting visa applications (JTA, 15 Leo Baeck Institute Archives, Emigration Collection, AR 1989, Box 1, Folder 6, Auswandern Wohin. Der Hilfsverein weist Dir den Weg (broschure).

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18 July 1938), that a new decree would ban more than 10,000 Jews from a number of occupations such as real estate, loan agencies, tourist bureaus, and commercial travelers and sales agents (JTA, 15  July 1938), that there were rumors of a Jewish settlement in Kenya being considered (JTA, 14 July 1938), and that a law requiring Jews to register their assets would be used – as a JTA reporter from Berlin quoted Nazi propaganda – “to show a ‘staggering’ amount of capital that still remains in Jewish hands, […] that Jews are not emigrating fast enough and that economic ‘Aryanization’ of the country is proceeding at a snail’s pace.” (Ibid.)

The Peak of the Crisis: October to December 1938 The year was going to end in ways that could not have been anticipated at its beginning. A bad situation had turned worse. The mass expulsion of Polish and stateless Jews from Germany in late October 1938, and their non-acceptance by Poland, created an unprecedented and impossible situation with thousands of refugees stuck in a border zone between Germany and Poland.16 This predicament remained unresolved throughout the winter. Only two weeks later, the synagogues in Germany and Austria were ransacked, burned, and destroyed, while mass deportations of Jewish men and an end to Jewish life as it had existed under the circumstances signaled another turning point that left no doubt to the Jews in Germany and Austria that they were in mortal danger. On 13 November, JTA reported: “Thousands of German Jews sat hopelessly today amid the wreckage of their homes, shops, and offices wondering what worse the fates could possibly hold in store for them.”17 As an illustration of the confusion and illusions, a few days later JTA reported from London that British Prime Minister Chamberlain proposed “large-scale settlements of Jews in British Guiana and the British-mandated former German colony of Tanganyika” expected to be discussed in a “meeting of the directors of the Intergovernmental Refugee Committee in London” (JTA, 22 November 1938), that is to say, the committee and office set up in the beginning of August as a result of the Évian Conference. Finally, on 2 December and thus only three weeks after the November Pogrom, in a dramatic turn of events the British government started the Kindertransport. (JTA, 2 December 1938) The JTA had reported on 22 November that the British 16 JTA, 30 October 1938: Reich Arrests 10,000 Polish Jews; JTA, 31 October 1938: 15,000 Polish Jews Driven from Reich; JTA, 1 November 1938: “No Man’s Land” Refugees to Be Housed in Vacant Factory. 17 The news items were reported from Berlin on 11 November.

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Council for German Jewry, in line with the British Home Secretary, was considering the transfer of 3,000 children with “many private families offering homes for refugee children.” (JTA, 22 November 1938) These unsettling chains of events culminating in the rescue of children and young teenagers, who had to separate from their families and homes to escape persecution and worse, could not have been imagined by anybody at the beginning of 1938.

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Information brochure of the Hilfsverein der Juden in Deutschland (photomontage), c. 1935. © Leo Baeck Institute Archives.

Elisabeth Gallas and Philipp Graf

Conceptual Remarks The radical escalation in Nazi Germany’s anti-Jewish politics that occurred over the course of 1938 resulted in a refugee movement of hitherto unseen proportions and dynamics. As the coverage of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency (JTA) reveals, hundreds of thousands of Jews from across the territories under Nazi control tried to flee their homes, storming international consulates and turning desperately to the Jewish organizations still operating within the Reich. These organizations tried under increasingly precarious circumstances to identify destinations for emigration and to organize the necessary paperwork. The press coverage cited by Frank Mecklenburg is complemented by Hannah Arendt’s report We Refugees (1943), which offers a deep and personal insight into the imponderability of this Jewish refugee movement before the outbreak of World War  II. The subjects of her essay were the “panic-stricken people in Berlin and Vienna,” whose prior “eloquent optimism” had by 1938, at the latest by the entry of the German army into Austria, morphed into “speechless pessimism.”1 Arendt described in great detail the hopelessness which led many to suicide: “hell is no longer a religious belief or a fantasy, but something as real as houses and stones and trees.”2 Following her own escape route, which had led via Paris, Marseille, and Lisbon, she described the catastrophic condition of the Jewish refugees as an encompassing experience of loss: the loss of familiarity, language, home, and thereby the momentous “rupture of private life.”3 As one of the most significant characteristics of the hopeless situation of those people cast out from society, Arendt identified their growing lack of rights – the special condition that “being a Jew does not give any legal status in this world” and that Jews were “unprotected by any specific law or political convention.”4 Observing the frantic struggles that Europe’s Jews had to engage in to acquire emigration papers, passports, visas, and affidavits, and in the face of a world that did not feel itself responsible for these tormented refugees, she arrived at the following conclusion: 1 Hannah Arendt, We Refugees, in: idem, The Jewish Writings, ed. by Jerome Kohn and Ron H. Feldman, New York 2007, 264–274, here 267 (first published in: Menorah Journal, January 1943, 69–77). 2 Ibid., 265. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid., 273. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 163–169.

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“[S]ociety has discovered discrimination as the great social weapon by which one may kill men without any bloodshed: since passports or birth certificates, and sometimes even income tax receipts, are no longer formal papers but matters of social distinction. […] For the first time Jewish history is not separate but tied up with that of all other nations. The comity of European peoples went to pieces when, and because, it allowed its weakest member to be excluded and persecuted.”5

Arendt’s portrayal emerged at a time when the Jewish refugee catastrophe in Europe had already passed its peak and the Jewish refugees had dispersed across the globe – mostly as stateless individuals facing an uncertain future under the most difficult economic and social circumstances. She wrote these thoughts shortly after her arrival in New York in 1941/42, before knowledge of the systematic annihilation of European Jews had spread in the United States. Thus it was the story of flight and everything appertaining to this in terms of legality and belonging that struck Arendt as both a novel and telling characteristic of her time. Later, this emblematic text would often be read from a different perspective, in which the differing temporal dimensions of 1938 and 1943 were blurred and whereby the experiences described by Arendt were interpreted as elements of the prehistory of the Holocaust. It is the main goal of this yearbook’s focal point to disentangle this period and to differentiate between the various temporal and spatial dimensions of events and experiences that took place then. Current research emphasizes the importance of the year 1938 in the radicalization of German politics vis-à-vis Jews, a notion that has found expression in terms such as “fateful” or “crucial year.”6 The political course of events and their dynamizing effect on the year 1938 – be it the explosion of anti-Jewish violence in Austria following the Anschluss; the internment in concentration camps of Jews, members of the opposition, and others marginalized in the German Volksgemeinschaft; the Évian Conference in July; the so-called Polenaktion in October; and above all the November Pogrom7 – are

5 Ibid., 273 f. 6 Shaul Esh, Between Discrimination and Extermination. The Fateful Year 1938, in: Yad Vashem Studies 2 (1958), 79–93; Joseph Tenenbaum, The Crucial Year 1938, in: ibid., 49– 77; Avraham Barkai, “Schicksalsjahr 1938.” Kontinuität und Verschärfung der wirtschaftlichen Ausplünderung der deutschen Juden, in: Walther H. Pehle (ed.), Der Judenpogrom 1938. Von der “Reichskristallnacht” zum Völkermord, Frankfurt a. M. 1988, 94–117; Dan Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe. Auswanderung ohne Einwanderung, in: idem/Dirk Blasius (eds.), Zerbrochene Geschichte. Leben und Selbstverständnis der Juden in Deutschland, Frankfurt a. M. 1993, 138–160, here 144 f. 7 See especially in relation to the November Pogram: Hermann Graml, Der 9.  November 1938. Reichskristallnacht, Bonn 1962; Pehle (ed.), Der Judenpogrom 1938; Kurt Pätzold/Irene Runge, Pogromnacht 1938, Berlin 1988; Siegwald Ganglmair/Regina Forstner-Karner, Der Novemberpogrom 1938. Die “Reichskristallnacht” in Wien, Vienna 1988; Ben Barkow et al. (eds.), Novemberpogrom 1938. Die Augenzeugenberichte der Wiener

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possibly some of the best researched aspects of Nazi rule before the outbreak of World War II. Many of these studies, however, view the events of 1938 primarily from the perspective of the Holocaust which followed, even sometimes interpreting them as prologue to it – an interpretation that is the almost paradox result of the by now well-established perception of the annihilation of European Jewry as the central event of World War II.8 This retrospective observation is surely not wrong, particularly with respect to the November Pogrom and the drastic escalation of anti-Jewish measures following in its wake in Nazi Germany. Looking at the events which preceded it, however, this has sometimes led to an imbalance in historical judgment as well as to blank spaces in research on related topics. With increasing distance to the events, it becomes clear today to what extent these former interpretations were inscribed with knowledge of the later course of history, and how significantly evaluations of the year 1938 had been shaped by a post-Holocaust perspective. This had several reasons. First and foremost, research dealing with the views and reactions of contemporaries to this catastrophic year – the attitudes of the Western Allies towards the persecution of Jews or the actions of the embattled Jews themselves and of Jewish organizations inside and outside Europe  – was shaped to a large degree by Jewish witnesses of these events. They questioned their own actions in the 1930s or accused the agents of the time of inaction, misjudgment, and ostensible passivity.9 Similar aspects were developed from the 1960s onwards by a cohort of younger researchers in the United States, who thereby implicitly criticized their parents’ genera-

Library London, Frankfurt a. M. 2008; Raphael Gross, November 1938. Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, Munich 2013. 8 This is evident alone from many titles: Jacob Toury, Ein Auftakt zur “Endlösung.” Ju­ denaustreibungen über nichtslawische Reichsgrenzen 1933–1939, in: Ursula Büttner (ed.), Das Unrechtsregime. Internationale Forschung über den Nationalsozialismus. Festschrift für Werner Jochmann zum 65.  Geburtstag, 2  vols., Hamburg 1986, here vol.  2: Verfolgung – Exil – belasteter Neubeginn, 164–196; Jerzy Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung. Die Vertreibung polnischer Juden aus Deutschland im Jahre 1938, transl. from the Polish by Victoria Pollmann, Osnabrück 2002; Martin Gilbert, Kristallnacht. Prelude to Destruction, New York 2006.   9 See for example Eugene M. Kulischer, Europe on the Move. War and Population Changes, 1917–47, New York 1948; Mark Wischnitzer, To Dwell in Safety. The Story of Jewish Migration since 1800, Philadelphia, Pa., 1948, here chap. 6: Jewish Migration under Nazi Pressure, 1933–1939; Werner Rosenstock, Exodus 1933–1939. A Survey of Jewish Emigration from Germany, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 1 (1956), 373–390; Kurt R. Grossmann, Emigration. Geschichte der Hitler-Flüchtlinge 1933–1945, Frankfurt a.  M. 1969; Salomon Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 13 (1968), 235–271.

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tion of an allegedly passive behavior in response to the catastrophe enfolding in Europe.10 These pioneering interpretations are today confronted by newer approaches which increasingly regard the year 1938, or even the 1930s as a whole, as an unique experiential space.11 Such studies are no less driven by the shock of the Holocaust and the resulting desire to acquire insight into this event, and yet they reveal – perhaps as a result of the temporal distance – a certain discomfort with the linearity and ostensible causality with which the prehistory of the Holocaust is narrated and morally judged. For example, the last years have witnessed a growing awareness of the narrative of “rescue” that was for a long time used as a downright synonym for the emigration question of German-speaking Jews – and this as early as 1933.12 However, if “rescue” is understood in its literal sense, namely as a necessary reaction to an immediate threat to life and limb which can only be evaded by fleeing, then this definition only conditionally applies to the German Jews before the invasion of Poland on 1  September 1939, and hardly applies at all to the situation before the November Pogrom in 1938. At the very least, this term stands in awkward contradiction to the fact that emigration was not a realistic option for the majority of German Jews before the summer of 1938. By November of that year, only a little over a quarter of the Jews who had been living in Germany in 1933 had quit the country.13 Seen from the perspective of the time, when the later course of historical events was as yet unknown, regarding the question of why German Jews did not emigrate in greater numbers, it becomes clear that the call for “rescue” – and thus flight – only became a pertinent concept in the aftermath of the Reich-wide pogroms in 1938, and still then not with the provisions that we attach to it today in light of our knowledge of the events that were to follow.

10 See for example Arthur  D. Morse, While Six Million Died. A Chronicle of American Apathy, New York 1967; David S. Wyman, Paper Walls. America and the Refugee Crisis, 1938–1941, Amherst, Mass., 1968; Leon W. Wells, Who Speaks for the Vanquished? American Jewish Leaders and the Holocaust, New York 1987; Yehuda Bauer, Jewish Reactions to the Holocaust, Tel Aviv 1989. 11 Kim Wünschmann, Before Auschwitz. Jewish Prisoners in the Prewar Concentration Camps, Cambridge, Mass., 2015; Katharina Friedla, Juden in Breslau/Wrocław 1933– 1949. Überlebensstrategien, Selbstbehauptung und Verfolgungserfahrungen, Cologne/ Vienna/Weimar 2015; David Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit. Emigrationspläne deutscher Juden 1933–1938, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 22016; Greg Burgess, The League of Nations and the Refugees from Nazi Germany. James G. McDonald and Hitler’s Victims, London/ New York 2016; Paul R. Bartrop, The Evian Conference of 1938 and the Jewish Refugee Crisis, Cham ZG 2017. 12 Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 20 f.; Burgess, The League of Nations and the Refugees from Nazi Germany, 5. 13 Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 13.

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If one adopts a different sight line and regards 1938 from the point of view of an as yet unknown historical development, other perceptions, events, and constellations come into focus. And if one contextualizes individual judgments and responses more closely in relation to the experiences and living conditions of those affected, these aspects can be freshly reconstructed and assessed. Aside from the political circumstances, the contemporary legal situation is also decisive for such an appraisal of the history of flight. For instance, this means recognizing that international refugee law only began to develop following the end of World War I and was characterized in the interwar period by limitations, particularisms, and deficits. The situation of the refugees as well as the ambivalent reactions of the affected states to these refugees should be historically assessed against this background. Hannah Arendt’s depiction of the experience of absolute rightlessness also only becomes clear against this background – as do the reserved efforts on behalf of Jewish organizations with regard to an orderly emigration procedure, which seem surprising from a present-day perspective. A generally defined status of the refugee on which the international community of states could find agreement, implying a legal identity, protection, and provisions for those affected and recognizing political, racial, and religious persecution and the subsequent right to asylum, simply did not yet exist at this time. Last but not least, such a consciously non-retrospective confrontation with the year 1938 must focus on the global entanglement of events in order to determine what consequences the German politics of persecution and annexation had in Europe and the United States and what assessments they invoked in the various affected countries against the background of contemporary social, economic, and political questions. This perspective, which on the one hand takes historical agents, their potential to act, and their mindscapes seriously, while on the other hand expanding the focus beyond Nazi Germany to examine the European situation, is common to all the authors and their contributions collected in this focal point. These contributions expand on the discussions from a workshop held in fall 2016 in collaboration between the Dubnow Institute and the Leo Baeck Institute New York. They aim to cast the events of 1938 and their impact outside of Germany in a new light – not least of all in order to describe more precisely the options, expectations, and spheres of action that determined Jewish existence during this epochal rupture. David Jünger (Brighton) opens the focal point with fundamental considerations on the characteristics of the years 1933 to 1938 and their place in German Jewish historiography. His contribution reveals that this period has hitherto been primarily interpreted according to a dichotomy, restricted to the German context, between remaining and leaving. This went hand-in-

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hand with an implicit reproach against German Jews who were thought to have been too hesitant with regard to emigration and flight. Instead, Jünger suggests viewing the era before 1938 in a novel and twofold manner: on the one hand chronologically, integrating the history of modern Jewish migration reaching as far back as the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and on the other hand spatially, contrasting the considerations of German Jews towards the question of emigration with the experience of Jews in Poland, but also in Palestine or the United States, who were in some respects faced with similar challenges. Michal Frankl (Prague) follows with precisely such a spatial extension, examining the phenomenon of “no-man’s-land”  – the lawless in-between spaces subject to no state authority. These emerged in 1938 as a result of the German increasing expansion first at the borders of Austria and Czechoslovakia, then later also of Poland and Slovakia, and became the temporary whereabouts of thousands of Jews. Confronted with the reality of being ejected without being allowed to immigrate, the refugee tragedy was here combined with a novel experience of rightlessness for which the international law of the interwar period – as Hannah Arendt later explained in her famous work on totalitarianism – had no mechanism. By contrast, Marija Vulesica (Berlin) presents one scarcely known example of successful emigration in her case study on the Kingdom of Yugoslavia in 1938. Following the Anschluss, Yugoslavia became a transit country for hundreds of Jews from Austria who had either been expelled or felt themselves compelled to leave the country. In Yugoslavia, these refugees encountered both a network of mostly Zionist Jewish organizations that had gradually developed since 1933 and a benevolent government. Unlike neighboring states in Eastern Europe such as Hungary, Romania, or Poland, which used the German policies to move against their own Jewries, Yugoslavia did not pass any anti-Jewish legislation in 1938, largely maintaining this course until the German occupation beginning in April 1941. Martin Jost (Leipzig) examines the greatest diplomatic event of 1938: the Évian Conference convened by US President Franklin D. Roosevelt in July of that year. From the perspective of the political emissary Salomon Adler-Rudel, who participated in the conference on behalf of the Reichsvertretung der Deutschen Juden (Reich Representation of German Jews), Jost discusses the possibilities of international refugee politics at the time as well as after World War II. He thereby focuses both on the actual results of the conference and the expectations and hopes attached to it, contrasting them with later perceptions of the event. This special issue concludes both in content and chronology with a contribution by Alina Bothe (Berlin) on the so-called Polenaktion. This systematic mass expulsion was carried out throughout Nazi Germany in October 1938

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against Jews with Polish citizenship. Bothe concentrates on the regional particularities of these acts of persecution, which lasted in various forms until the outbreak of war in 1939 and which affected some 20,000 individuals. Focusing on the case of Saxony, she reveals the specific internal logic of the event in a narrative incorporating both the perspectives of perpetrators and victims and the context of German Polish relations at the time. Press reports, memoranda, correspondence, and eyewitness testimonies from the year 1938 paint a picture of a global crisis which individual agents were hardly able to survey, let alone comprehend in their impact. Ad hoc reactions determined both individual and political action towards the German expansion of power, while the situation of hundreds of thousands of refugees escalated on a virtually daily basis. Hannah Arendt’s phenomenological description of the conditio humana of the refugee that she derived from this situation has not lost its relevance to this day.

Contributions

David Jünger

Beyond Flight and Rescue: The Migration Setting of German Jewry before 1938 The year 1938 marked a turning point in the political course of Nazi Germany: Until then, German Jews had been humiliated, deprived of their rights as German citizens, and driven into poverty. But immediately after the annexation of Austria in March 1938, the Nazi regime began to expel Austrian Jews and, a few months later, during the Polenaktion, about 20,000 Jews of Eastern European origin from the so-called Altreich. Those who were left on German territory, fled after the November Pogroms. The politics of disenfranchisement had been replaced by a politics of expulsion, enforced against a community of people who, for their part, had nowhere left to go.1 The world had closed its doors for those Jews desperately trying to escape the grip of Nazi German persecution.2 Looking back at this year and the desperate plight of the German and Austrian Jews, scholars as well as the public have raised many pressing and haunting questions: Why had the German Jews not escaped when it was still possible? Why stood the world idly by when a whole group of close to a million human beings were under the attack of a racist, murderous regime? And consequently: How many more could have been saved if the German Jews,

1 2

Peter Longerich, Holocaust. The Nazi Persecution and Murder of the Jews, Oxford/New York 2010, 95–130. For the Nazi policies towards the Jews, see Uwe Dietrich Adam, Judenpolitik im Dritten Reich, Düsseldorf 1972; Saul Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, vol. 1: The Years of Persecution, 1933–1939, New York 1997; ibid., vol. 2: The Years of Extermination, 1939– 1945, New York 2007; Longerich, Holocaust; Susanne Heim, “Deutschland muß ihnen ein Land ohne Zukunft sein.” Die Zwangsemigration der Juden 1933 bis 1938, in: Christoph Dieckmann (ed.), Arbeitsmigration und Flucht. Vertreibung und Arbeitskräfteregulierung im Zwischenkriegseuropa, Göttingen 1993, 48–81. For the developments of 1938, see Dan Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe. Auswanderung ohne Einwanderung, in: idem/Dirk Blasius (eds.), Zerbrochene Geschichte. Leben und Selbstverständnis der Juden in Deutschland, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, 138–160; Joseph Tenenbaum, The Crucial Year 1938, in: Yad Vashem Studies 2 (1958), 49–77; Raphael Gross, November 1938. Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, Munich 2013. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 173–197.

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global Jewish organizations and the international community had acted at an appropriate pace and in a determined manner?3 Those questions arise because we know what happened after 1938; because we know that Nazi Germany’s politics of expulsion was just another step towards their politics of ghettoization and finally: extermination. The monstrosity and tragedy of the Holocaust seem to lead inevitably to those fundamental questions: What could have been done and what has been missed? Whilst those questions are absolutely justified for the actual time the mass murder occurred, they are misleading if transplanted into the preceding years of the 1930s, as they assess persons and institutions at the time as if they knew what those developments were leading up to, or as if they reacted to the process that would later be understood as the Holocaust. While some contemporary publications about the Jewish situation in Germany and East Central Europe refer to certain events and developments of the 1930s as precursors of the Holocaust by book title alone,4 others make that connection more explicit, such as Joseph Marcus’ book Social and Political History of the Jews in Poland. When discussing, for instance the emigration of Polish Jews before the German conquest, he writes: “Of course, all Jews could not have left Poland, for even the time was far too short, but a substantially larger proportion might have escaped annihilation had the climate of Jewish political opinion and the general attitudes of Jewish leaders been different from what they were. […] One cannot avoid the thought that, if emigration had been tackled with the necessary resolution by a united effort of Jewish leaders and organisations in the West and in the affected countries of the East, many thousands of Jews would have survived the war.”5 3

Until today, there have been innumerable studies addressing these questions, including, most notably: David Wyman, Paper Walls. America and the Refugee Crisis 1938–1941, Amherst, Mass. 1968; idem, The Abandonment of the Jews. America and the Holocaust, 1941–1945, New York 1984; Rafael Medoff, The Deafening Silence. American Jewish Leaders and the Holocaust, New York 1987; Monty Noam Penkower, The Jews Were Expendable. Free World Diplomacy and the Holocaust, Detroit, Mich., 1988; Shabtai Beit Zvi, Post-Ugandan Zionism on Trial. A Study of the Factors that Caused the Mistakes Made by the Zionist Movement during the Holocaust, 2 vols., Tel Aviv 1991. The most recent and concise critique of those approaches offers Yehuda Bauer, Holocaust Rescue Revisited, in: Israel Journal of Foreign Affairs 7 (2013), no. 3., 127–142. A more comprehensive critique is presented by Henry L. Feingold, Bearing Witness. How America and Its Jews Responded to the Holocaust, Syracuse, N. Y., 1995. 4 These include, for instance: Katharina Stengel (ed.), Vor der Vernichtung. Die staatliche Enteignung der Juden im Nationalsozialismus, Frankfurt a. M. 2007; Hagit Lavsky, Before Catastrophe. The Distinctive Path of German Zionism, Jerusalem 1996; Jerzy Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung. Die Vertreibung polnischer Juden aus Deutschland im Jahre 1938, Osnabrück 2002; Celia S. Heller, On the Edge of Destruction. Jews of Poland between the Two World Wars, New York 1977. 5 Joseph Marcus, Social and Political History of the Jews in Poland, 1919–1939, Berlin 1983, 390 and 400.

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This argument implies that the Jewish organizations of Poland and the Western hemisphere could have known that Poland would be invaded in the following years, and all its Jews murdered by the Germans. A similar line of argument can be found in other works about the German situation before the November Pogroms of 1938, such as in Günther Schubert’s book on the 1933 Haavara Agreement between the Jewish Agency for Palestine and the Reich Ministry of Economics: This agreement, he writes, provided thousands of Jews with “an opportunity […] to leave Germany before they were swept away by the wave of destruction.”6 As critical as these questions of flight and rescue might seem in retrospect, they are still driven by the benefit of historical hindsight and therefore anachronistic. The years before 1938 were undoubtedly dire times for European Jews. But contemporaries could hardly have foreseen that Germany’s anti-Jewish policies would escalate in mass expulsion and genocide, considering the complex historical setting that informed all considerations on Jewish migration in this period: the demise of liberalism and the upsurge of ethno-nationalism; the rise of authoritarian regimes in many European countries; the economic crisis and related shortage of financial means for emigration assistance; the tightening of national immigration regulations on a global scale; the sluggish progress in building up Jewish Palestine; the deterioration of the Jewish legal status in most of East Central Europe; the validity of the old concepts of emancipation in a modern world; or the decay of the interwar system of international cooperation – just to mention a few. German Jews, their leading representative institutions and international Jewish organizations engaged in migration assistance needed to take this entire setting into account when evaluating the German-Jewish situation. Given the multitude of problems awaiting comprehensive solutions, questions of flight and rescue of the German Jews were hardly a priority; nor did the dichotomy of staying versus leaving live up to the complexity of the situation. In discussing a variety of challenges faced by German Jews in the 1930s that had little to do with Nazi anti-Jewish politics, this article questions a number of assumptions about Jewish migration problems of the time that are commonly shared in research today. To this end, it will emphasize two shifts in perspective: a temporal and a spatial one. An analysis of the background against which German Jews evaluated their situation should neither be limited to the domestic situation of Germany nor to the years 1933 to 1945, but extend to the wider international context of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Here, this implies the assessment of temporal and spatial preconditions determining later processes of evaluation under the Nazi re-

6

Günter Schubert, Erkaufte Flucht. Der Kampf um den Haavara-Transfer, Berlin 2009, 7.

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gime. Consequently, reactions of the Western as well as the Jewish world to the different events of 1938 may be better understood, and moral judgment thereof more balanced.7

The Spatial Shift: Challenges to European Migration For the German Jews, 1938 was with no doubt a year of international crisis. The Anschluss of Austria by Germany was one among many steps towards the revision of its national borders, and more generally the European territorial order created after World War  I. Furthermore, the unregulated and violent expulsion of almost 200,000 Austrian Jews across German borders was meant as a warning to the world: Our “Jewish problem” will also soon be yours. The enormous attention the events of 1938 received by the international community ended a long period of indifference and silence by both the politicians and media towards the German Jews that had set in after 1933. In April 1938, the American journalist Dorothy Thompson, who had been following the political developments in Nazi Germany from the beginning, wrote an article for Foreign Affairs, demanding tremendous international efforts to address, in her words, “a world problem.” In her view, the opinion that antisemitic persecution was a domestic issue needed to be abandoned immediately: “The responsible political circles in the world find it too ticklish a problem to tackle because it may imply interference in the internal affairs of the various countries and also because they are afraid that to raise the question of emigration might produce anti-­ Semitism in their own respective countries. […] As anti-Semitic policies spread through Europe it becomes clearer and clearer that charity is not enough. The problem, it should be repeated, must be regarded and treated as one of international politics. The only approach to a solution must be a political approach. And, as things are at present, it can

7

There are a number of publications, which in one way or another share some basic ideas presented in this article: Dan Michman, Handeln und Erfahrung. Bewältigungsstrategien im Kontext der jüdischen Geschichte, in: Frank Bajohr/Andrea Löw (eds.), Der Holocaust. Ergebnisse und neue Fragen der Forschung, Bonn 2015, 255–277; Hagit Lavsky, The Creation of the German-Jewish Diaspora. Interwar German-Jewish Immigration to Palestine, the USA, and England, Berlin 2017; Doron Niederland, Jews from Germany. Emigrants or Refugees? Migration Patterns of German Jews between the Wars, Jerusalem 1996 (Hebr.); Guy Miron, The Waning of Emancipation. Jewish History, Memory, and the Rise of Fascism in Germany, France, and Hungary, Detroit, Mich., 2011; Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe; Frank Caestecker/Bob Moore (eds.), Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Liberal European States, New York/Oxford 2010.

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be made only by an organization headed by outstanding personalities of the democratic world, with the full collaboration of Jewish organizations everywhere, and enjoying the sympathetic collaboration and support of the democratic governments.”8

As if responding directly to Thompson’s demands, the Évian Conference, convened by American President Franklin D. Roosevelt in July 1938, meant to demonstrate that the global scope of the situation and the need for international efforts had been understood.9 While the conference hardly yielded any tangible results, it achieved the internationalization of an issue that had been classified as domestic before.10 The subsequent establishment of the Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees at least ensured that the persecution of the Jews remained on the agenda of international diplomacy henceforth.11 Whereas the international dimension of 1938 seems to be unquestioned, research on the preceding years, however, is primarily focused on developments within Germany: the genesis of anti-Jewish politics by the Nazi regime, the pauperization of the German Jews, German-Jewish reactions to the Nazi onslaught, or emigration patterns of certain professions, such as lawyers, doctors or scientists. Regarding the so-called delayed emigration of German Jews, we are aware of many different factors leading to the alleged misapprehension of the Nazi regime’s goals and policies.12 However, many more insides can be gained by analyzing the Jewish assessment of the situation in Germany in its international dimension in the early 1930s. This includes an answer to the question why the persecution of the Jews by Nazi   8 Dorothy Thompson, Refugees. A World Problem, in: Foreign Affairs 16 (April 1938), no. 3, 375–387, 386 f.   9 Michael Mashberg, American Diplomacy and the Jewish Refugee, 1938–1939, in: Yivo Annual of Jewish Social Science 15 (1974), 339–365, here 340–342. 10 Yehuda Bauer, My Brother’s Keeper. A History of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee 1929–1939, Philadelphia, Pa., 1974, 234–236. 11 Fritz Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit? Internationale Reaktionen auf die Flüchtlingsproblematik 1933–1939, Stuttgart 2002, 155–427; Ralph Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage. Das “Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees” (IGC) 1938–1939, Bern/Frankfurt a. M./Las Vegas, Nev., 1981; Tommie Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted. The Refugee Problem and the Intergovernmental Committee on Refugees (IGCR), 1938–1947, Lund 1991. 12 The most relevant references for the history of German Jewry are: Avraham Barkai/Paul Mendes-Flohr, Renewal and Destruction, 1918–1945, with an Epilogue by Steven  M. Lowenstein, New York 1998; Wolfgang Benz (ed.), Die Juden in Deutschland 1933–1945. Leben unter nationalsozialistischer Herrschaft, Munich 1988; Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews; Marion A. Kaplan, Between Dignity and Despair. Jewish Life in Nazi Germany, New York 1998; Francis R. Nicosia/David Scrase (eds.), Jewish Life in Nazi Germany. Dilemmas and Responses, New York 2010; Arnold Paucker (ed.), Die Juden im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland/The Jews in Nazi Germany 1933–1943, Tübingen 1986.

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Germany – and de-facto revocation of “civilized standards” of the Western world – was not perceived as an event as unique as it appears to us today. However, many more insides can be gained by analyzing the Jewish assessment of the situation in Germany in its international dimension before 1938. The era of European mass migration begun in the early 1870s, when the first larger groups of Jews left Romania and the Tsarist Empire. Figures skyrocketed in the following decades, as voluntary and forced migration in unprecedented scope and size, persecution of minorities, expulsion, irredentism, population transfer and exchange, pogroms, large-scale massacres, and even genocide became ubiquitous phenomena. Tens of millions of people were on the move.13 Whereas the majority of migrants before World War I had come from Eastern and South Eastern Europe, the 1920s and 1930s saw the mass migration of political refugees from persecution by nationalistic, authoritarian or fascist regimes across Europe:14 Between 1922 and 1924, more than 1,5 million people fled Benito Mussolini’s fascist regime, leading to a staggering seven million Italians living abroad in 1927; hundreds of thousands of Germans emigrated to mostly neighboring countries after 1933; and Austria’s fascist Dollfuss regime in Austria produced thousands of refugees. In 1936, a new conflict flared up: the Spanish Civil War. With the impending defeat of the Republican forces in the course of 1938, another two million refugees crossed the border to France, and after Franco’s victory in 1939, hundreds of thousands more would follow. In Eastern Europe, the conditions for religious and ethnic minorities, and primarily the Jews, worsened dramatically during the 1930s. The Polish, Romanian, Hungarian, Lithuanian and Latvian Jews were incrementally deprived of their citizen rights, driven into poverty, attacked, humiliated and murdered in pogroms.15 The situation was worst in Poland. Ezra Mendelsohn describes the period between 1935 and 1939 as a downright “war against the Jews.”16 In 1936, ritual slaughter was prohibited by law, some universities established des13 Michael Marrus, The Unwanted. European Refugees in the 20th Century, New York et al. 1985; Tara Zahra, Great Departure. Mass Migration from Eastern Europe and the Making of the Free World, New York/London 2016, 23–104; Peter Gatrell, The Making of the Modern Refugee, Oxford 2015; Tony Kushner/Katharine Knox, Refugees in an Age of Genocide. Global, National and Local Perspectives during the Twentieth Century, London et al. 1999. 14 For more on this movement and the following figures, see Marrus, The Unwanted, 123– 157; Kushner/Knox, Refugees in an Age of Genocide, 103–171. 15 Ezra Mendelsohn, The Jews of East Central Europe between the World Wars, Bloomington, Ind., 1983; Bauer, My Brother’s Keeper, 180–222; Bela Vago/George L. Mosse (eds.), Jews and Non-Jews in Eastern Europe, 1918–1945, New York 1975; Emanuel Melzer, No Way Out. The Politics of Polish Jewry 1935–1939, Cincinnati, Oh., 1997; Marcus, Social and Political History of the Jews in Poland, 349–386. 16 Mendelsohn, The Jews of East Central Europe between the World Wars, 73.

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ignated areas for Jews called “ghetto benches,” and in 1937, many professional associations introduced “Aryan” clauses into their membership regulations. A nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses did not only expose Jews to increasingly frequent acts of violence, but gave rise to the pauperization of the Polish Jewish community and thus struggle for their very survival.17 After 1936, anti-Jewish pogroms became “a common occurrence” in Poland.18 By the mid-1930s, the situation in Eastern Europe had deteriorated to a level that made many contemporaries fear the end of Eastern European, if not world Jewry. Many Jewish voices predicted the impending destruction of East European and henceforth world Jewry. Nazi Germany and its anti-Jewish politics were only a part, and by far not the most significant one, of those fears and sinister predictions. Rabbi Dr.  Joshua Then of Poland19 or Polish-Jewish sociologist and demographer Jakob Lestschinsky, tried to alert the world to the catastrophe that was slowly unfolding in Poland and called on colleagues to respond urgently to what they perceived as “a crisis of World Jewry”20 describing the alarming situation that “3,500,000 Polish Jews are literally on the verge of the abyss.”21 Those warnings were no exceptions but the rule, and they had dire consequences for the whole Jewish migration system in interwar Europe. By 1935, Poland had taken Germany’s place, at least in the eyes of the public, as the most hostile anti-Jewish environment. At a conference of Polish Jewish leaders early that year, Chief Rabbi Dr. Rubenstein of Vilnius appealed to the Jewish world that “German Jewry’s calamity must not be allowed to overshadow the Polish Jewish catastrophe.”22 In the course of the following months more and more Jewish voices aligned with Rabbi Rubenstein’s message. A year later, the famous Communist Karl Radek, a former Comunist International member and now journalist, went even further saying that “what Poland is preparing for her Jewish population will exceed the cruelty of the German manifold.”23 Not only did Polish or other Eastern European Jews deem their own situation more dangerous than that of their German brethren, but this per-

17 Heller, On the Edge of Destruction, 77–139; Melzer, No Way Out, 39–94. 18 Mendelsohn, The Jews of East Central Europe between the World Wars,74. 19 Despair Faces Polish Jewry, Leaders Claim, in: Jewish Telegraphic Agency (henceforth JTA), 6 January 1935. 20 Jakob Lestschinsky, Der wirtschaftliche Zusammenbruch der Juden in Deutschland und Polen, Paris/Geneva 1936, 3. Unless indicated otherwise, all translations from German into English were done by the author. 21 Despair Faces Polish Jewry, Leaders Claim. 22 Ibid. 23 Radek Holds Polish Treatment of Jews Worse Than Nazi, in: Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 18 March 1936.

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ception took hold in Germany itself as well. The German-Jewish teacher Heinemann Stern described in his autobiography a conversation with a former student, who had just come back from a trip to Poland in 1936 or 1937. He was shocked by the terrible conditions that prevailed in Poland and finished his report to Stern with the words: “Compared to Poland, Germany is still a paradise today.”24 Similar opinions were expressed in those years by Franz Meyer, a leading official of the Zionist umbrella organization Zionistische Vereinigung für Deutschland, predicting that “the situation of the Jews in Poland will soon overshadow the Jewish situation in Germany,”25 by Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann,26 or, in May 1937, by Kurt Löwenstein, co-editor of the leading Zionist newspaper Jüdische Rundschau, who wrote: “Sure, the political conditions in which the Jews of Germany now live are of particular significance. Nonetheless, the social-economic misery of the Jews in some countries of the East is much worse.”27 All this was not only public rhetoric to raise the awareness of the Western world, to put the German Jewish predicament into perspective or soothe the troubled German Jews. It was, above all, the outline of a global scenario that linked any solution for the German Jews to the fate of their Eastern Euro­pean coreligionists. Those Jewish organizations and representatives in charge of upholding the global system of emigration assistance, which had been largely successful for more than fifty years, had to take this global scenario into account.28 According to contemporary historian Aviva Halamish, until November 1938, Zionist leaders of the Jewish Agency “widely conceived the situation of the Jews of Eastern Europe and particularly of Poland, as worse than that of their brethren in Germany.”29 Consequently, they assigned the very much needed immigration certificates of the category “Labour C” predominantly

24 Heinemann Stern, Warum hassen sie uns eigentlich? Jüdisches Leben zwischen den Kriegen. Erinnerungen, Düsseldorf 1970, 184. 25 Reich Zionist Declares Situation of Polish Jews Will Overshadow German, in: JTA, 31 January 1936. 26 Chaim Weizmann to Stephen S. Wise, 27 February 1936, in: Barnet Litvinoff (ed.), The Letters and Papers of Chaim Weizmann, vol. 17, Series A: August 1935–December 1936, ed. by Yemima Rosenthal, New Brunswick, N. J./Jerusalem 1979, 199–202, here 201. 27 Kurt Löwenstein, Leben, nichts als leben!, in: Jüdische Rundschau 42, no. 40, 21 May 1937. 28 The Jewish organization’s plans and policies concerning the emigration of the German Jews in the early 1930s are explored in David Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit. Emigrations­ pläne deutscher Juden 1933–1938, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2016. 29 Aviva Halamish, Palestine as a Destination for Jewish Immigrants and Refugees from Nazi Germany, in: Caestecker/Moore (eds.), Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Liberal European States, 122–150, here 127.

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to Eastern European Jews.30 The total percentage of Germans among Jewish immigrants to Palestine – including those arriving on a “Capitalist A” immigration certificate without quota limitations – was 16 in 1934, 11 in 1935, 27 in 1936 and 34 in 1937. Throughout the 1930s, Polish Jews also received more labour certificates than German Jews.31 Stephen S. Wise, President of the American Jewish Congress (AJC), was one of the most adamant and outspoken American Jewish adversaries of the Nazi regime. In March 1933 he predicted: “What is happening in Germany today may happen tomorrow in any other land on earth unless it is challenged and rebuked. It is not the German Jews who are being attacked. It is the Jews.”32 With the despair growing in Poland and other Eastern European countries, his predictions seemed to come true. At the AJC’s national convention in late 1937, its Chairman, M. Maldwin Fertig, recapitulated the previous year’s efforts: “While previously our main concern on the European Continent had been with the fate of the half million Jews under the Nazi regime it now moved eastward toward the three and a quarter Million Jews in the resurrected Republic of Poland. Gradually the Polish crisis overshadowed the Nazi calamity […].”33

The different doom scenarios hovering over the Jewish public of the 1930s led to a variety of emergency plans basically consisting of large scale emigration schemes. The evacuation plan of Vladimir Jabotinsky was the most prominent one. Having first voiced his ideas in the late 1920s, Jabotinsky introduced his rescue plan from “an unprecedented catastrophe”34 into the newly founded revisionist New Zionist Organization in 1935.35 This catastro30 The British Mandate authority regulated Jewish immigration through different immigration certificates. Certificate “Labour C” roughly pertained to people in working age and condition without financial means. The amount of those C-certificates was fixed and their allocation was entrusted to the Jewish Agency. Everyone being able to prove the possession of 1,000 pound sterling in free convertible currency could immigrate on a “Capitalist A” certificate. 31 Ibid., 145. 32 Cit. in Melvin I. Urofsky, A Voice That Spoke for Justice. The Life and Times of Stephen S. Wise, New York 1982, 265. 33 American Jewish Historical Society Archives, New York, I-77: American Jewish Congress Records, Box 835: National Biennial Conventions, Folder 4: National Convention 1937, National Convention of the American Jewish Congress, held at Hotel Willard, New York, November 27 and 28, 1937. 34 Wladimir Jabotinsky, Der Judenstaat [1937], Vienna 1938, 17. 35 For the genesis of the evacuation plan, see Marcus, Social and Political History of the Jews in Poland, 1919–1939, 396–401; Dan Michman, Holocaust Historiography. A Jewish Perspective. Conceptualizations, Terminology, Approaches and Fundamental Issues, London et al. 2003, 205–216; Joseph B. Schechtman, The Vladimir Jabotinsky Story, vol. 2: Fighter and Prophet. The Last Years, New York et al. 1961, 334–363; Jabotinsky, Der Judenstaat; idem, The War and the Jews, New York 1942.

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phe was about to unfold in the whole of Europe, he predicted in his 1937 book The Jewish State, but Poland, from which hundreds of thousands of Jews needed to emigrate in order to mitigate or slow down the inevitable, would be its center.36 His proclaimed goal was to resettle 1,5 million Jews in Palestine within ten years: 700,000 from Poland, 200,000 from Romania, 200,000 from Germany, 50,000 from Lithuania, and 350,000 from other countries.37 Throughout the 1930s, until he officially abandoned his plan in 1939, those proportions remained largely unchanged, and at no point were the German Jews central to his considerations.38 It is crucial to have this perception of priorities in mind in order to understand the migration setting of German Jews in the 1930s. Different Jewish sources gave different figures of how many European Jews were in jeopardy – two, five or six million39 – but there was an unanimous understanding that a solution to the threat of Jewish existence in Europe had to encompass first and foremost Eastern European Jewries, and German Jewry only in second place. Looking for destinations that could provide a political, religious and economic shelter for the tormented Jews of Europe proved to be a disaster of a different kind. The era of mass migration had not only produced millions of refugees, but had prompted many countries all over the world to tighten their immigration regulations. Most dramatic was the retreat of the United States from its pivotal role as a haven for the oppressed and impoverished. The US immigration laws of 1921 and 1924 practically closed the door for future European immigrants.40 Likewise, the possibilities of settling in other European countries shrank, as the desire to keep refugees out of local job markets began to outweigh the continent’s principle of freedom of movement.41 36 Ibid., 58. 37 Ibid. 38 Michman, Holocaust Historiography, 205–216. Michman speaks out against a popular claim that Jabotinsky anticipated the destruction of the European Jews by Nazi Germany and was the first to work on their rescue. 39 Whereas Jabotinsky spoke of 1,5 million, the German Zionist Max Apt thought of between two and 3,5 million. The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (Joint) even expected five million and Arthur Prinz six million Jews, who would need to be rescued. Max Apt, Konstruktive Auswanderungspolitik. Ein Beitrag zur jüdischen Überseekolonisation, Berlin 1936, 9 and 14; Arthur Prinz, Voraussetzungen jüdischer Auswanderungspolitik, in: Der Morgen 12, no. 1, April 1936. For Joint’s figures, see JDC and Polish Jewry, in: JTA, 8 January 1935. 40 Roger Daniels, Guarding the Golden Door. American Immigration Policy and Immigrants since 1882, New York 2004, 27–58; John Higham, Strangers in the Land. Patterns of American Nativism 1860–1925, New Brunswick, N. J., 1955, 264–330; Robert A. Divine, American Immigration Policy, 1924–1952, New Haven, Conn./London 1957, 1–91. 41 Caestecker/Moore (eds.), Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Liberal European States; Marcus, The Unwanted, 135–157; Theodore S. Hamerow, Why We Watched. Europe, America, and the Holocaust, New York et al. 2008, 33–170.

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Jewish Palestine, which some Jewish representatives like Vladimir Jabo­ tinsky hoped would become the home for the majority of European Jews in distress, was in the 1930s far from offering a durable solution. To the contrary, in the period between the late 1920s and the 1930s, the Zionist project faced its greatest crisis since Jewish colonization of Palestine had begun some decades before. The Zionist Organization basically lacked the support of the diaspora Jews – ideologically as well as financially. Immigration figures were also low. Between 1926 and 1928, more Jews left than immigrated to Palestine. After failing to settle into the new place, fifteen thousand Jews, or 74  percent of the immigrants of 1926 and 1927, eventually returned to their former homes.42 As historian Tom Segev noted, “a sense of despair” – economic and social – spread throughout the country,43 which was followed by open violence: After anti-Jewish pogroms in Hebron and other towns and villages in 1929, and an investigation of possible reasons and counter-strate­ gies a year later, the British mandatory power published the second White Paper, which curtailed Jewish immigration to Palestine.44 From today’s perspective, despite all ups and downs, the development of Jewish Palestine towards the foundation of the State of Israel in 1948 seems a rather steady one. This perspective is deceptive though, as the colonization project was constantly overhung with possible collapse during the 1920s and 1930s.45 The Jewish Agency was preoccupied with the economic crisis in Palestine, with repelling the attacks of the Revisionist movement and the increasing tensions with the Arab population. The Arab uprising, beginning in 1936, led to an almost complete stop of Jewish immigration as per the British White Paper of 1939.46 Among German Zionist leaders, belief in Palestine and its capacity to take in any more German Jews was fading. In early 1936, the head of the German Palestine Office, Arthur Prinz, invoked the “inadequacy of Palestine as a place of immigration” and claimed that “although Palestine has a unique and indispensable meaning for the renewal of Judaism it does not at all offer a comprehensive solution for the Jewish problem.”47 The Jewish leaders had to reckon with the global increase on Jewish migration and the limitations regarding destinations when they envisioned emigration schemes for the German Jews. This scenario entailed, again as de42 Gudrun Krämer, Geschichte Palästinas. Von der osmanischen Eroberung bis zur Grün­ dung des Staates Israel, Munich 2002, 227. 43 Tom Segev, One Palestine, Complete. Jews and Arabs under the British Mandate, London 2000, 261. 44 Krämer, Geschichte Palästinas, 306–344; Segev, One Palestine, Complete, 314–341. 45 See also Dan Diner, Konflikte begreifen, in: idem, Zeitenschwelle. Gegenwartsfragen an die Geschichte, Munich 2010, 67–89. 46 Segev, One Palestine, Complete, 397–443. 47 Prinz, Voraussetzungen jüdischer Auswanderungspolitik.

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scribed by Prinz, the “tremendous destabilization of the Jewish situation not only in Germany but also in Poland, Romania, Austria, Hungary and other countries – actually in more or less the entire area between the Baltic Sea and the Aegean Sea, the Russian Western border and the Rhine inhabited by six million Jews.”48 Since the political, and even more so the economic situation of (Jewish) refugees in Europe was devastating, the choices for German Jews were very limited. Nothing can demonstrate this more impressively than the return of Jewish migrants to Nazi Germany. In late 1934 and throughout 1935, thousands of Jews, who had left Germany after 30 January 1933, returned from exile to their former homes. The reasons for the immigrants to return varied widely, but most of them had faced harsh economic conditions, frequently very unwelcoming immigration laws and regulations in their host countries, and huge difficulties to adapt culturally and linguistically to their new surroundings. To them, future prospects in Germany seemed still to be better than living under utmost precarious conditions in France, the Netherlands, Great Britain or Czechoslovakia.49 With all this in mind, it becomes obvious that the Jewish situation in Germany and all questions of Jewish emigration after 1933 were not defined by Germany alone. They were rather part and parcel of a much bigger setting, namely the era of mass migration and the deterioration of the Jewish status on a European and even global scale.

The Temporal Shift: Challenges of the Emancipation Era Even though the political and economic situation of European Jews was appalling in the early 1930s, and the rise of the Nazis to the highest ranks of German politics to be expected, the appointment of Adolf Hitler as Reich Chancellor on 30 January 1933 still came as a shock to many. It was the first time that an outspoken antisemite gained power in a state of the Western hemisphere. The immediate post-World War I period had been characterized by vicious allegations against the German Jews of which the so-called stab-in-the-back 48 Ibid. 49 Doron Niederland, Back into the Lion’s Jaws. A Note on Jewish Return Migration to Nazi Germany (1933–1938), in: Studies in Contemporary Jewry 9 (1993), 174–180. For exact figures of the early migration flow, see Herbert A. Strauss, Jewish Emigration from Germany. Nazi Policies and Jewish Responses (I), in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 25 (1980), 313–361, here 354 f.

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myth was only the most prevalent one. Frequently, those allegations turned into open violence directed against the Jews, peaking in 1922 and 1923 with the assassination of Walther Rathenau and anti-Jewish pogroms in the Berlin Scheunenviertel respectively.50 The so-called “golden twenties,” between 1924 and 1929, proved to be comparably peaceful, both for Jews and the Weimar Republic in general. However, this relative quiet came to an end again shortly after, as Jews saw their legal status questioned, their political influence diminished, and themselves becoming the subject of even more frequent and violent antisemitic proclamations. After 1929, the Nazi movement grew stronger every year, while the decline of liberal forces was a disastrous loss for the Jews.51 Against this background, matters such as the future of Jewish emancipation and the survival of German Jewry were vividly discussed by the Jewish public. Depending on which ideological or religious camp the respective participant belonged to, the proposed solutions differed. In those debates, four major camps may be identified: the German-national, the liberal, the Zionist, and finally the religious, observant or Orthodox Jews.52 The German-national Jews claimed that full emancipation could only be accomplished if German Jews relinquished any Jewish particularity, pledged full allegiance to the German nation and transformed Judaism into a solely private matter with almost no other meaning than domestic customs.53 The liberal Jews agreed with the call for German nationalism, but opposed what they perceived as 50 Donald L. Niewyk, The Jews in Weimar Germany. With a New Introduction by the Author, New Brunswick, N. J./London 2001, 43–81; Werner Jochman, Die Ausbreitung des Antisemitismus, in: Werner E. Mosse (ed.), Deutsches Judentum in Krieg und Revolution 1916–1923. Ein Sammelband, Tübingen 1971, 409–510; Cornelia Hecht, Deutsche Juden und Antisemitismus in der Weimarer Republik, Bonn 2003, 55–186; Dirk Walter, Antisemitische Kriminalität und Gewalt. Judenfeindschaft in der Weimarer Republik, Bonn 1999, 23–142. 51 Werner E. Mosse, Der Niedergang der Weimarer Republik und die Juden, in: idem (ed.), Entscheidungsjahr 1932. Zur Judenfrage in der Endphase der Weimarer Republik, 2nd, revised and extended volume, Tübingen 1966, 3–49; Hecht, Deutsche Juden und Antisemitismus in der Weimarer Republik, 206–268; Walter, Antisemitische Kriminalität und Gewalt, 200–243. 52 Donald L. Niewyk addresses only three groups, leaving out the religious camp. Niewyk, The Jews in Weimar Germany. This is justified insofar as the political camps are of a different character than the religious one and as religious belongings overlapped with different ideological leanings. That means that, for instance, Orthodox Jews could be found in all ideological camps, especially in the Zionist one, to a lesser extent in the German national and even in the (political) liberal one. On the other hand, Orthodox organizations and newspapers also acted politically and had different opinions from the ideological camps on a variety of topics. An analysis of the particularities of the religious camp as compared to the political ones would offer a more comprehensive picture of the whole setting. 53 Niewyk, The Jews in Weimar Germany, 165–177.

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a dilution of Judaism. In their understanding, the bond between “Germanness” and “Jewishness” – Deutschtum and Judentum – as two sides of the same coin needed to be upheld.54 The Zionists, however, deemed the way Jewish emancipation had unfolded a failure. In their eyes, Jews remained Jews, no matter how desperate their efforts to be respected as Germans. The Jewish question, Zionists were sure, would only be solved if Jews stopped to disguise themselves as Germans – as they depicted it – and confessed to their Jewishness without reservation.55 Observant and Orthodox Jews likewise disparaged the development of Jewish emancipation. But unlike the Zionists, they believed that only an unrestricted return – teschuwoh – to the eternal and indisputable foundations of Judaism could remedy the current Jewish predicament.56 As Jewish emancipation as a whole seemed to be at stake, almost all voices of this debate located the problems of the late 1920s and early 1930s within the larger context of the emancipation era, and used it as their main reference point. In the late eighteenth century, this new era had been heralded by the works of Moses Mendelsohn, the emergence of the Haskala and by the French Revolution in 1789.57 But the path to full emancipation turned out to be a twisted one, uncertain to be ever completed. Almost a hundred years after the French, German Jews were granted full equality before the law following German unification in 1871. However, they continued to be denied social equality. Moreover, with the rise of political antisemitism since the 1880s, the revocation of legal equality became a permanent threat. Ultimately, the fulfillment of Jewish emancipation and therefore equality in all spheres of life became the primary goal for most German Jews, even though the emerging Zionist and Orthodox camps had different aspirations, or rather a different understanding of what emancipation should mean. 54 Avraham Barkai, Between Deutschtum and Judentum. Ideological Controversies within the Centralverein, in: Nils Roemer (ed.), German Jewry. Between Hope and Despair, Brighton, Mass., 2013, 259–278; Niewyk, The Jews in Weimar Germany, 96–124. 55 Niewyk, The Jews in Weimar Germany, 125–164; Lavsky, Before Catastrophe; Stephen Poppel, Zionism in Germany, 1897–1933. The Shaping of a Jewish Identity, Philadelphia, Pa., 1976. 56 Yehuda Ben-Avner, Vom orthodoxen Judentum in Deutschland zwischen zwei Weltkriegen, Hildesheim/Zürich/New York 1987; Matthias Morgenstern, From Frankfurt to Jerusalem. Isaac Breuer and the History of the Secession Dispute in Modern Jewish Orthodoxy, Leiden/Boston, Mass./Cologne 2002; David J. Pruwer, A Sacred Tradition within Mundane History. Rabbi Unna and the Orthodox Return to History in Interwar Germany, in: Modern Judaism 35 (2015), no. 3, 318–346; David H. Ellenson, After Emancipation. Jewish Religious Responses to Modernity, Cincinnati, Oh., 2004, 154–183 and 237–279. Literally translated, the Hebrew term teschuwoh means “response,” but in this context, it means “turnaround” or “return” to observance of Judaism. 57 Michael A. Meyer, The Origins of the Modern Jew. Jewish Identity and European Culture in Germany, 1749–1824, Detroit, Mich., 1967.

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Given this background, it is not surprising that the events of the 1920s and 1930s were interpreted by Jewish contemporaries as only a continuation, or intensification of a long-lasting problem – the struggle for emancipation – traceable all the way back to Moses Mendelsohn.58 In the late 1920s, almost 150 years after Mendelsohn’s death in 1786, the whole emancipation project seemed to be at a crossroads. Not only could social equality not been attained for Jews, but legal equality was also called into question. Finally, the year 1932 was expected to bring the decision about the future of Jewish emancipation and was proclaimed at its outset as Entscheidungsjahr (year of decisions).59 In January, at a general meeting of the Centralverein deutscher Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens, Chairman Ludwig Holländer predicted: “The year 1932 will bring about the decision […] whether the ever increasing demands of the antisemites for the disenfranchisement of the Jewish part of the people in Germany will be partly or completely fulfilled. And it will bring about the decision whether we German Jews will be degraded to second class citizens.”60

To follow Ludwig Holländer, it was not a question whether the civil rights of Jews would be curtailed, but rather to what extent. Then, the appointment of Adolf Hitler as Reich Chancellor was a worrisome event, but still one that was thought to be in line with the long history of ups and downs of the Jewish struggle for emancipation. Surely, the violence of the first months against communists, socialists, unionists or intellectuals, the anti-Jewish boycott of 1 April 1933 and the Civil Service Law of 7 April 1933 were indications that the new government was much more dangerous than any previous regime. “Sternly and concerned, the German Jews look into the future,” Holländer wrote on 2 February 1933, and further: “It does not make sense to disguise the dangers inherent in the fact that the leading men of a party, which cham58 Miron, The Waning of Emancipation, 25–30; idem, Emancipation and Assimilation in the German-Jewish Discourse of the 1930s, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 48 (2003), 165–189. 59 Mosse (ed.), Entscheidungsjahr 1932. The predictions of decisive decisions that were to be forthcoming were a widespread phenomenon throughout 1932, not only within Jewish debates. Heinrich August Winkler, The Age of Catastrophe. A History of the West, 1914–1945, trans. by Stewart Spencer, New Haven, Conn./London 2015, 452–477; Dirk Blasius, Weimars Ende. Bürgerkrieg und Politik, 1930–1933, Göttingen 2005, 32–47. The perspective on the last years of the Weimar Republic as a permanent state of “crisis” – as it is presented, for instance, by Winkler – has recently been challenged by Rüdiger Graf and Moritz Föllmer, among others. Moritz Föllmer, Which Crisis? Which Modernity? New Perspectives on Weimar Germany, in: Jochen Hung/Godela Weiss-Sussex/Geoff Wilkes (eds.), Beyond Glitter and Doom. The Contingency of the Weimar Republic, Munich 2012, 19–30; Rüdiger Graf, Either – Or. The Narrative of “Crisis” in Weimar Germany and in Historiography, in: Central European History 43 (2010), no. 4, 592–615. 60 Ludwig Holländer, 1932. Das Jahr der Entscheidung, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 11, no. 4, 22 January 1932.

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pions the fight against the Jews, is now in control of German politics.”61 Similar views were expressed in the Jüdische Rundschau and the Israelit, the most widely read newspapers of the Zionist and (Neo-)Orthodox camps respectively, whose authors emphasized that the danger of the first ever explicitly antisemitic German government must not be underestimated.62 However, the overall context, that is, the general validity of emancipation, seemed to be unchanged.63 Even though it is impossible to make a generalized statement about the responses of the Jewish public to the Nazi regime’s rise to power, some broader observations are still possible. Whereas after 30 January 1933 most commentators expressed their belief in the inviolability of the fundamental civil rights of German Jews,64 this belief was shattered by the passing of the Civil Service Law of 7 April 1933. With Jewish legal rights largely revoked by this law, Zionist, Orthodox and even many liberal Jews assumed the era of emancipation had come to an end.65 But not everyone was entirely pessimistic: Alfred Hirschberg, editor-in-chief of the Central-Verein-Zeitung, mused that the end of one era could also mean the beginning of a new one.66 This was a view shared rather by Zionist and Orthodox Jews and less by the Centralverein’s supporters,67 although the classification of any voice as representative of one camp or the other would be misleading. Of much greater interest, though, is the fact that the emancipation era remained the predominant reference point for all factions of German Jewry. Most commentators agreed that the “old emancipation” had vanished, and 61 Ludwig Holländer, Die neue Regierung, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 12, no. 5, 2 February 1933. 62 Robert Weltsch, Regierung Hitler, in: Jüdische Rundschau 38, no. 9, 31 January 1933; idem., Die neue Lage, in: Der Israelit 74, no. 5, 2 February 1933. 63 See especially Miron, The Waning of Emancipation; idem, Emancipation and Assimilation in the German-Jewish Discourse of the 1930s. 64 Weltsch, Regierung Hitler; Erklärung des Präsidiums des C.V., in: Central-Verein-Zeitung, 12, no. 5, 2 February 1933; idem., Die neue Lage. 65 Alfred Hirschberg, Deutsch-jüdische Wirklichkeit, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 12, no. 15, 13 April 1933. See also: Robert Weltsch, Jüdische Zwischenbilanz, in: Jüdische Rundschau 38, no. 30/31, 13 April 1933; [n. a.], Ein geschichtlicher Wendepunkt. Wochenrundschau, in: Der Israelit 74, no. 16, 21 April 1933; Jüdische Haltungen zur gegenwärtigen Situation in Deutschland. Versuch einer Abgrenzung, in: Bayerische Israelitische Gemeindezeitung 9, no. 11, 1 June 1933. Even the German Nationalist theologian Hans-Joachim Schoeps proclaimed the end of the era of Jewish emancipation: Hans-Joachim Schoeps, Wir deutschen Juden (June 1934), in: idem, “Bereit für Deutschland!” Der Patriotismus deutscher Juden und der Nationalsozialismus. Frühe Schriften 1930 bis 1939. Eine histo­ rische Dokumentation, Berlin 1970, 187–195. 66 Hirschberg, Deutsch-jüdische Wirklichkeit. 67 Weltsch, Jüdische Zwischenbilanz; idem, Tragt ihn mit Stolz, den gelben Fleck!, in: Jüdische Rundschau 28, no. 27, 4 April 1933; [n. a], Ein geschichtlicher Wendepunkt; Kurt Blumenfeld, Die innerjüdische Seite, in: Jüdische Rundschau 28, no. 28/29, 7 April 1933; J. Raphael, Neuer Aufbruch, in: Der Israelit 74, no. 17, 27 April 1933.

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something new had to follow. However, what was seen as new was in most cases a variation, or at least reminiscence, of the old. Those concepts encompassed “group emancipation” versus the “emancipation of the individual,”68 “new” versus “old emancipation,”69 “external” versus “internal emancipation,”70 “dissimilation,”71 “second emancipation”72 and so forth.73 All those ideas linked future prospects to the past, referring to terms, concepts and notions that had been used and developed since the outset of the emancipation era. Especially between 1933 and 1935, many history books were published addressing the history of German, but also European or global Jewry.74 Their authors, such as the hereinafter-quoted Rabbi Joachim Prinz, expressed their wish “to enhance the understanding of the presence by looking back at the past, because only the understanding of what we used to be […] provides us with the strength to walk on our new path.”75 Accordingly, the subtitle of Prinz’ book Wir Juden reads Besinnung, Rückblick, Zukunft (Reflection, Retrospection, Future). While generally a harsh critic of Prinz, the German national theologian Hans Joachim Schoeps in the main concurred with the former’s invocation of the past: “German Jews are in a crisis today. […] We

68 Robert Weltsch, Um die neue Emanzipation, in: Jüdische Rundschau 38, no. 48, 16 June 1933; American Jewish Joint Distribution Archives, Folder 627, Werner Senator, Bemerkungen zu einem wirtschaftlichen Verhandlungsprogramm der deutschen Juden, 15 August 1933; Joachim Prinz, Wir Juden. Besinnung, Rückblick, Zukunft, Berlin 1934, 159; Hirschberg, Deutsch-jüdische Wirklichkeit. 69 Hugo Rosenthal, Die deutsche Judenschaft im neuen Deutschen Reich, in: Jüdische Rundschau, part 1: 26 May 1933, part 2: 30 May 1933, part 3: 4 July 1933; Eva Reichmann, Unsere Stellung zum Palästinaproblem, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 12, no. 31, 3 August 1933. 70 Heinz Kellermann, Ende der Emanzipation?, in: Der Morgen 9, no. 3 (August 1933). 71 Kurt Löwenstein, Assimilation und Dissimilation, in: Jüdische Rundschau 38, no. 78, 29 September 1933; idem, Dissimilation?, in: Jüdische Rundschau 39, no. 34, 27 April 1934; Alfred Hirschberg, Dissimilation oder Assimilation?, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 13, no. 18, 3 May 1934. See also Matthias Hambrock, Die Etablierung der Außenseiter. Der Verband nationaldeutscher Juden 1921–1935, Cologne 2003, 609–639. 72 Bruno Weil, Der Weg der deutschen Juden, Berlin 1934, 219. 73 For an overview of this debate and those concepts, see Miron, Emancipation and Assimilation in the German-Jewish Discourse of the 1930s. 74 Weil, Der Weg der deutschen Juden; Schoeps, Wir deutschen Juden; Simon Schwab, Heimkehr ins Judentum, Frankfurt a. M. 1934; Alfred Döblin, Flucht und Sammlung des Judenvolks. Aufsätze und Erzählungen, Amsterdam 1935; Mark Wischnitzer, Die Juden in der Welt. Gegenwart und Geschichte des Judentums in allen Ländern, Berlin 1935; Arthur Eloesser, Vom Ghetto nach Europa. Das Judentum im geistigen Leben des 19. Jh., Berlin 1936; Max Wiener, Jüdische Religion im Zeitalter der Emanzipation, Berlin 1933; Arnold Zweig, Bilanz der deutschen Judenheit. Ein Versuch, Amsterdam 1933; Prinz, Wir Juden; Josef Kastein, Juden in Deutschland, Vienna 1934. 75 Prinz, Wir Juden, Vorwort.

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need to reflect ourselves, who we are, where we are from and where we go to.”76 The famous historian Ismar Elbogen, as well, agreed when he wrote: “Let us remember the history of our fathers, who time and again experienced such catastrophes and still did not give up their will to live! They have adamantly sought and found means and ways to preserve themselves. […] Our fathers have borne their destiny with heroism, with dignity, and in observant faith. Let us learn from them.”77

Understanding the presence by looking back at the past to master the future – this was quite a common strategy in those days. Shortly after the anti-Jewish boycott of 1 April 1933, journalist Robert Weltsch published an article titled Wear the Yellow Badge with Pride, which became one of the most notorious Jewish responses to the early Nazi regime. By trying to convert the connotation of a social stigma into something percieved as positive, Weltsch sought to counteract the Nazis‘ attacks on Jews. The closing remarks of this article read: “The Jewish answer is clear. It is the brief sentence spoken by the prophet Jonah: Ivri anochi, I am a Hebrew. Yes, a Jew. The affirmation of our Jewishness – this is the moral significance of what is happening today. […] As for us Jews, we can defend our honor. We remember all those who were called Jews, stigmatized as Jews, over a period of five thousand years. We are being reminded that we are Jews. We affirm this and bear it with pride.”78

Many Jews would follow his understanding in subsequent years when facing their plight, and the perception of effectiveness of this approach was nourished by the Nazi policies. In almost every sphere of German life and all across the country, authorities suppressed free speech, persecuted the Left, and abolished democratic structures. They did, however, spare the Jewish community as a religious entity – at least initially. Jewish newspapers continued to publish without direct state censorship; most Jewish organizations continued to work permitted to retain democratic structures; and Jewish religious institutions remained largely untroubled by state interference. Jews as individuals were physically attacked, humiliated, and removed from the workplace, but German Jewry as a religious community was hardly touched.79

76 Schoeps, Wir deutschen Juden, 172. 77 Ismar Elbogen, Haltung, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 12, no. 14, 6 April 1933. 78 Robert Weltsch, Wear the Yellow Badge with Pride, in: Albert H. Friedlander (ed.), Out of the Whirlwind. A Reader of Holocaust Literature, 119–123, here 123. The original German text: Weltsch, Tragt ihn mit Stolz, den gelben Fleck! 79 For the development of anti-Jewish politics in Germany between 1933 and 1935, see: Adam, Judenpolitik im Dritten Reich, 55–82; Longerich, Holocaust, 29–51; Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, vol. 1, 113–141; Barkai/Mendes-Flohr, Renewal and Destruction, 1918–1945, 197–210.

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This was the setting in which different ideas of a Jewish future in Germany flourished. The anti-Jewish politics of the Nazi regime combined with a Jewish response as per Weltsch sparked a revival of Jewish cultural and communal life that lasted until at least 1935, if not longer, as some contemporaries later suggested.80 For those reasons, Jewish – especially institutional and religious – life of the 1930s has been described as a period of “Jewish autonomy” or even as a “democratic island” within Nazified Germany.81 When finally, in late 1935, the Nuremberg Laws revoked Jewish legal equality and declared Jews second-class state members as compared to German Reich citizens, the predictions of 1932 seemed to have come true: The era of emancipation had come to an end.82 Nevertheless did the stipulations of the Nuremberg laws, combined with the aforementioned cultural and institutional autonomy granted by authorities, nourish hopes that, at least, the ultimate goal of the Nazi regime regarding the Jews had been accomplished – the absolute separation of the Jewish from the German Volk – and would go no further. Following the statements of several Nazi officials right after the promulgation of the laws, Jews were also led to believe that as a recognized national minority, they would enjoy distinctive rights: minority rights.83 Especially a comment by Alfred-Ingemar Berndt, the chief editor of the official news agency Deutsches Nachrichtenbüro, was cited in many Jewish publications. Referring to the Zionist Congress that had been convened recently in Lucerne, he wrote: “Today, Germany accommodates the claims of the international Zionist Congress, when it makes the Jews living in Germany a national minority. By making Jewry a national minority, it will again be possible to establish a normal relationship between Germans and Jews.”84

80 Robert Weltsch, An der Wende des modernen Judentums. Betrachtungen aus fünf Jahrzehnten, Tübingen 1972, 29–34; Michael Brenner, Jewish Culture in a Modern Ghetto, in: Francis R. Nicosia/David Scrase (eds.), Jewish Life in Nazi Germany. Dilemmas and Responses, New York 2010, 170–184; Barkai/Mendes-Flohr, Renewal and Destruction, 283–312. 81 Herbert A. Strauss, Jewish Autonomy within the Limits of National Socialist Policy. The Communities and the Reichsvertretung, in: Paucker (ed.), Die Juden im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland 1933–1943, 125–152; Barkai/Mendes-Flohr, Renewal and Destruction, 1918–1945, 258; Carsten Teichert, Chasak! Zionismus im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland 1933–1938, Cologne 2000, 170–175. A contrary position is presented by Heim, “Deutschland muß ihnen ein Land ohne Zukunft sein.“ 82 Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, vol. 1, 141–173; Barkai/Mendes-Flohr, Renewal and Destruction, 210–216; Adam, Judenpolitik im Dritten Reich, 83–90. 83 Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, vol.  1, 167–173; Helmut Genschel, Die Verdrängung der Juden aus der Wirtschaft im Dritten Reich, Göttingen et al. 1966; Adam, Judenpolitik im Dritten Reich, 93. 84 Gesetzliche Regelung der Judenfrage, in: Jüdische Allgemeine Zeitung 38, 18 September 1935.

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His projection of a “normal relationship” between Germans and Jews and the introduction of the term “minority” were indeed remarkable. The minority status was nothing any of the different camps of German Jewry had wanted; but Jewish experiences as minorities, in the pre-emancipation era as well as, contemporarily, in some of the Eastern and South Eastern European states, gave good reason to believe that the new situation would be manageable. Thus, the perception prevailed that while German Jews had been deprived of their individual civil rights, they were now granted rights as national group, and Jewish life in Germany would hopefully continue.85 The analysis of the Jüdische Allgemeine Zeitung was characteristic of the debate in the Jewish public shortly after the promulgation of the Laws: “The Nuremberg laws have fully completed the detachment of the Jews from the German Volksgemeinschaft. […] Those laws put an end to an epoch of about 125 years. […] We are standing not only at the beginning of a new year but also of a new future. We must look forward to the reconstruction of Jewish life within the now defined legal limits. […] The new state […] wants to provide the Jewish minority with a living and economic space, in which it can live and moreover, in which our children can grow up as honest and self-confident human beings.”86

Against the backdrop of these public deliberations and expectations, it becomes understandable that emigration was not many people’s preferred option. Of course, tens of thousands of Jews left Germany every year;87 but this remained an individual rather than collective solution, the latter staying out of consideration. The change of legal status from individual to exclusive group rights could not be fully grasped in its consequences. Most importantly: the overall framework of the continuing struggle for Jewish emancipation in Germany did not change for any of the Jewish fractions. Until around 1937, German Jewry continued to respond to the ongoing crisis roughly the same way as they had prior to the Nazi regime’s coming into power, since they sought to explain the present in terms and ideas that derived from a

85 Die Nürnberger Gesetze, in: Jüdische Rundschau 40, no. 75, 17 September 1935; [n. a.], Die neuen Reichsgesetze und die Juden, in: Der Israelit 76, no. 38, 19 September 1935; Georg Kareski, Deutsche Juden? – Jüdisches Volk., in: Der Staatszionist 3, no. 23, 22 September 1935; Alfred Hirschberg, Planung des jüdischen Lebens, in: Central-Verein-Zeitung 14, no. 39, 26 September 1935; Executive Board of the Verband Orthodoxer Rabbiner Deutschlands, Ein Wort an die Juden Deutschlands, in: Der Israelit 76, no. 39, 26 September 1935. 86 Rausch haschonoh 5696. Neuaufbau jüdischen Lebens. Das neue Arbeitsprogramm der Reichsvertretung, in: Jüdische Allgemeine Zeitung 15, no. 39, 25 September 1935. 87 For detailed figures, see Werner Rosenstock, Exodus 1933–1939. A Survey of Jewish Emigration from Germany, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 1 (1956), 373–390; Strauss, Jewish Emigration from Germany; idem, Jewish Emigration from Germany. Nazi Policies and Jewish Responses (II), in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 26 (1981), 343–404.

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slowly but inevitably vanishing world.88 In short, with that framework valid in the minds of many Jews, emigration was not an acceptable collective solution. For the German-national and the liberal Jews, emigration would have meant to surrender emancipation in general and to loosen the bond between Germanness and Jewishness and, thus, to give up everything they, their parents and ancestors had been fighting for. This was hardly thinkable. Hans Joachim Schoeps concluded at the time: “We German Jews have been living for hundreds of years on German lands, we know and confess that no mundane power can rip Germany out of our hearts, that no law and no decree can release us from our duty for volk and fatherland. […] Foremost, we must make sure that we do not perish. To the contrary, in defiance of the false prophets who propose to us emigration or a cultural ghetto, we must endure in pride and dignity des­ pite the utmost limited material living conditions.”89

Nor was emigration a solution for the Zionist camp. The establishment of a viable Jewish homeland seemed far off, the project of an unforeseeable future, planned to be a remedy for the plight of Eastern European, rather than Western Jewry.90 Palestine’s capacity to absorb immigrants was fairly low in the 1930s, not least due to the severe immigration restrictions imposed by the British authorities in the wake of the 1936 riots. Then again, Jewish emigration to destinations other than Palestine seemed to involve the severe risk of dispersion of the Jews and possible disintegration of the Jewish people.91 To the German Zionists, Zionism meant Jewish nationalism, but on German soil. Emigration would have meant to abandon their understanding of the Jewish people as a nation within or by the side of the German nation. Therefore, Weltsch’s article Wear the Yellow Badge with Pride, was decisive for the Zionist objectives of subsequent years: the consolidation of the Jewish people in Germany, and the restoration of Jewish self-confidence accompanied by a cautious building-up of Jewish Palestine. However, Weltsch’s optimism proved to be ill-founded, requiring the Zionists to modify their strategy and 88 The understanding of 1933 as a crucial watershed is expressed in most research literature on the German 1930s with regard to the Jews. However, only few scholars follow the approach proposed in this article, including: Michman, Handeln und Erfahrung; Moshe Zimmermann, Wie viel Zufall darf Geschichte vertragen? Über politische Zeit- und Kri­ senwahrnehmung deutscher Juden im Januar 1933, in: Yfaat Weiss/Raphael Gross (eds.), Jüdische Geschichte als Allgemeine Geschichte. Festschrift für Dan Diner zum 60. Geburtstag, Göttingen 2006, 288–302; Strauss, Jewish Autonomy within the Limits of National Socialist Policy; Lavsky, The Creation of the German-Jewish Diaspora; Niederland, Juden aus Deutschland. 89 Schoeps, Wir deutschen Juden, 215 and 224. 90 Michael Berkowitz, Western Jewry and the Zionist Project, 1914–1933, Cambridge et al. 1997. 91 Paul Eppstein, Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der Gruppenwanderung, in: Jüdische Wohlfahrtspflege und Sozialpolitik 7 (1937), no. 5, 149–156.

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objectives after 1935. Nonetheless, the continuation of Jewish life in Germany remained their primary goal. Right after the promulgation of the Nuremberg Laws, Kurt Löwenstein wrote that the Zionist program “is based on the conviction that it is necessary to ensure the material existence of the Jews living in Germany and to enable them to live in dignity. […] In addition, it recognizes the fact that the reduction of the Jewish substance by organized emigration – that must primarily lead to Palestine – complements this first point.”92 The Zionists faced a predicament: Even though the Jewish situation in Germany turned out to be all but promising, neither Palestine nor other emigration destinations offered any adequate solution. Within the leadership of the Zionistische Vereinigung für Deutschland, it was first and foremost Arthur Prinz who was serious about the adoption of a Zionist emigration policy. It was not until 1936 that the rest of the Zionist leadership yielded to his unremitting calls and agreed to the inevitability of an emigration policy, which they then implemented slowly.93 Finally, observant and Orthodox Jews excluded emigration as an option, as under the halachic rule dina de-malkhuta dina (the law of the land/kingdom is law) subordination under the mundane power was a sacred duty. For them, it hardly mattered where they would endure the lot of exile, in Germany or any other country.94 Rabbi Simon Schwab, who would later gain fame as rabbi of New York’s German-Jewish neighborhood Washington Heights, where he served from the late 1950s through the 1990s, commented on the state of Germany in 1933, when he was only 25 years old, in rather lofty words: “Menacing thunderclouds have gathered over the German Jews. […] The grey evening shadows of the golus yield to the night. It has become dark around us. For hundreds of years, German Jewry has known the frosty night breeze [Nachthauch] of the golus only from afar, but has never experienced it up close. […] A fervent wave of teschuwo [return to Judaism] should flood over Germany’s Jews. To resist the distress is futile, to learn from it – that is the slogan. Let us bear the golus, as proud Jews!”95

92 Kurt Löwenstein, Das Programm, in: Jüdische Rundschau 40, no. 77, 24 September 1935. 93 Arthur Prinz, Die Erkenntnisse der Judenfrage als Aufgabe unserer Generation, in: Der jüdische Wille 3 (April 1935), no. 3; idem, Das Problem der Emigration, in: Jüdische Rundschau 40, no. 77, 24 September 1935; idem, Voraussetzungen jüdischer Auswanderungspolitik; Arthur Prinz, Thesen zur Wanderungsfrage, in: Der Morgen 12 (Dezember 1936), no. 9; idem, Jüdische Wanderungspolitik heute und morgen, in: Der Morgen 13 (May 1937), no. 2. 94 Andreas Gotzmann, Art. “Dina de-malkhuta dina,” in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig ed. by Dan Diner, vol. 2, Stuttgart 2002, 138–143; Shmuel Shilo/Menachem Elon, Art. “Dina de-Malkhuta Dina,” in: Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 5, ed. by Fred Skolnik and Michael Berenbaum, Detroit, Mich., et al. 2007, 663–669. 95 Schwab wrote under the pseudonym “Nechunia”: Nechunia, Die Losung der Stunde, part 1, in: Der Israelit 74, no. 12, 23 March 1933. Golus means diaspora.

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Apart from those rather abstract considerations, Jewish religious life did not face severe restrictions at the time. The daily life of Orthodox communities felt less affected by what was happening in the rest of Nazi Germany. The historian Avraham Barkai, who grew up in a neo-Orthodox community in the Berlin Scheunenviertel in the 1930s, recorded in his memoirs: “A sheltered childhood and carefree adolescence was a rarity in this environment, even rarer for Jewish children after 1933. […] However, in general, I was lucky that I was spared from violence against me and anti-Semitic persecution, which most of my Jewish peers were exposed to. From my first to my last school year, I attended Jewish schools and spent the afternoons in a protected Jewish environment […].”96

Mally Dienemann, the wife of the Offenbach Rabbi Max Dienemann, had a similar experience: “Despite the barrage of propaganda fire against the Jews […] in Offenbach, one personally remained undisturbed until the end of 1938.”97 As mentioned before, the reactions of the different Jewish groups, organizations and individuals towards the Nazi onslaught were very diverse and cannot be presented in a generalized manner. However, almost all of them were based on the same premise: What they believed was at stake, was the history and legacy of Jewish emancipation. Against this background, it becomes clear that emigration was not the biggest concern, even though it became more prevalent towards 1937 and early 1938. To put it bluntly: Until the end of 1937, the majority of the German Jews seemed to see no need for emigration. What has been outlined so far remained the major frame of reference for German Jews until 1937. During this time, and even more so the following year, circumstances changed rapidly. Due to the unremitting deterioration of the legal status and economic situation of the Jews, emigration ultimately became the absolute focus of Jewish efforts and most haunting endeavor. An increasing number of German Jews considered to emigrate and began preparations to do so. But again, those preparations progressed deliberately slowly, as people were under the impression that there would be sufficient time to settle matters and emigrate in an orderly manner. They could not keep pace with the dramatic developments after 1937. When, by the end of 1938, leaving Germany had become the only option for Jews, emigration was more difficult than ever before as most countries had closed their borders to Jewish refugees.

96 Avraham Barkai, Erlebtes und Gedachtes. Erinnerungen eines unabhängigen Historikers, Göttingen 2011, 14 and 18. 97 Leo Baeck Institute New York Archives, ME 112, Mally Dienemann, Aufzeichnungen, 1883–1939.

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Summary: The Complexity of Jewish Emigration before 1938 The history of Jewish emigration from Germany in the 1930s is overshadowed and blurred by the subsequent events that ultimately led to the Holocaust. Due to the magnitude of the mass murder, all events before and afterwards seem to be related: as the pre- or post-history of the Holocaust. All questions as to how this could have been prevented or how more Jews could have been saved from annihilation are understandable and justified. Nonetheless, they can also limit the understanding of major developments and crucial questions of the period itself, in which the coming catastrophe could not be anticipated. In his article on coping strategies in the context of Jewish history, Dan Michman argues to this effect: “All things considered, the reactions of the Jews towards persecution but also their survival strategies were disparate and manifold. However, they were always a crucial part of the varying forms of Jewish life as they had developed in earlier days. The reasons why Jews decided to act in one way or another can only be fully understood within this broader context.”98

Looking at emigration challenges of German Jews in the 1930s, the entire setting should likewise be detached from familiar temporal as well as spatial limitations. Dwelling on the Holocaust or on Nazi German history between 1933 and 1945 as dominant reference points constricts the perspective on the migration setting of German Jews in the 1930s. It limits our understanding of the period and bears the risk that major developments might be overlooked. To obtain a more comprehensive and precise picture, we need to broaden our view. As proposed in this article, the inclusion of the pre-conditions of migration against the background of the global migration regime and the larger history of Jewish emancipation long before 1933, can enhance our understanding about the German-Jewish 1930s and the migration setting for German Jews. Taking a much broader approach to German-Jewish migration in the interwar period, Hagit Lavsky, very similarly, concludes in her study on the Creation of the German-Jewish Diaspora: “Until 1938 German Jews calculated their options between going and staying as potential emigrants, who are still able to rationally evaluate the pros and cons, timing and destination for their move, not as refugees who had no choice. Beyond that, they regarded the prospects of time left to get organized for even a transitional existence in Germany as much longer than it turned out to be in reality.”99

98 Michman, Handeln und Erfahrung, 270. 99 Lavsky, The Creation of the German-Jewish Diaspora.

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As this article has demonstrated, the notions of “flight” and “rescue” do not do the complex patterns of experience of the German Jews before 1938 justice. The escalation of the political setting did not necessarily evoke a sense of urgency in the organization of migration. Therefore, this article argues that the notions and categories usually applied to the reconstruction of the migration setting before the crucial year of 1938 have to be reevaluated. In order to fully comprehend the Jewish 1930s, the Jewish emancipation era and its stages of transformation, as well as the migration conditions on a global scale need to be taken into account.

Marija Vulesica

Yugoslavia as a Hub for Migration in the 1930s: Local Zionist Networks and Aid Efforts for ­Jewish ­Refugees On 1 May 1938, the Zagreb Committee for Aid to Jewish Refugees turned to the Jewish aid organization HICEM in Paris on behalf of the Jews dispelled from Burgenland, Austria.1 The committee began by summarizing their case, describing the committee’s “superhuman efforts” in this regard, and concluded at the end of the letter that it was writing “because the near future may already compel us […] to seek your help.”2 The aid committee in Zagreb had been in close contact with the head office for years, becoming an official regional branch of HICEM in 1937. It reported regularly on its work with refugees while equally frequently requesting financial support for the Central European Jewish refugees present in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. As early as May 1938, the members of the committee realized that the situation of the Jews in Burgenland was so serious that it could very likely not be alleviated without support from Paris. The dispersion and deportation of the Jews of Burgenland began simultaneously with the entry of German troops into Austria in mid-March 1938. They were driven to the borders of Austria’s various neighboring countries by the Gestapo, local Nazi groups and forced to leave Austrian territory. As a result, hundreds of Burgenland Jews were stranded in no man’s land, without shelter, without provisions, and facing tortuous uncertainty.3  Between 8 and 12 April 1938, 43 Jews from the towns of Kittsee, Pama, and Gols in Burgenland, including five children between the ages of two and thirteen, were taken by the Gestapo to the border with Yugoslavia (ac-

1 HICEM was formed in 1927 out of the combination of several Jewish emigration and relief organizations, namely HIAS (Hebrew Immigration Aid Society), ICA (Jewish Colonization Association), and Emigdirect (Emigrationsdirectorium). The name is an acronym of these organizations. See [n. a.], HICEM, in: Shoah Resource Center. The international School for Holocaust Studies, (15 March 2018). 2 United States Holocaust Memorial Archives, Washington, D. C. (henceforth USHMM Archives), RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 555. 3 Milka Zalmon, Forced Emigration of the Jews of Burgenland. A Test Case, in: Yad Vashem Studies 31 (2003), 287–323. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 199–220.

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cording to the list of the Zagreb aid committee, they initially numbered 44).4 They were, however, barred from entering the country by the Yugoslav border officials. In the course of June 1938, a further ten people from Rechnitz in Burgenland were driven to the border with Yugoslavia.5 They, too, were denied entry. According to the recollections of the secretary of the aid committee at the time, Aleksandar Klein (1898–1969, later Alexander Arnon), upon hearing about the case the committee immediately launched a comprehensive drive for aid and a grueling battle for the admission and accommodation of the Burgenland Jews ensued. Following tense negotiations, the aid committee managed to effect their entry into the country, albeit under the condition that they depart the Kingdom of Yugoslavia as soon as possible.6 Of course, these 44 (later 54) people were not the only Jewish refugees for whom the aid committee along with numerous Jewish communities and organizations had to care during the course of 1938. The treatment of the Burgenland Jews, however, is especially suited to elucidate the changed conditions, circumstances, and challenges of refugee aid in 1938. Although the Anschluss was officially regarded in Yugoslav political circles as a “German domestic affair”, its political, economic, and social effects very quickly became noticeable in Yugoslavia, too. The annexation of Austria was a massive political demonstration of power and Nazi Germany had become an immediate neighbor as a result. Yugoslavia’s economy thereby became even more dependent on Germany, which had become the destination of about fifty percent of its exports.7 Yugoslav Jews who had been employed in Austrian  – now German  – businesses were fired.8 Hundreds of Austrian Jews fled to Yugoslavia. This only became a social question for Yugoslav Jewish aid organizations, however, as the state was not involved in the specific and active help and support of Jewish refugees. Nevertheless, the state’s response to this consequence of National Socialist politics was to have a detrimental impact on refugees and their supporters, as immigration policies became increasingly restrictive and the borders were finally official4 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 555. 5 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 546. 6 Aleksandar Klein, Da se otme zaboravu [To Wrest From Oblivion], in: Bilten Hitahdut Olej Yugoslavia [Association of Imigrants from Yugoslvia] XI (1963), no. 4/5, 13 f., and ibid., no. 6/7, 19–22 (Serbo-Croation). 7 Živko Avramovski (ed.), Britanci o Kraljevini Jugoslaviji. Godišnji izveštaji Britanskog poslanstva u Beogradu 1921–1938 [British Views on the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Annual Reports of the British Delegation in Belgrade 1921–1938], 2  vols., here vol.  2: 1931– 1938, Zagreb 1986, 702. 8 Central Zionist Archives, Jerusalem (henceforth CZA), S5/658, Report by Moshe Waldmann, 27  May 1938, 1–2; for an exemplary case, see Manfred Lahnstein, Massel und Chuzpe. Wie Blanka und Rudolf den Holocaust überlebten, Hamburg 2004, 62.

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ly closed to Central European refugees in the course of 1938. Those already present in the country were at risk of expulsion. This paper examines the impact of these official policies on the work of the Yugoslav Jewish aid committees active since 1933 through the example of the Burgenland refugees. It investigates how and to what extent the aid committees were able to assist the persecuted Central European Jews, and how the perception of what constituted aid and support changed through this period. The Zagreb aid committee was hindered from the outset in its attempts to admit and to care for the group arriving at the border by the restrictive border policies and anti-Jewish sentiments of key politicians. Once their admittance had finally been negotiated according to conditions dictated from above, great difficulties ensued in finding third states to take them in while simultaneously trying to justify and organize their stay in Yugoslavia. Moreover, the efforts on behalf of the group from Burgenland led to a change in understanding on the part of the persecuted European Jews concerning aid as well as to a modified self-perception of the aid-givers. In 1938, the aid committee, its members, and its supporters could look back on a continual aid activity for German and other Central European Jews spanning over five years. The first incentives for a speedy aid campaign originated with Yugoslav Zionists. In May 1933, prominent Zionist personalities established the aid committee for Jewish refugees in Zagreb in order to assist the German Jews who had made it to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. The Zionists were well acquainted with the political circumstances and developments in Germany. It was their conviction that the German Jews could no longer succumb to an illusion but had to leave Germany and build a new homeland in Palestine. This understanding also formed the basis for the initial aid campaigns of the Yugoslav Zionists. However, this mentality soon conflicted with the lived realities of the arriving refugees and emigrants. At the latest by 1938, more Jews were fleeing Central Europe than could find refuge in Palestine. The aid committee thus gradually came to the conclusion that the refugees primarily needed to be admitted to Yugoslavia and to be cared for there. Once in the country, the Jewish organizations could support them with the help of a united campaign involving virtually all of Yugoslav Jewry. Nevertheless, mounting political pressure through the course of 1938 necessitated the organization of visas for overseas. In light of political developments and following pragmatic considerations, North and South America were becoming ever more important destinations for emigrants alongside Palestine. Although Palestine remained the most important ideological point of reference for Zionist propaganda, the Yugoslav Zionists from 1938 onwards no longer pinned their refugee aid to the demand that Jewish refugees had to help build up Palestine.

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The year 1938 had markedly transformed Central Europe: New borders and new territorial forms of belonging had emerged, antisemitism dominated political attitudes, and Jews were being subjected to violent persecution. Unlike its neighboring states, the Kingdom of Yugoslavia had in 1938 not passed any anti-Jewish legislation  – yet. The antisemitic politics of Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Italy, and of course Austria after the Anschluss nevertheless influenced the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. There, too, individual political agents  – first and foremost the Interior Minister Anton Korošec (1872–1940) – were debating anti-Jewish measures and laws. The arrival of Jewish refugees fired up debates and anti-Jewish attitudes and finally turned the Yugoslav government towards policies hostile to refugees, which considerably inhibited the aid committees’ room for maneuvering. By the end of 1938, the Yugoslav government was on the verge of passing antisemitic laws. However, in early 1939, following the election of a new government, the country executed a turn that was practically unique in Europe at the time: It largely accommodated the refugees and above all its own Jews in their aid efforts. The aid committees’ room for maneuvering thus changed once again. Neither German- and English-language nor post-Yugoslav scholarship has dedicated sufficient attention to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia as a destination and transit country for Central European Jewish emigration and flight. There may be multiple reasons for this hitherto absent research interest: Yugoslavia was indeed, by contrast to other European or global destinations, less attractive for Central European refugees. Altogether, it drew significantly fewer refugees than did Czechoslovakia, for example. Beyond the dimension and meaning of the numbers involved, however, an examination of alternative, even “smaller” destination and transit countries promises important insights into the experiences and paths of the persecuted.9 Moreover, this perspective offers insights into the respective political contexts in the destination and transit countries, into the internal states of their respective Jewish communities, and into their stance vis-à-vis emigration and flight in the 1930s. It is therefore highly desirable to incorporate the (in this sense neglected) Yugoslav example and the history of its Jews into a new context of exile research. As a result of the Zionist commitment on behalf of the persecuted German Jews and of the country’s comparatively liberal visa conditions, the Kingdom of Yugoslavia became an important transit space after 1933. In 1938, however, Yugoslavia became the theater for the dynamics of refugee politics that had their origins in neighboring states and began to exert increasing influence on Yugoslavia.

9

See Margit Franz/Heimo Halbrainer (eds.), Going East – Going South. Österreichisches Exil in Asien und Afrika, Graz 2014.

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The case of the Burgenland Jews was symptomatic of precisely those processes manifesting themselves in 1938 and beyond. It is representative of the tragedy of Central European Jews, it exposes Yugoslav policies as they oscillated between German pressure and sympathy for Germany, and it demonstrates how the circumstances and the potential to act of the Zagreb aid committee and its networks changed dramatically. In the following, the case of the Jewish refugees from Burgenland will be reconstructed and analyzed on the basis of the largely preserved correspondence between the Zagreb committee and HICEM in Paris. It will begin with sketching the first phase of aid activities in the period from 1933 to 1937, paying particular attention to the relationship between the Zionist convictions of the agents of the aid committee and the refugee work beginning in 1933. Then, the case of the Burgenland Jews will be analyzed, placing it in the context of the political events and developments occurring in 1938. Finally, the conclusion will reveal the fate of the group from Burgenland and how the political parameters changed through 1938.

Aid Campaigns Since 1933 The first concrete steps to assist German Jews had been taken in Yugoslavia soon after the assumption of power of the National Socialists in late January 1933. By late April, a Central Committee for Aid to German Refugees (Središnji odbor za pomo c´ nema cˇ kim izbeglicama) had been formed in the framework of the Union/Association of Jewish Religious Communities in Yugoslavia (Savez jevrejskih vjeroispovjednih op c´ ina Jugoslavije; SJVOJ). A call was issued from Belgrade to all communities to found local aid committees nationwide.10 The president of the Zagreb Jewish community, Hugo Kohn (1871–1943), called a meeting for 8 May 1933 of representatives of all Jewish unions and associations in the city to discuss the creation of such a local aid committee. A few days later, a brief protocol of this meeting was published in the main Zionist paper Židov (The Jew). By all accounts, a lively debate had ensued over the question of whether a local aid committee was even necessary. Some of the participants declared that Yugoslavia was not attractive enough for German Jews and that surely only few would come. Most of the participants agreed to follow the example of the Zionist Union and its head Aleksandar Licht (1884–1948) in not creating possibilities for

10 [N. a.], Središnji odbor za pomo c´ njema cˇ kim jevrejima u Jugoslaviji [Central Committee for Aid to German Refugees], in: Židov [The Jew], 28 April 1933, 7.

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permanent settlement in Yugoslavia and not expending additional funds. The refugees were supposed to travel on to Palestine and find a new homeland there.11 Some of the participants were hesitant regarding the foundation of an aid committee, while others were opposed. Oskar Spiegler, president of the Zagreb B’nai B’rith lodge, demanded the immediate creation of a committee, placing the stately sum of 1,000 Dinar at its disposal.12 This demand for the immediate convention of a committee was surely a response to the fact that Jewish refugees and emigrants were already present in the city. The Zagreb Jewish community had therefore appealed to the readers of Židov with the explanation that all aid for German refugees hitherto had been taken care of by the community. It moreover called on the German refugees to register with the community and appealed to local Jewish families to also sign up if they wished to assist the refugees with accommodation and provisions.13 The aid committee was officially established at the latest by the end of May 1933 and was organized by 17 members.14 Aleksandar Klein took on the role of First Secretary and was the head of all aid activities. The statutes of the committee stipulated that its main support was in aid of resettlement of refugees in Palestine. The committee was to assist Jewish refugees on their passage through Yugoslavia with advice and, in emergency situations, with financial support.15 The statutes thus accommodated Zionist convictions, yet simultaneously underlined the necessity of a united and immediate aid campaign. Beyond negotiations for immigration certificates, the members quickly turned to specific daily activities, opening a soup kitchen and organi­ zing lessons for refugee children.16 Local Jewish families invited refugees

11 [N. a.], Po cˇ etak akcije za pomo c´ njema cˇ kim izbjeglicama [Beginning of Aid Initiatives for German Refugees], in: Židov, 12 May 1933, 6; Letter by Aleksandar Licht to the Association of Jewish Religious Communities of Yugoslavia and the aid committee, printed in: Židov, 5 May 1933, 1. This approach corresponded completely to Zionist claims elsewhere in Europe, see Yoav Gelber, The Reactions of the Zionist Movement and the Yishuv to the Nazis’ Rise to Power, in: Yad Vashem Studies 18 (1987), 41–101. On the debate about the arrival of the refugees, see Marija Vulesica, “What Will Become of the German Jews?” National Socialism, Flight and Resistance in the Intellectual Debate of Yugoslav Zionist in the 1930s, in: Ferenc Laczó/Joachim von Puttkammer (eds.), Catastrophe and Utopia. Jewish Intellectuals in Central and Eastern Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, Berlin 2017, 45–70. 12 [N. a.], Po cˇ etak akcije za pomo c´ njema cˇ kim izbjeglicama. 13 Ibid. 14 In 1938, there were 18 members. The Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People, Jerusalem (henceforth CAHJP), Eventov-Archive, G-873, Aleksandar Klein, Zehn Jahre jüdi­sches Flüchtlingshilfswerk in Jugoslawien 1933–1942, May 1944, 3. 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid, 4.

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into their homes daily for lunch or dinner.17 Many people volunteered for everyday tasks, including Lavoslav Schick (1881–1941), a member of the committee and one of the most renowned Zionists in Yugoslavia. He donated large sums and ordered German-language newspapers and magazines for the refugees that they could read in his private library.18 His expansive correspondence testifies to the many German Jews who turned to him for support and advice. Aside from daily aid activities, the committee established a Hachshara farm in November 1933 on the Goleni c´ estate in northern Croatia. Until March 1940, hundreds of young people from Germany as well as Yugoslavia, particularly from southern Serbia, were prepared for a life in Palestine here.19 To complement this agricultural enterprise, the Zagreb Zionists founded a Central Station for Social Assistance (Središnja stanica za socijalnu pomo c´ ) in late 1933. The idea was to emancipate young Yugoslav and foreign Jews from traditional professions and to counter impoverishment in dire economic times through new employment structures.20 Further associations and unions such as the Yugoslav branch of the WIZO (Women’s International Zionist Organization, the Zagreb Palestine Office, and the six Yugoslav B’nai B’rith lodges joined the network surrounding the aid committee.21 In early 1935, a women’s aid committee – a sub-organ of the Zagreb committee – was founded, whose female members exclusively cared for girls, pregnant women, and children.22 In mid-1934, the Zagreb aid committee took up the communication with HICEM and the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (Joint). Contact with the Relief Association of German Jews in Berlin had already been established in 1933. In 1934, the Berlin lawyer Alfred Klee (1875–1943), a member of the Reich Representation of German Jews, traveled to Yugoslavia to conduct face-to-face discussions with the members of the aid committee.23 Klee and Lavoslav Schick stayed in touch for years thereafter and discussed 17 Anna Maria Grünfelder, Von der Shoa eingeholt. Ausländische jüdische Flüchtling im ehemaligen Jugoslawien 1933–1945, Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 2013, 41. 18 Nacionalna i sveu cˇ ilišna knjižnica Zagreb [National and University Library Zagreb] (henceforth NSK), Zbirka rukopisa i starih knjiga [Collection of Manuscripts and Old Books], Estate of Lavoslav Schick, R 7883 a and R7883 b, Letters from 1933 and 1934. 19 Ivo Goldstein, Židovi u Zagrebu 1918–1941 [Juden in Zagreb 1918–1941], Zagreb 2004, 450 f. 20 Josip Herškovi c´ , Za produktivnu socijalnu pomo c´ [For Productive and Social Aid], in: Židov, 16 February 1934, 1; [n. a.], Središnja stanica za socijalnu pomo c´ [Central Office for Productive Aid], in: Židov, 16 February 1934, 4. 21 CAHJP, Eventov-Archive, G-873, Aleksandar Klein, Zehn Jahre jüdisches Flüchtlings­ hilfswerk in Jugoslawien 1933–1942, May 1944, 9. 22 Ibid., 6. 23 Ibid.

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the future of the German and European Jews.24 Most of the German Jews who came to Yugoslavia in 1933 and 1934 did not see their future in Palestine. Schick seemed without comprehension when he told the editors of the Jüdische Rundschau in 1933 that the Exulanten, an archaic term for religious exiles, “wrinkle their noses when I present them with the advantages of emigrating to Palestine. They consider this factionalism. They say they have suffered enough in Germany; that they do not need to be lectured […]. The women are particularly aggrieved when it is suggested to them that they leave Europe and retreat to uncultured Asia.”25

Beyond “factionalism” and their convictions, the Yugoslav Zionists knew that the economic situation in the kingdom was extremely strained. Aside from isolated employment opportunities – as were published for example in the circular of the Relief Association of German Jews26– it was very difficult to find legal employment in Yugoslavia. Unemployment stood at around thirty percent. Dire economic perspectives, deficient language skills, as well as the fundamentally hostile attitude of the Jewish and non-Jewish host society all contributed to making the kingdom unattractive for the majority of German Jews. The number of German and other Central European Jews who nevertheless came to Yugoslavia in 1933 and 1934 remains unclear.27 In a statement of accounts reproduced in Židov in June 1934, Aleksandar Klein declared that some 800 Jewish refugees had come to Yugoslavia by this point, of whom only about 200 remained.28 In September 1936, when antisemitic charges were being publicly levied against the refugees, he declared that only about 400 Jewish refugees lived in the entire kingdom.29 Based on the research I 24 NSK, Zbirka rukopisa i starih knjiga, Estate of Lavoslav Schick, R 7883 a and b, Correspondence between Lavoslav Schick and Alfred Klee. 25 NSK, Zbirka rukopisa i starih knjiga, Estate of Lavoslav Schick, R 7883 a, Lavoslav Schick to Jüdische Rundschau, 5 October 1933. 26 CAHJP, M2/2, Circular Letter no. 17, no. 27, no. 33, no. 35, and no. 44. 27 The few discussions of refugees in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to date uncritically reproduced rather high figures. See Milan Ristovi c´ , Jugoslavija i jevrejske izbeglice 1938–1941 [Yugoslavia and Jewish Refugees 1938–1941], in: Istorija 20. veka [History of the Twentieth Century] 15 (1996), no. 1, 21–43; Harriet P. Freidenreich, The Jews in Yugoslavia. A Quest for Community, Philadelphia, Pa., 1979, 188; Katrin Boeckh, s. v. “Jugosla­wien,” in: Claus-Dieter Krohn et al. (eds.), Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Emigration 1933– 1945, Darmstadt 1998, Col. 279–284. More than 8,000 Jewish refugees are thought to have entered or passed through Yugoslavia in 1933 and 1934. See Goldstein, Židovi u Zagrebu 1918–1941, 448. Those numbers are presumably grossly overstated. 28 Aleksa Klajn (Aleksandar Klein), Pitanje njema cˇ kih izbjeglica u Jugoslaviji primi cˇ e se kraju [The Question of German Refugees in Yugoslavia is Nearing an End], in: Židov, 15 June 1934, 3. 29 Idem, Židovska emigracija u Zagrebu [Jewish Emigration in Zagreb], in: Židov, 4 September 1936, 7.

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have conducted, I estimate that between 1933 and 1937 some 800 to 1,000 Central European Jewish refugees used the Kingdom of Yugoslavia either for refuge or as a transit country. German Jews were able to emigrate to Yugoslavia without problems until 1938. With the help of HICEM, they were able to apply there for entry visas to South American countries as well as for certificates for Palestine from the Jewish Agency.30 Ships departed from Yugoslavia’s most important harbor in Sušak for Greece, Turkey, and Italy, and overseas from there. The Zagreb aid committee in particular commanded sufficient room for maneuvering in these first years to help the few arriving refugees. Through personal contacts and relationships, functioning networks, a commitment motivated by Zionism, and a largely liberal immigration policy, it became very effective in refugee aid.

Who Were the Yugoslav Zionists? These aid activities from 1933 onward were aimed primarily at an ongoing journey of the German refugees to Palestine for the construction of a Jewish state. This expectation was a result of the predominance of Zionism among Yugoslav Jews. It is estimated that some 75,000 Jews lived in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia in 1941.31 They thus made up about 0.5 percent of the total population. The Zionist Union was founded in 1918, followed by the Union/Association of Jewish Religious Communities (SJVOJ) in 1919 and the Rabbinical Union in 1923. The Zionists came gradually through the 1920s to dominate in community elections, eventually taking up a prime position in the three umbrella organizations, too. By the late 1920s, they had majority control over the political and cultural community life of Jews32 as well as over the public Jewish communications in the country.33 Their publication Židov (1917–1941) had

30 Goldstein, Židovi u Zagrebu 1918–1941, 452. 31 Holm Sundhaussen, Jugoslawien, in: Wolfgang Benz (ed.), Dimension des Völkermords. Die Zahl der jüdischen Opfer des Nationalsozialismus, Munich 1991, 311–330, here 311. 32 Cvi Loker, Za cˇ eci i razvoj cionizma u južnoslavenskim krajevima [The Beginnings and Development of Zionism in the South Slav Regions], in: Ognjen Kraus (ed.), Dva stolje c´ a povijesti i kulture Židova u Zagrebu i Hrvatskoj [Two Centuries of Jewish History and Culture in Zagreb and Croatia], Zagreb 1998, 66–178, here 174. 33 The most important media are: Jevrejski glas [Jewish Voice] (1934–1941, Sarajevo), Jevrejski list [Jewish Gazette] (1934, Zagreb), Beogradske jevrejske novine [Jewish Newspaper of Belgrade] (1936/1937), Jevrejska tribuna [Jewish Tribune] (1940, Belgrade), Cionij

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become the most important Zionist medium, albeit also directed at non-Zionists. They created a tight nationwide network of local Zionist unions and associations extending beyond the 121 Jewish communities, and organized political assemblies as well as cultural and athletic events.34 These networks and connections were later to be of great use to the aid campaigns on behalf of the Central European refugees. Naturally, however, the orientation of the Jewish communities and organizations was subject to internal struggles over their direction and differences of opinion. Ultimately, the General Zionists under the leadership of David Alkalay (1862–1933) and Aleksandar Licht prevailed.35 These Zionists belonged to the generation of men and women who had already joined the Jewish national movement in the early twentieth century. The Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes (SHS) founded in 1918 guaranteed political and civic rights to its Jews in the constitutions of 1921 and 1931. Jews were regarded as a religious minority enjoying the protection and financial support of the state. However, Jews were not recognized as a national minority in the Kingdom of SHS, which was naturally a disappointment to the Zionists. Despite this – or perhaps precisely because of this – they developed and advocated a self-conscious national Jewish stance. This included their stance towards antisemitic demands and occurrences that cropped up in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia from time to time.36 According to the Yugoslav constitution and electoral procedure, Jews were not allowed to vote representatives into the Yugoslav parliament or senate.37 The personal friendship and close relationship between the Yugoslav Chief Rabbi and ardent Zionist Isaak Alkalay (1881–1978) and King Aleksandar I (1888–1934), however, led the king to appoint Alkalay as a senator in 1932, thereby making him the representative of the Jews.38 The king, acting as dictator since 1929 when he abolished the parliament and party system, appeared to be a guarantor for the free development of Zionism in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, as it was known following the in-

34 35 36

37 38

[Zionism] (1937, Osijek), Omanut [Art] (1936–1941, Zagreb), Kadima [Forward] (1936, Zagreb). Goldstein, Židovi u Zagrebu 1918–1941, 108–124 and 230–258. Freidenreich, The Jews in Yugoslavia, 97–114, 103–104, and 146–154. Marija Vulesica, Antisemitismus im ersten Jugoslawien 1918–1941, in: Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 17 (2008), 131–152, here 135–138; idem, “Von Antisemitismus an der Universität kann keine Rede sein.” Judenfeindlichkeit an den jugoslawischen Universitäten 1918–1941, in: Regina Fritz/Grzegorz Rossoli ´nski-Liebe/Jana Starek (eds.), Alma Mater Antisemitica. Akademisches Milieu, Juden und Antisemitismus an den Universitäten Europas zwischen 1918 und 1939, Vienna 2016, 161–180. Freidenreich, The Jews in Yugoslavia, 174 f. [N. a.], Vrhovni rabin-senator [Chief Rabbi-Senator], in: Židov, 15 January 1932, 5.

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troduction of the royal dictatorship. While all parties and associations with an explicitly nationalist orientation were banned in 1929, the Zionists were able to continue their work virtually unhindered.39 The opportunity and the permission to develop politically was significantly conducive to their later so important ability to act, for the Zionists were able to stand up publicly for their convictions, form their political agenda, and expand their networks and contacts. The king for his part was pursuing different aims in supporting the Zionists: As long as the Jews were Zionists, they were not political supporters of the explicitly nationalist Croatian and Serbian interests. Their nationalism was directed towards Palestine which in turn – geographically and politically – lay far away in the early 1930s. In short, the Zionists posed no threat to the king’s unitary idea of Yugoslavia. The Zionist agents for their part used these political circumstances to develop and assert their leadership position within Yugoslav Jewry. In this context, the question of whether one could speak of a unitary Yugoslav Jewry seems warranted considering the many national conflicts in interwar Yugoslavia, and should to a certain extent be posed analogously to these conflicts. In any case, there were historical, regional, and economic differences within Yugoslav Jewry  – here understood in geographical and political terms. Some sixty percent of Yugoslav Jews were Ashkenazi and the remainder Sephardi.40 The primary differences revolved around culture, everyday language, education, and employment structure. There were also clear regional differences in expressions of political loyalty. The Jews in Croatia usually voted Croatian parties while Jews in Serbia rather voted Serbian parties. Jewish parties were forbidden. The Jewish umbrella organizations tried to speak with one voice and to represent all of Yugoslav Jewry on the federal level and in dealings with the state. There are no indications that Yugoslav Jewry did not see itself precisely as such. The Zionists, for example, regarded themselves as “national Jews” and as “political Yugoslavs” in equal measure.41 A retroactive fragmentation and questioning of inner-Jewish connectedness on the one hand and of Jewish loyalty toward the Yugoslav state on the other is an ex-post-facto approach that does not do justice to the historical circumstances. Inner-Jewish debates and conflicts channeled political differences of opinion and divergent attitudes but did not challenge the self-understanding of being Yugoslav Jews.42 Therefore the group of leading 39 Holm Sundhaussen, Geschichte Jugoslawiens 1918–1980, Stuttgart et al. 1982, 77. 40 Kristina Birri-Tomovska, Jews of Yugoslavia, 1918–1941. A History of Macedonian Sephards, Bern et al. 2012, 171. 41 Speeches at the First Congress of the Zionist Union in Yugoslavia, held 5 and 6 January 1919 in Zagreb, printed in: Židov, 31 January 1919, 2–11. 42 These conflicts included for example the recurring discussions concerning lobbying and political orientations. See Wieland Köbsch, Die Juden im Vielvölkerstaat Jugoslawien

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Zionists who had initiated the aid campaign for German Jews in 1933 was most certainly able to rely on other Yugoslav Jews for the benefit of their aid work for refugees from Central Europe.

The Year 1938 From 1935 onwards, the government of Prime Minister Milan Stojadinovi c´ (1888–1961) began increasingly to align itself economically and politically with Nazi Germany. The Zionist press in Yugoslavia was greatly concerned by this development as well as by the anti-Jewish measures being taken in Germany and in the immediate environs of Yugoslavia. When antisemitism became official state policy in Romania in late 1937, leading among other things to the revocation of citizenship of more than a third of Romanian Jews, the Yugoslav Zionists began to fear the spread of similar policies.43 The tense circumstances surrounding Yugoslavia’s Jews had not escaped the Jüdische Rundschau in Berlin. In late 1938, it reported in an article entitled “Jüdische Sorgen in Jugoslawien” (Jewish Worries in Yugoslavia) that the day of the Romanian change of government had been accompanied by attacks on the synagogue in Belgrade. It claimed that antisemitic attitudes were evident among broad segments of the population and the press, and that the atmosphere among Yugoslavia’s Jews had been additionally marred by the end of Senator Isaak Alkalay’s time in office in early 1938.44 These tensions and worries became all the more evident with the emergence of a rumor in the spring of 1938 that the Yugoslav government was also preparing anti-Jewish laws. Subsequent denials on behalf of the government were met with relief by Zionist publications.45 They moreover cited statements by 1918–1941. Zwischen mosaischer Konfession und jüdischem Nationalismus im Spannungsfeld des jugoslawischen Nationalitätenkonflikts, Berlin/Münster 2013, 150–171. 43 See e. g. [J. R.], Preokret u Rumunjskoj [Change in Rumania], in: Židov, 7 January 1938, 1; Antisemitizam na vlasti [Anti-Semitism Rules], in: Židov, 7 January 1938, 2; [n. a.], Dani strave u Rumunjskoj [Days of Dread in Rumania], in: Židov, 14 January 1938, 2; [n. a.], Rumunjski fašizam maršira [The Rumanian Fascism Marches], in: Židov, 21 January 1938, 3. See also Mariana Hausleitner, Rumänien, in: Wolfgang Benz (ed.), Handbuch des Antisemitismus. Judenfeindschaft in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 8 vols., Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2008–2015, here vol. 1: Länder und Regionen, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2008, 290–298. 44 [J. H.], Jüdische Sorgen in Jugoslawien, in: Jüdische Rundschau, 25 January 1938, 1. 45 [A. A.], Demanti vesti o donošenju zakona protiv Jevreja [Denials of News Concerning the Passing of Laws against the Jews], in: Jevrejski glas, 29 April 1938; CAHJP, Eventov-Archiv, G-873, Zapisnik XXVII sednice izvršnog odbora održane 20. Aprila 1938 [Protocol of the 27th Meeting of the Main Committee of the SJVOJ on 20 April 1938].

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leading Croatian and Serbian politicians either condemning antisemitism or commenting positively with regard to Yugoslav Jews and their mutual relationship.46 Although officially no anti-Jewish laws were drafted or passed, these rumors evince a change in the social and political atmosphere and the fact that Yugoslavia’s Jews were experiencing disquiet and uncertainty. Although the Kingdom of Yugoslavia had not yet begun to turn on its own Jews, its attitude towards foreign Jews was changing. While it had kept its borders open to German Jews in 1933, it became ever more restrictive in this respect thereafter. By late 1937, when political antisemitism had already come to the fore in Romania, Yugoslavia closed its borders to Romanian Jewish refugees.47 When asked by the Yugoslav embassy in Stockholm what position Yugoslavia would adopt towards the refugees, Stojadinovi c´ answered in January 1938 that his country would be adverse in this regard.48 This hostile attitude became evident very soon following the Anschluss of Austria. The Foreign Ministry decided in late March to forbid entry to Yugoslavia to Jews with Austrian citizenship.49 Officially, the Burgenland Jews who had by then already been driven to the border had no chance of entering Yugoslavia. In a personal report published in 1963, Aleksandar Klein remembered the efforts expended by the Zagreb aid committee to effect the entry of this group. Immediately upon finding out about their situation, members of the committee – among them Aleksandar Klein himself – drove to the border to assess the situation, to register the people, and to organize food and supplies. From a small town near the border, Klein called Belgrade and urged the secretary of the SJVOJ, Šime Spitzer (1892–1941), to intervene with the Yugoslav Ministry of the Interior. The ministry in Belgrade had taken over responsibility for the granting of immigration and residency visas from the local authorities earlier in the year.50 This “disempowerment” of the local authorities in this respect was without a doubt a symptom of the tightened immigration policies vis-à-vis Jews. Minister of the Interior Korošec, a renowned opponent of the Jews, aimed to politically implement his attitude 46 [N. a.], Dr. Ma cˇ ek protiv antisemitizma [Dr. Ma cˇ ek against Antisemitism], in: Židov, 6 May 1938, 3; [n. a.], Jugoslovenski glas protiv antisemitizma [Yugoslavian Voice against Antisemitism], in: Židov, 13 May 1938, 9; [n. a.], U Jugoslaviji ne postoji židovsko pitanje [There is no Jewish Question in Yugoslavia], in: Židov, 16  September 1938, 1; [n. a.], Antisemitski kurs u Jugoslaviji ne bi imao osnova, niti bi po ustavu bio mogu c´ an [The antisemitic path neither has a basis in Yugoslavia, nor would it be constitutionally possible.], in: Židov, 7 October 1938, 7. 47 Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes, Berlin (henceforth PAAA), RZ 208, R103375. 48 Milan Ristovi c´ , U potrazi za uto cˇ ištem. Jugoslovenski Jevreji u bekstvu od Holokausta 1941–1945 [Searching for Refuge. Yugoslav Jews Escaping the Holocaust 1941–1945], Belgrade 1998, 31. 49 Ibid. 50 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 507.

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through this decree.51 Moreover, this centralization of the immigration question delayed and impeded the decision in each case, also a calculated move. Not surprisingly, the Ministry of the Interior told Spitzer that Korošec himself needed to decide on this issue. Since he was on vacation in Slovenia, the President of the Refugee Committee, Maks Pscherhof (b. 1884), took his car, left Zagreb, and drove to Slovenia to find the minister. Pscherhof must have driven through Slovenia for several days, visiting numerous vacation spots and spas. Klein reported that although Pscherhof initially did not know where Korošec was staying, he nonetheless managed to find him and to negotiate an initial compromise. Korošec conceded eight days of asylum for 42 Jews from Kittsee, Pama, und Gols on the condition that they leave Yugoslavia thereafter. Of the original 44 Burgenland Jews on the list in Zagreb, 42 were able to immigrate. One of the two remaining individuals was not in possession of a passport so that the ministry could ostensibly not issue him an immigration visa. There is no information about the last individual. It took about two months until the Burgenland Jews were able to leave no man’s land and enter Yugoslavia. Between early April and early May 1938, the members and supporters of the aid committee conducted several negotiations with political actors. David Albala (1886–1942), vice president of the SJVOJ and president of the aid committee in Belgrade, had an audition with Prince Paul and Interior Minister Korošec in early May. Despite their friendly concessions, nothing happened at first.52 In late May, a political observer from Palestine, Moshe Waldmann, reported to Leo Lauterbach (1886–1968), the secretary of the Zionist Executive in Jerusalem, that various Jewish organizations, Jewish and non-Jewish notables, as well as the British and French consuls had committed themselves to the 43 refugees. However, they still found themselves in no man’s land.53 According to Klein’s account, some members of the aid committee contacted Salomon Adler-Rudel in London, with whom they had good relations and were well-acquainted since his visits to Yugoslavia.54 Adler-Rudel then established contact with the British royal

51 Anton Korošec was a Catholic priest and Yugoslav politician of Slovenian origin. His political home was in the Christian Social movement. No work to date has sufficiently examined his attitude towards Jews. However, his anti-Jewish stance was well-known to his contemporaries. See PAAA, RZ 206, R103365; Avramovski (ed.), Britanci o Kraljevini Jugoslaviji, vol. 2, 683. 52 CAHJP, Eventov-Archiv, G-873, Protocol of the Exceptional Meeting of the Main Committee on 6 May 1938, 1; USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 552. 53 CZA, S5/658, Report by Moshe Waldmann, 27 May 1938, 3. 54 Salomon Adler-Rudel (1894–1975) was Secretary General of the Reich Representation of German Jews from 1934 to 1936 and from 1936 onwards the representative of the German Jews in international organizations in London. On his work and importance, see David

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family, who were in turn related to the Yugoslav dynasty.55 Just a few days later, Secretary Spitzer was informed that the “very top” expressed a wish to receive the stranded group and grant it a three-month asylum in Yugoslavia.56 In early June, talks resumed between Jewish representatives and the Interior Minister. The latter finally allowed the stranded Jews to enter the country on the condition that the president and vice-president of the SJVOJ, Friedrich Pops (1874–1948) und David Albala, vouched for the refugees in writing, that the Jewish organizations provided for them, and that they left the country within eight days.57 It is highly probable that Korošec bowed to the political pressure of the prince. Nevertheless, in order to underscore his power and to express his aversion to the Jews, he dictated conditions that had already long been common practice. The refugees had always exclusively been provided for by the Jewish communities and/or the aid committee. The condition that the refugees depart within eight days was hardly realizable, yet it increased the pressure on the aid committee dramatically. This first group of 42 Burgenland Jews was housed in Podravska Slatina in the north of Croatia. The aid committee created the first refugee camp for them with the help of the communities and their donations. Further such refugee collection camps were to be created in the following years.58 In midJune, the Zagreb aid committee informed HICEM in Paris about the immigration of the 42 Jews. As the aid committee had vouched for the refugees and guaranteed their imminent departure, it was forced to act quickly and to find a speedy solution. Thus the committee had decided to send Aleksandar Klein to Paris “so that we can demonstrate certain results to the authorities, in order to buy time to do something for the other elements that are incapable of emigrating and so that we are not pressured by the authorities.”59 These “other elements incapable of emigrating” were ten Jews from Rechnitz who had also come to the border in the meantime, at a time of tense negotiations. They could not be furnished with entry permits, but the committee was trying to receive so-called Bädervisa (visas actually intended for spa vacations) on their behalf.60 Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit. Emigrationspläne deutscher Juden 1933–1938, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 22016. See also the article by Martin Jost in this volume. 55 Prince Regent Paul, who ruled Yugoslavia after Alexander’s death in 1934, was married to the Greek princess Olga. Her sister, Marina, was married to the Duke of Kent, son of King George V. 56 Klein, Da se otme zaboravu, 19. 57 CAHJP, Eventov-Archiv, G-873, Protocol of the 28th Meeting of the Main Committee of the SJVJO on 9 June 1938, 1. 58 CAHJP, Eventov-Archive, G-873, Aleksandar Klein, Zehn Jahre jüdisches Flüchtlings­ hilfswerk in Jugoslawien 1933–1942, May 1944, 8. 59 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 546. 60 Ibid.

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In early July, the aid committee informed Paris that the Ministry of the Interior had allowed for the ten Jews from Rechnitz to immigrate with this type of visa, valid for six to twelve weeks. However, they would have to be housed in Rogaška Slatina on the Slovenian-Croatian border, a spa town renowned since the nineteenth century. This was naturally an expensive stay and the group therefore needed to leave the country as fast as possible. The aid committee requested that HICEM assess the emigration plans the committee had drawn up and “offer urgent assistance.”61 In mid-July, Aleksandar Klein undertook his trip to Paris and negotiated on site. He drafted a letter to HICEM before his trip in which the difficulty of organizing the emigration of the Rechnitz Jews to Yugoslavia and the problems the refugees and the Zagreb aid committee had to face were readily apparent. According to this letter, HICEM demanded a certificate of good conduct from the Rechnitz Jews for the period of the last five years. Klein explained that the Rechnitz Jewish community had been liquidated completely and that it was impossible to attain such a certificate.62 HICEM moreover demanded a German-language certificate of good health from the refugees, which however did not constitute an obstacle in Croatia as virtually all the doctors – especially the Jewish doctors – there spoke German.63 Instead, a different problem arose: HICEM suggested marrying the single refugees off with one another in order to enable their emigration as couples. Klein dismissed this plan on the basis that the newly married women would bear a new name and it would be impossible to acquire new passports for them.64 Aside from problems and hindrances of this nature, there were also more profane, everyday difficulties, such as the loss of forms, letters going unanswered, and the process being drawn out too long. Despite the intensive negotiations, the departure of the Burgenland Jews kept being delayed. No country appeared willing to accept the refugees. In mid-July, Zagreb sent a list of names of eight Burgenland Jews to the HIAS (Hebrew Sheltering and Immigrant Aid Society of America) in New York. The list included those Jews who had relatives in the United States. Zagreb referred to its “intense efforts” on behalf of the Burgenland Jews and requested for contact to be established with their relatives and for them to issue

61 Ibid, doc. no. 541. 62 Ibid, doc. no. 540. 63 On the significance of the German language and German culture among Croatian Jews, see Marija Vulesica, An Ambivalent Relationship. The Yugoslav Zionists and Their Perception of “Germanness,” Germany, and the German Jews at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century, in: Tobias Grill (ed.), Jews and Germans in Eastern Europe. Shared and Comparative Histories, Berlin 2018, 177–198. 64 USHMM Achives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 540.

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affidavits.65 However, this option also fell through as Zagreb informed Paris in mid-October that they had received no response from the HIAS. Even if the Jews in question had received affidavits, they could hardly have emigrated since the US visa quota for the year 1939 had already been filled. Zagreb reported furthermore that the Jewish community organization in Vienna was not capable of issuing the previously requested certificates of good conduct. Nevertheless, there was also good news: The aid committee had managed to have the Bädervisa, which were supposed to be fixed, extended for one more month.66 The letter did not specify how this was accomplished. What is clear, in any case, is that the members of the aid committee retained some space to maneuver and to act, even in this hopeless situation, even with limitations, and even though the Yugoslav government had acted decisively against the Jewish refugees since the summer months, against both those already present in the country and those outside who wished to gain entry. In August 1938, the Ministry of the Interior decided to eject foreign citizens, some of whom had been present in the kingdom for many years. The reasons for this were either not named or seemed spurious, for example the claim that an individual to be ejected had made false claims concerning their job description. This decree affected Jews and non-Jews alike. However, there was a decisive difference: Foreign and especially German interest groups lobbied on behalf of the non-Jews but not for Jews, meaning that the latter often had no choice but to quit the country.67 Departure was extremely difficult, as exemplified in the case of the Burgenland Jews. The pressure on the refugees and the aid committee grew from day to day. More and more states closed their borders to Jewish refugees, visas were becoming unattainable, and finances were running out. In late 1938, the SJVOJ decided to levy a refugee tax, also known as a social tax.68 All Jewish communities were instructed to raise their financial support for the refugees. This social tax was an expression of the prevailing financial difficulties as well as of the increasing desperation spreading through the fall of 1938. The Bädervisa could be extended through October, but in November they expired. The aid committee requested help from HICEM in numerous letters, warning that the Burgenland Jews faced expulsion and internment in concentration camps.69 The rapidly diminishing room to maneuver, the lack of perspectives, and the ever more restrictive measures being taken by the state led to a surge in fear

65 66 67 68

Ibid, doc. no. 539. Ibid., doc. no. 494. PAAA, RAV Zagreb, R362-1. CAHJP, Eventov-Archive, G-873, Aleksandar Klein, Zehn Jahre jüdisches Flüchtlings­ hilfswerk in Jugoslawien 1933–1942, May 1944, 8. 69 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 472; ibid., doc. no. 469.

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and insecurity among the members of the aid committee. Aside from the measures aiming at expulsion, there were continued and systematic attempts to prevent the immigration of Jewish refugees. In July 1938, the Yugoslav government instructed its consulates abroad to reject visa applications of Jews from Germany, Austria, and Romania. Transit visas were only to be issued under the condition that the applicant could furnish an entry visa for a third destination country. In August 1938, the Foreign Ministry announced to its consulates that the immigration of Jews from Italy had to be prevented. Then, in September 1938, the Foreign Ministry directed its embassy in Warsaw to reject entry visas for Polish Jews. Following the November Pogrom, entry visas were prohibited altogether for German Jews. All applicants were required to direct their applications via telegraph to the Ministry of the Interior. This ministry would then inform the respective departments of the Foreign Ministry of the outcome, and the Foreign Ministry would finally inform the consulates.70 These bureaucratic hurdles and the consequently long waiting times were calculated to dissuade as many people as possible from applying. The government’s official reasoning appealed to economic problems and limited capacities. However, anti-Jewish motives probably predominated. During the months of November and December 1938, more bad news reached the aid committee. South American countries such as Paraguay and Uruguay had closed their borders, Austrian passports were to lose their validity, residence permits were no longer being extended, and foreign citizens could henceforth only purchase ship and rail tickets to a limited degree.71 In mid-December 1938, the aid committee turned in dismay to Paris as it felt abandoned by HICEM. It explained that it was under enormous pressure from the government as it had obliged itself to transfer the group from Burgenland out of the country as fast as possible. In the six months that the Burgenland Jews had remained in Yugoslavia, only one man from the group had emigrated.72 Despite all pleas and initiatives by the aid committee, HICEM was evidently incapable of finding a destination country for their emigration. According to the preserved correspondence between the aid committee and HICEM, the aid committee in Zagreb had hardly any means of bringing the Burgenland group to a safe destination. Aleksandar Klein’s personal report from 1963 contains a noteworthy passage, in which he stated that he could not remember when the Burgenland Jews had left Yugoslavia. What he could remember was that the group was constantly augmented by the number of

70 Ristovi  c´ , U potrazi za uto cˇ ištem, 31–38. 71 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 466; ibid., doc. no. 465; ibid., doc. no. 469; ibid., doc. no. 454. 72 Ibid, doc. no. 456.

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refugees who had emigrated.73 Whether the aid committee had deliberately deceived HICEM and the local authorities to enable as many refugees as possible to leave the country disguised as Burgenland Jews, whether the desperate letters to HICEM were just a wily deceptive maneuver, or whether Aleksandar Klein himself was misremembering later is at present unclear. Further research among a greater pool of sources is required to answer these questions. If the aid committee indeed employed such a tactic, even such a trick, then this evinces its efficiency and its political aptitude. It would demonstrate that the committee as a Jewish relief organization had exploited courses of action in a difficult domestic and foreign political situation with which it was able to assist dozens of people. Whether these actions were always ethically sound is a matter of debate. In any case, this brief passage in Klein’s report invites speculation and assumption. Its implication, however, appears entirely realistic. The Burgenland Jews were not the only Jewish refugees in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia to whom the aid committee was dedicating itself. With the help of visitor visas and amenable or corrupt Yugoslav consuls, Central European Jews were able to “visit” their relatives in Yugoslavia and establish themselves in the country with the help of their families and of Jewish organizations. Many even managed to travel onward.74 Personal relationships and networks were a decisive help in maintaining their ability to act – as was money. The number of authorities, police officers, and border officials who ignored laws and decrees if this led to personal enrichment was not small. Marko Rosner (1888–1969), a member of the aid network, was often active in Maribor and on the border between Slovenia and Austria, trying to help Austrian Jews cross the border into Yugoslavia. He negotiated with the border officials and evidently also paid them off.75 Smugglers also constituted a means of getting into Yugoslavia.76 One of the probably most efficient smugglers was Josef Schleich (1902–1949) from Graz, who was commissioned by the IKG (Israelitische Kultusgemeinde) Graz in Spring 1938 to bring Jews illegally to Yugoslavia. According to his own testimony during the criminal case brought against him in November 1941, he and his colleagues brought about 1,162 Jews to Yugo73 Klein, Da se otme zaboravu, 20. 74 See for example Jasminka Domaš (ed.), Glasovi, sje c´ anja, život. Prilog istraživanju povijesti židovskih obitelji [Voices, Memories, Lives. A Contribution to the Study of the History of Jewish Families], Zagreb 2015, 18; idem, Obitelj [Family], Zagreb 1996, 69; Leo Baeck Institute – DigiBaeck, Erinnerungen von Ruth Gutmann, Ivan Ben-Amnon, Rudolf Bock und Johanna Josephu (Interviewcode 33940). Visual History Archive of the USC Shoah Foundation, www.vha.fu-berlin.de, Interview of Franz Fischer (Interviewcode 24859; 15 March 2018). 75 CAHJP, Eventov-Archive, G-873, Aleksandar Klein, Zehn Jahre jüdisches Flüchtlings­ hilfswerk in Jugoslawien 1933–1942, May 1944, 7 f. 76 Gertrude Schneider, Exile and Destruction. The Fate of Austrian Jews, 1938–1945, Westport, Conn., 1995, 54.

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slavia between December 1938 and late 1940.77 He also took payments from members of the Zagreb aid committee for his services.78 All these movements and actions evince that the Jewish aid organizations in Yugoslavia found ways under the most difficult circumstances of helping persecuted Jews in the most diverse and often unorthodox manners. How many Austrian, Hungarian, and Romanian Jews entered the country in 1938 despite the restrictive immigration policies in place and how they were individually assisted by Jewish organizations cannot be conclusively determined here. A report sent to HICEM about the activities of the Belgrade aid committee, for example, demonstrates that the Serbian Jewish communities and organizations also took in and provided for several hundred refugees.79 The countrywide aid initiatives were both parallel and interconnected. The people involved communicated with each other, offered each other advice, and shared financial resources. This nonpartisan Jewish solidarity was of enormous importance to the maintenance of the ability to act. Emblematically, Lavoslav Schick had in January 1938 already called for a targeted concentration on “propaganda on behalf of Jewry.”80 Zionist bodies were not to concern themselves with antisemitic politics and anti-Jewish propaganda, but rather to appeal to the inner force of Judaism and to demand Jewish solidarity. Even Palestine as the only proper destination for the refugees began to retreat into the background in the face of the dramatic developments in Europe. The perception of refugee aid as transit aid to Palestine that had reigned since 1933 had changed at the latest by 1938. Over the course of 1938 and in the face of developments abroad, the domestic political situation also escalated. Policies hostile to refugees and/or Jews diminished the capacity of the aid committees to act without however blocking them altogether. Through an enormous expenditure of efforts, the Zagreb committee had been able to fetch the group of Burgenland Jews into the country and to provide for them – as well as for many others – within the country over a longer period of time, despite demands and stipulations to the contrary. The Zagreb aid committee had managed despite escalating measures and an increasing domestic and foreign political radicalization to represent and advocate on behalf of foreign Jews. In their self-perception, as 77 Heimo Halbrainer, “Der illegale Transport über die Grenze war eben kein Ausflug, keine Fernreise.” Die Tätigkeit des “Judenschleppers” Josef Schleich an der Grenze zu Jugoslawien, in: Gabriele Anderl/Simon Usaty (eds.), Schleppen, Schleusen, Helfen. Flucht zwischen Rettung und Ausbeutung, Vienna 2016, 241–258, here 257. 78 Steiermärkisches Landesarchiv (StLA), Landesgericht für Strafsachen (LGS), Graz, Vr 612/41, Correspondence between Josef Schleich and Lavoslav Schick, 1939–1940. 79 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 477. 80 CAHJP, Eventov-Archive, G-873, Protocol of the 24th Meeting of the Main Committee on 17 January 1938, 1.

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mirrored in their reports to HICEM, their “deepest concerns,” their “heavy travails,” and their “superhuman efforts” were both sincere and real.

Beyond 1938 – Concluding Remarks As 1938 came to an end, the members of the Zagreb aid committee, the Yugoslav Zionists, and all of Yugoslav Jewry nevertheless had plenty of reasons to worry, including the threat of antisemitic laws, ever more public anti-Jewish sentiments in press and politics, closed borders, and the pending ejection of Jewish refugees. In early 1939, the government announced that it would no longer be extending the residence permits of Jewish refugees – thus also including the Jews from Burgenland.81 Everything pointed to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia adopting the anti-Jewish politics of neighboring states. Then suddenly, a decisive turn occurred. The Minister of the Interior Korošec resigned following the elections in December 1938, Stojadinovi c´ was forced to resign, and Dragiša Cvetkovi c´ (1893–1969) was appointed Prime Minister and Minister of the Interior in February 1939.82 Two weeks after his accession to office, he received representatives of the SJVOJ for a meeting, in which he promised to find solutions and ease the plight of the refugees.83 According to the reports of the aid committee, the government under his leadership resulted in a marked easing of refugee politics. Those Jewish refugees who were already in the country received extensions on their residence permits, some of them even receiving asylum or transit visas, and even permission to return should they not be able to find refuge anywhere else. Expulsion orders were abrogated.84 However, the borders officially remained closed to newly arriving refugees. Nevertheless, the work of the aid committee was eased tremendously by this change in direction. Yet even following these concessions, the aid committees and Jewish communities remained solely responsible for caring for the refugees, maintaining the aid infrastructure, negotiating entry visas, and raising the necessary funds. In May 1939, at least five members of the Burgenland group were potentially to be allowed to emigrate to Bolivia.85

81 82 83 84

USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 446. Sundhaussen, Geschichte Jugoslawiens 1918–1980, 96–98. USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 423. Ibid., [no doc.  no.], Bericht über die Lage der einheimischen Juden und der jüdischen Flüchtlinge in Jugoslavien, [presumably late 1939]. 85 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, doc. no. 398.

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The question of what should be done with the rest of the Burgenland Jews, never mind all the other Jewish refugees, remained open until 1941.86 Cvetkovi c´ ’s change in direction was motivated by both domestic and foreign political concerns. Without a doubt, the concessions to the Jewish representatives in Yugoslavia were related to the demission of Korošec. No self-confessing antisemite remained at first in the new government. However, Korošec was an important political figure in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, and was consequently appointed president of the senate in 1939 and recalled into the cabinet in 1940. It was he who finally from mid-1940 demanded decisively antisemitic laws. In early October 1940, two anti-Jewish laws were enacted for the first time in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia.87 Despite these domestic political setbacks, the Zagreb aid committee and numerous other Jewish organizations remained active until the smashing of Yugoslavia in April 1941. The number of refugees arriving in Yugoslavia had risen continually from the outbreak of war onward.88 The efforts and worries of the Yugoslav aid networks increased concomitantly, while the possibilities to act and the potential of refugee aid deteriorated ever further.89 In 1941, they disappeared altogether. The once effective and widely interconnected networks were destroyed through the arrest, internment, and deportation of its members. Some of the once active Zionists were able to save themselves through their established connections – such as Aleksandar Klein, who fled to Switzerland. Most, however, including Lavoslav Schick, would eventually be murdered in the Croatian concentration camps. Translated from the German by Tim Corbett

86 Grünfelder, Von der Shoa eingeholt, 54. 87 Marija Vulesica, Jugoslawische antijüdische Gesetze (1940), in: Benz (ed.), Handbuch des Antisemitismus, here vol. 4: Ereignisse, Dekrete, Kontroversen, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2011, 212–214. 88 USHMM Archives, RG-11.001M.94, Fond 740, Reel 502, [no doc. no.], Bericht über die Lage der einheimischen Juden und der jüdischen Flüchtlinge in Jugoslavien, [presumably late 1939]. 89 Emblematic of this was the so-called Kladovo transport, which resulted in more than 1,000 Central European Jews being stranded in Serbia during their attempt to flee. See Gabriele Anderl/Walter Manoschek, Gescheiterte Flucht. Der jüdische “Kladovo-Transport” auf dem Weg nach Palästina 1939–42, Vienna 1993.

Martin Jost

A Battle against Time: Salomon Adler-Rudel’s Commitment at the ­Évian ­Conference Eight months passed between the pogrom against the Viennese Jews in March 1938 and the Reich-wide pogrom the following November: eight decisive months in which the situation of the Jews in Germany and Austria changed dramatically, in which the European world of politics feared the outbreak of another war, and in which the most hopeful initiative to help refugees in the interwar period – the Évian Conference – was overtaken by the speed of National Socialist politics. In July 1938, US President Franklin Delano Roosevelt convened an international conference on the refugee question in the French town of Évian-les-Bains on Lake Geneva in response to the events unfolding in Austria. 32 state delegations and 41 private organizations were in attendance.1 The aim of the conference was to agree on a status quo concerning the various immigration laws and practices of the participating states. Parallel to this, the creation of an intergovernmental committee was taken into consideration, the aim of which was to be the negotiation between Nazi Germany and potential host countries of an emigration project to benefit the Jews remaining under German control as well as the German and Austrian Jews still caught precariously in transit. The Intergovernmental Committee on Refugees was established as a result, and

1 For foundational texts on the Évian Conference and the Intergovernmental Committee, see Salomon Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 13 (1968), 235–273; David S. Wyman, Paper Walls. America and the Refugee Crisis 1938–1941, Amherst, Mass., 1968; Henry  L. Feingold, The Politics of Rescue. The Roosevelt Administration and the Holocaust 1938–1945, New Brunswick, N.  J., 1970; Saul  S. Friedman, No Haven for the Oppressed. United States Policy Towards Jewish Refugees 1938–1945, Detroit, Mich., 1973; Michael Mashberg, American Diplomacy and the Jewish Refugee, 1938–1939, in: YIVO Annual of Jewish Social Science 15 (1974), 339–365; Ralph Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage. Das “Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees” (IGC) 1938–1939, Bern/Frankfurt a. M./Las Vegas, Nev., 1981; Tommie Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted. The Refugee Problem and the Intergovernmental Committee on Refugees (IGCR), 1938–1947, Lund 1991; Fritz Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland  – eine innere Angelegenheit? Internationale Reaktionen auf die Flüchtlingsproblematik 1933–1939, Stuttgart 2002; Paul R. Bartrop, The Evian Conference of 1938 and the Jewish Refugee Crisis, Cham 2018. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 221–245.

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many delegates hoped that it would offer a solution to the Jewish refugee crisis. Among these was Salomon Adler-Rudel, a Zionist and an emissary of various Jewish organizations, who took an optimistic view following the conference. In a letter to Hans Schäffer, a former German ministry official and a personal acquaintance with whom he had corresponded on the issue of an orderly mass emigration during the preparatory phase of the conference, he wrote: “First of all, I would say that I am absolutely satisfied with the result of the conference. It just about meets my expectations and I do not believe that one could reasonably have expected more of it. The most important fact, I believe, is the foundation of a permanent office that for the first time in these last five sad years, with support of the authority of the great powers, will be able to attempt to negotiate with Germany.”2

No refugee institution of the League of Nations had ever been equipped with such a mandate, and thus Adler-Rudel saw new possibilities therein. In preparation for the conference, he had developed models for further measures to be taken in emigration politics. These were based on the firm conviction that he had held since late 1937 that the Jews in Germany “have nothing more in prospect.”3 Roosevelt’s initiative in March 1938 appeared to bring the realization of a comprehensive, multiple-year emigration project within tangible reach. However, by January 1939 Adler-Rudel was already becoming increasingly disappointed with the work of the committee that he had only half a year earlier welcomed enthusiastically, and he no longer expected much from its negotiations with Nazi Germany.4 What had changed? The contextualization of these two divergent appraisals enables a new perspective on the hopes and ideas, results and consequences of the conference. Prior research, which has largely assessed Évian as a missed opportunity to save the German and Austrian Jews from the Ho­ locaust, will here be elaborated through contemporary perspectives. In the summer of 1938, those involved were acting against the background of a history that was still unfolding.5 Adler-Rudel is a case in point. As the following

2

Salomon Adler-Rudel to Hans Schäffer, 26 July 1938, in: Salomon Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938. Ein Briefwechsel mit Hans Schäffer, in: Leo Baeck Institute Bulletin 10 (1967), no. 38/39, 159–215, here 192 f. 3 American Jewish Joint Distribution Archives, NY/AR193344/4/25/1/630, Salomon Adler-Rudel, The Position of Jews in Germany (end of October, 1937), 4. He sent this report with an accompanying letter to the JDC in New York on 14 December 1937. 4 Leo Baeck Institute Archives, Jerusalem (henceforth LBIJER), 159/I/IV/G111, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Die Juden in Deutschland zu Beginn des Jahres 1939, 15 January 1939, 13 f. 5 For a retrospective view on Évian, see especially Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage; for a view of the 1930s as a sui generis era, see David Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit. Emigrationspläne deutscher Juden 1933–1938, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2016.

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will demonstrate, his commitment allows for the Évian Conference to be construed as a turning point in modern refugee politics, and for the ultimately unsuccessful work of the committee to be interpreted as an expression of contrasting temporal experiences of the year 1938.

Solutions to the Crisis – Preparations for an ­International ­Refugee Conference Roosevelt’s invitation to Évian for an Intergovernmental Conference on Refugees was a response to the humanitarian crisis sparked in the context of the entry of the Wehrmacht into Austria on 12 March 1938. The pogroms in Vienna, where some ninety percent of Austria’s 190,000 Jews resided, exceeded any anti-Jewish riots that had occurred in Austria or Germany hitherto and led to a rush of especially Jewish refugees to the surrounding borders to Switzerland and Czechoslovakia as well as to foreign consulates. In Vienna, the Nazis as well as ordinary Viennese citizens acted with the utmost brutality and enriched themselves on Jewish property. Public humiliations of the Jewish population were a daily occurrence and the speed at which Jewish businesses were expropriated was significantly higher than in to the so-called Altreich, Germany proper. The anti-Jewish violence took such extreme forms that the Nazis found themselves constrained to stop the “wild pogroms.” At the same time, they created new measures to expel foreign Jews or to imprison prominent Jews in concentration camps to increase the pressure on migration. The approval of the Anschluss among the Austrian population was enormous, and Austria’s Jews were stripped of their livelihoods within a matter of mere weeks.6 The world press was aghast in the face of these events and at the wave of suicides of Jews that followed in their wake. In this context the announcement of the international conference a few days later, as Adler-Rudel re-

6

See William L. Shirer, Berlin Diary. The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934–1941, New York 1961, 75–88 (first publ. London 1941); on the significance of the Viennese pogroms for the radicalization of Nazi anti-Jewish policies, see Dan Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe. Auswanderung ohne Einwanderung, in: idem/Dirk Blasius (eds.), Zerbrochene Geschichte. Leben und Selbstverständnis der Juden in Deutschland, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, 138–160, here 143–147; Saul Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, vol. 1. The Years of Persecution, 1933–1939, London 21997, 242–249. Friedländer concluded that the expulsion of Jews – concurrent to flight and mass expulsion especially in the Burgenland – was developed as a “systematic policy” by the Nazis after the Anschluss. Ibid., 245.

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membered, was greeted “as the great humanitarian event of the year.”7 He, too, saw in this announcement perhaps the “last generous attempt to find wide-ranging possibilities to help the refugees and the Jews forced to emigrate.”8 At the latest with the events in Vienna, it had become clear to him that the majority of Jews had no future left in Nazi Germany. In the spring of 1938, some 550,000 Jews remained in the territories under Nazi control. 130,000 Jews had emigrated since Hitler’s assumption of power five years previously. Around 100,000 had received permanent admission to Palestine, the United States, or other countries overseas, while most of the circa 30,000 refugees remaining in Europe were denied permanent residence status and work permits.9 Most Jews in the mid-1930s were disinclined to emigrate due to the prospect of insecure exile and the lack of opportunities to independently secure a livelihood. A significant barrier to emigration was presented by the Reichsfluchtsteuer (Reich Flight Tax), which had already been introduced in December 1931. This law, which had been envisaged as a temporary protection for the German national economy against capital flight abroad as a result of the Great Depression, was coopted by the Nazis as a means to confiscate Jewish property. Through the steady elevation of the tax rate and the establishment of a low limit for currency export (Sperrmark), it became almost impossible for emigrants to transfer sufficient currency abroad in order to satisfy fiscal immigration demands or to establish a new livelihood.10 Thus, the vast majority of German Jews remained within the borders of the Reich in 1938. Adler-Rudel was himself one of the 30,000 refugees spread throughout Europe. Born on 23 June 1894 in Czernowitz in Austria-Hungary, he had quit his hometown following the incursion of Russian troops into Galicia in 1915 and moved to Vienna.11 There, he became the Secretary General of the Labor Zionist party Poale Zion (Workers of Zion). This left-wing   7 Cited in Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, 239.  8 Leo Baeck Institute Archives, New York (henceforth LBINY), AR4473/1/II, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Bemerkungen und Vorschlaege zu der von der amerikanischen Regierung geplanten internationalen Konferenz, 10 May 1938, 1.   9 Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, 236; LBIJER, 159/I/IV/ G111, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Die Juden in Deutschland zu Beginn des Jahres 1939, 15 January 1939, 28; Werner Rosenstock, Exodus 1933–39. A Survey of Jewish Emigration from Germany, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 1 (1956), 373–390. 10 See Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 39 f. 11 For biographical information, see LBINY, AR4473/1/I, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Curriculum Vitae, 8 August 1940; Alex Meier, Keine Resignation, sondern Selbsthilfe! Salomon Adler-Rudel (1894–1975), in: Sabine Hering (ed.), Jüdische Wohlfahrt im Spiegel von Biographien, Frankfurt a. M. 22007, 34–45.

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splinter group of the Zionist movement counted no more than 500 members in Germany in the 1920s, to where Adler-Rudel had relocated in 1919, settling in Berlin. The political centers of activity of Poale Zionism lay rather in Poland and the United States.12 Around the same time, Adler-Rudel began his commitment to emigration aid as well as to the Jewish youth movement. In the German capital, he worked in the Arbeiterfürsorgeamt der Jüdischen Organisationen Deutschlands (Labor Welfare Department of the Jewish Organizations of Germany), assuming the role of director of the department in 1923. His work focused on supporting immigrated Eastern European Jews, and in this capacity Adler-Rudel became one of the most important Jewish social workers in Germany.13 He concentrated on self-help organizations similar to the Eastern European context and most prominently, he was one of the founders of the Committee for Jewish Emigration “Emigdirekt” in Berlin.14 Nevertheless, he made efforts to interconnect the various Jewish relief organizations and was a major intermediary between the Eastern European Jewish communities, the German Jewish community and the non-Jewish citizens in Berlin.15 In a curriculum vitae penned in 1940, he claimed to have been working at the Berlin Palestine Office of the Jewish Agency for Palestine (JA) since 1930, which means that he must have parted ways with Poale Zionism in the late 1920s. Following the transfer of power to the Nazis, he took on leading functions in the newly founded Reichsvertretung der Deutschen Juden (the Reich Representation of German Jews, 1935 changed into Reich Representation of Jews in Germany) with a focus on occupational retraining and emigration. In December 1935, the Gestapo ordered Adler-Rudel to leave Germany within two weeks because of “subversive activity”  – he objected to this

12 On Poale Zionism, see Samuel Kassow, Po’ale Tsiyon, in: The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, (10 December 2018); Momme Schwarz, Eine jüdische Randerscheinung. Der Poale-Zionismus in Deutschland, (10 December 2018). 13 See Anne-Christin Saß, Berliner Luftmenschen. Osteuropäisch-jüdische Migranten in der Weimarer Republik, Göttingen 2012, 45; Yfaat Weiss, Deutsche und polnische Juden vor dem Holocaust. Jüdische Identität zwischen Staatsbürgerschaft und Ethnizität 1933–1940, München 2000, 100. 14 For the foundation of the Emigdirekt, see Saß, Berliner Luftmenschen, 215–224. 15 On Adler-Rudel’s network, see ibid., 172–179.

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order unsuccessfully.16 At the beginning of the following year, he continued his work in London, where he acted as a go-between for the Reich Representation, the JA, the Jewish Colonization Association (JCA), and the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC).17 After settling in London, Adler-Rudel continued his discussions concerning the form Jewish emigration from Germany should take. From the end of October 1935, various Zionist and non-Zionist functionaries were arguing about two comprehensive emigration plans for German Jews.18 These plans diverged on issues of basic funding as well as on countries of destination. Max Warburg, one of the most influential bankers in Germany with close connections to Reich Minister of Economics Hjalmar Schacht, supported “first and foremost the emigration of wealthy German Jews to undetermined foreign countries,” while Simon Marks, a businessmen and one of the leading Zionists in the United Kingdom, insisted “categorically upon Palestine as the exclusive emigrant destination.”19 Adler-Rudel managed for the time being to mediate between the two positions – according to his long-term friend, the journalist Robert Weltsch, mediation was one of his special qualities.20 16 Gestapo Arrests  7 Chalutzim; Orders Adler-Rudel to Quit Reich, in: Jewish Telegraphic Agency (henceforth JTA), 17  December 1935, (10  December 2018); Adler-Rudel’s Deportation Put off to Jan. 15, in: JTA, 25 December 1935, (10  December 2018). The JTA was wrong in assuming that he had a Polish citizenship because of being born in Galicia. Adler-Rudel was an Austrian citizen with an Austrian passport, which according to his own account impeded his travels within Europe in 1938. Why he was stateless in 1940 is unclear at this juncture. See LBINY, AR7185/9/IV, Salomon Adler to Geheime[s] Staats­ polizeiamt, 16 December 1935; Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 20 May 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 163; LBINY, AR4473/1/I, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Curriculum Vitae, 8 August 1940. On the pressing problem of the loss of citizenship and the de-naturalization as a political weapon, see Hannah Arendt, The Stateless People, in: Contemporary Jewish Record 8 (1945), H. 2, 137–153. 17 See LBINY, AR4473/1/I, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Curriculum Vitae, 8 August 1940. In the 1960s Adler-Rudel dated his emigration to Palestine to April 1936, and his legation to London to July 1936. Still, other sources suggest that Adler-Rudel had already been in London in March 1936. See LBINY, AR7185/9/IV, Summary of Activities; London Parley Opens $5,000,000 Drive for Reich Jews, in: JTA, 17 March 1936, (10 December 2018). 18 David Jünger suspects that Adler-Rudel’s expulsion from Germany could have been related to these discussions. See idem, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 313. On the discussions surrounding the Warburg/Marks Plan generally and the establishment of the Council for German Jewry, see ibid., 280–322; Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 98–110. 19 Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 284. 20 Robert Weltsch, Birthday Tributes to S.  Adler-Rudel (June 1964), cit. in Meier, Keine Resignation, sondern Selbsthilfe!, 37.

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He did not regard the focus of the one plan on wealthy Jews and of the other on impoverished Jews as a contradiction but rather as a solution to different problem areas. Further discussions resulted in a plan to enable 64,000 Jews to depart Germany within four years, with 8,000 emigrants leaving annually to Palestine and another 8,000 annually to the United States, Argentina, and other European or overseas destinations.21 This plan was thus far removed from a general exodus of German Jewry as would be discussed in the summer of 1938.22 However, since considerations for this so-called Warburg/Marks Plan had been developed for the most part without the involvement of the financially powerful and politically influential organizations JA, JDC, and JCA, its execution remained wide open. Moreover, Chaim Weizmann from the JA categorically opposed the plan. Adler-Rudel’s plan for a compromise in particular provoked the criticism of the Zionists in the Jerusalem office of the JA as they feared that only the impoverished would depart for Palestine since no other country would take them. The wealthy German Jews, on the other hand, would emigrate to the United States. At that time, Palestine required both people and capital.23 Therefore the Zionists under Weizmann stuck to the transfer system established in the fall of 1933 under the Haavara Agreement, which implemented a relaxation of foreign exchange regulations allowing wealthy German Jews to emigrate to Palestine and which seemed to be working well. Warburg’s idea of a liquidation bank promised no substantial benefits to the build-up of Palestine.24 Although, ultimately, no program capable of satisfying the majority emerged from the negotiations in London and later in New York, the largest Jewish organizations in the United Kingdom founded the Council for German Jewry at the beginning of 1936. The aim of this council was to foster closer cooperation between Jewish aid organizations in the United States and the United Kingdom, yet in practice it remained a British organization with a non-Zionist strategy.25 The negotiations in London at the turn of 1935/36 are nevertheless relevant because they on the one hand constituted the preamble to the Évian Conference while on the other hand they elucidate the later transition in Adler-Rudel’s position.

21 See Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 286 f. 22 See also ibid., 325. Jünger expounds how neither did Max Warburg wish to bring about the end of German Jewry, nor would the JDC have ever agreed to or supported such a plan financially. 23 See ibid., 291. 24 On Weizmann’s fundamental disagreement with Warburg, see ibid., 293; Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 108 f. 25 For a thorough account of its establishment, see David Silberklang, Jewish Politics and Rescue. The Founding of the Council for German Jewry, in: Holocaust Genocide Studies 7 (1993), no. 3, 333–371; Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 280–311.

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At this time, he was a convinced Zionist and one of the leading cadre of the JA. Nevertheless, he did not regard the transfer of large portions of German Jewry or even his own personal emigration to Palestine as imperative.26 His ability to find compromises, his good contacts in British politics, and his longstanding experience in aiding emigrants made him one of the central figures of Jewish emigration planning in the late 1930s. Thus, it is not surprising that the Reich Representation asked Adler-Rudel in the spring of 1938 to gather material for Évian and to come up with suggestions for a comprehensive emigration plan. Representatives of Jewish and non-Jewish organizations had been invited to the conference to provide expertise in migrant and refugee aid, to participate in the execution of potential projects, and finally to assume the financing of these projects.27 Leo Baeck, the President of the Reich Representation, and Otto Hirsch, its director and later the head of its delegation dispatched to Évian, recommended that Adler-Rudel rely on the expertise of Hans Schäffer. Following years of service as a high-ranking ministry official in the Reich Ministry of Economics and the Reich Ministry of Finance and as a German representative in the reparation negotiations with the Allies after World War I, Schäffer had to emigrate to Sweden in early 1933 due to his Jewish origin.28 Adler-Rudel had already compiled the central guidelines that he wished to discuss with Schäffer before taking up contact with him in late May. Of these “Comments and Suggestions,” three points are particularly deserving of attention: first the scope and estimated timeframe of an emigration project, second its funding, and third the destinations for emigration. The majority of the Jews living in Nazi Germany in 1938 were over fifty years old and thus limited in their capacity to emigrate. Adler-Rudel’s plan related to the 200,000 “productive elements” who were of working age and were generally more likely to be accepted in potential countries of emigra-

26 Although Adler-Rudel had desired to migrate to Palestine sometime, he did not stay there in 1936, but rather continued his activities within the Zionist movement in Europe after being expelled from Germany. In March 1941, he wrote to Hannah Arendt that he had tried several times to get to the United States, two month later he received an affidavit but no visa. So he had to stay in London. See LBINY, AR7185/9/IV, Jüdische Gemeinde zu Berlin to Adler-Rudel, 31 May 1935; Adler-Rudel to Arendt, 6 March, 2 May 1941, and 2 November 1943 (10 December 2018). 27 In June 1939, Herbert Emerson, who was then the High Commissioner for Refugees in the League of Nations, for the first time offered to discuss state funding of emigration projects. However, he was not able to assert this proposal. See Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted, 41 f. 28 See Adler-Rudel’s short biographical introduction in idem, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 160, and the comprehensive biography by Eckhard Wandel, Hans Schäffer. Steuermann in wirtschaftlichen und politischen Krisen 1886–1967, Stuttgart 1974.

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tion. They were to be the main focus in Évian, with the emigration of the elderly people to follow four years later.29 Unlike Warburg’s 1936 plan, this plan thus did not involve a limited number of Jewish emigrants but the organized dissolution of German Jewry as a whole. Nevertheless, Adler-Rudel was aware that even if the admission of 200,000 people could be organized, the financing of such a mass emigration remained a “thoroughly difficult problem.” From 1933 to early 1938, the Jewish organizations had been able to amass 5.5 million Pounds. Had only one third of the German Jews been reliant on financial aid by that point, the number of impoverished people rose dramatically thereafter. The financial means of the Jewish organizations were therefore in no way sufficient for this comprehensive project that he estimated would cost some 14 million Pounds.30 Adler-Rudel developed four models to come up with this enormous sum. Two were based on unsecured international loans which were to be refinanced by the emigrants themselves within 25 to 30 years. The other two were predicated on cooperation with the German government whereby either the emigrating Jews would be allowed to take more capital abroad or “the entire Jewish property in Germany” would have to serve “as security.”31 However, such a “concession by the German government” would, Adler-Rudel reasoned, require “that the international conference [in Évian] refrain from attacks against Germany.” Only then could negotiations between the committee that was to be founded and the German government be possible.32 Adler-Rudel made no mention in his suggestions of the expansion of the Haavara system for Palestine demanded by the Zionists of the JA.33 According to his plan, which in this respect followed the Warburg Plan, the overwhelming majority were intended to emigrate to more developed national economies.

29 LBINY, AR4473/1/II, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Bemerkungen und Vorschlaege zu der von der amerikanischen Regierung geplanten internationalen Konferenz, 10 May 1938, 1 f. 30 Ibid., 2 f. and 12. Additionally, the JA, JDC, and JCA would have had to carry the main burden of the salaries and expenses of the High Commission for Refugees (Jewish and others) from Germany during the autonomous period under James Grover McDonald. See Greg Burgess, The League of Nations and the Refugees from Nazi Germany. James G. McDonald And Hitler’s Victims, London/New York 2016, 52 and 75; Haim Genizi, James G. McDonald. High Commissioner for Refugees, 1933–1935, in: The Wiener Library Bulletin 30 (1977), no. 43/44, 40–52, here 42. 31 LBINY, AR4473/1/II, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Bemerkungen und Vorschlaege zu der von der amerikanischen Regierung geplanten internationalen Konferenz, 10 May 1938, 5–8, here 7. 32 Ibid., 5. 33 See The Jewish Agency for Palestine (ed.), Memorandum submitted to the Inter-Governmental Conference on Refugees on 6 July 1938, London, 1 July 1938, with an accompanying letter from Chaim Weizmann to the president of the conference, (10 December 2018).

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Adler-Rudel was reserved towards simultaneously developed colonial projects, this aspect of his “Comments and Suggestions” accounting for the emigration of only some 8,000 people. This reveals the significance that he accorded to Palestine and other settlement projects as “solutions.”34 This paper moreover reveals his social planning, mirroring his practical experience in social work from the 1920s and 1930s: By means of distribution centers, the local Jewish organizations in the destination countries were to be en­ abled to counter the “tendency” of emigrants to “concentrate” in cities and rather to distribute them in a decentralized fashion, on the basis of individual considerations. Whosoever forewent this system was to be “permanently excluded from any aid from Jewish welfare organizations.”35 Adler-Rudel thus aimed to integrate the emigrants into their host societies in as frictionless a manner as possible, thereby increasing the anticipated willingness of potential host countries. Adler-Rudel felt that Schäffer’s recommendation supported his positions. Schäffer had emphasized in their private correspondence that it needed to be assured from the outset that if the discussion in Évian came to the topic of settlement territories there would be “no Zionist counterstatements.” An emigration project could only be successful through a combination of approaches: Aside from settlement projects, which however only came “into question chiefly for the groups with their own worldviews, so for Poland, Romania, Hungary, and Lithuania,”36 and integration overseas, admittance in European countries would have to continue to be up for discussion.37 Since Adler-Rudel did not object to these remarks and there are no alternative thoughts to be found in his papers from the spring and summer of 1938, he must have shared these views. Viewed altogether, Adler-Rudel’s preparations for the conference stood in a broad context of Jewish politics which aimed to employ petitions and suggestions to influence the diplomats of sovereign states towards its own positions and strategies. In the interwar period, the League of Nations in Geneva had constituted the primary location of Jewish diplomacy, yet its refugee institutions had proved unable by the end of the 1930s to respond appropriately to the novel situation of the Jews in Nazi Germany. This was due on the one hand to the lack of a generally applicable and enforceable asylum law, and on the other due to the ill-preparedness of the League of Nations to cope with

34 LBINY, AR4473/1/II, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Bemerkungen und Vorschlaege zu der von der amerikanischen Regierung geplanten internationalen Konferenz, 10 May 1938, 4. 35 Ibid., 10 f. 36 Schäffer to Adler-Rudel, 12 June 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 186. 37 Schäffer to Adler-Rudel, 29 May 1938, in: ibid., 169.

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ever new streams of tens of thousands of refugees, whose integration into willing host societies was moreover becoming ever more difficult the more national societies were gearing towards isolation. Furthermore, no previous institution had been permitted to engage in negotiations with a state that persecuted its own citizens, robbed them of their rights, and coerced them out of the country, as this was generally regarded as a domestic political affair.38 However, Adler-Rudel and others recognized the decisive approach in the departure from the principle of sovereignty: the international community of states needed to enter into negotiations with Nazi Germany, the aim of which would be a long-term emigration project for the German and Austrian Jews. On 4 July, Adler-Rudel traveled to Évian as a representative of the Council for German Jewry. He knew that he was traveling there with a concept that could neither be implemented ad hoc nor that had majority appeal. All sides lacked viable solutions with majority appeal that would only require implementation. Nevertheless, he tried to project an optimistic outlook to Schäffer – and perhaps also to himself – and exclaimed that something could be achieved in Évian since “our times are so crazy that even the most impossible things could become reality.”39

Counselors at Lake Geneva – The Role of the Jewish Organizations The Évian Conference was a highly regarded diplomatic event. For nine days, diplomats and representatives of nongovernmental organizations met to discuss possibilities to mitigate the humanitarian crisis of German and Austrian Jews. Over one hundred journalists reported on the events across the entire world. During the conference, the establishment of an intergovernmental committee, envisaged to take up negotiations with Nazi Germany and with potential host countries concerning a comprehensive emigration project for German and Austrian Jews, became the central agenda.40 Alongside this, the United States had been requested to report on their current immigration laws and prior admittance procedure as well as to provide a “general statement […] of the number and type of immigrants it [the government]

38 On the shortcomings of the refugee organizations of the League of Nations, which continued under Emerson, see Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted, 15 f., 28, and 37 f. 39 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 3 June 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 172 f. 40 Siehe Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted, 14

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is now prepared to receive or that it might consider receiving.”41 The State Department had made assurances in the invitation to the conference that no country would be forced to take more refugees than its current immigration laws allowed, and that no country would be forced to enter into financial obligations.42 The discussions were intended to cultivate awareness of the scope of the problem and to increase international readiness for refugee aid, the implementation of which was to be dealt with by the committee that was to be established for this purpose. Altogether 31 states accepted the invitation by the State Department of 23 March 1938.43 Poland and Romania had asked the State Department whether the conference could expand its scope to Eastern Europe, hoping in this way to coerce their respective Jewish populations to emigrate, too. The debate created a climate of fear among the Eastern European Jewish communities, who were afraid that there living conditions would become even more precarious. But the American response was negative and stressed the point that the plight of the German and Austrian refugees was the issue at stake. Poland and Romania nevertheless sent observers to Évian, who however did not receive equal participant status.44 As well as constituting a gathering of statesmen, Évian became above all a meeting of the who’s who of international refugee politics. The League of Nations sent its High Commissioner for German Refugees, Neill Malcolm, and the head of the Nansen International Office for Refugees, Michael Hansson. The latter institution, however, was only responsible for Jewish refugees in a few exceptional cases, while the High Commission’s mandate limited its remit to legal questions. Both institutions would be liquidated by the end of that year and replaced from January 1939 onwards by a new High Commission under the direction of Herbert Emerson. The rather successful strategies of the League of Nations for dealing with Europe’s refugee tides in the 1920s had by this time revealed themselves to be inadequate, moving others besides from Adler-Rudel on the Jewish side to present new concepts for discussion. Members of the Reich Representation from Berlin together 41 League of Nations Archives (henceforth LONA), R5801/50/34596/34225, Proceedings of the Intergovernmental Committee, Evian, 6–15 July 1938, here Agenda of the Committee, 8. 42 See Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, 236; Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage, 40. 43 Australia, Argentina, Belgium, Bolivia, Brazil, Canada, Chile, Columbia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Denmark, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, France, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, Ireland, Mexico, Netherlands, Nicaragua, Norway, New Zealand, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Sweden, Switzerland, United Kingdom, United States of America, Uruguay, Venezuela, see LONA, R5801/50/34597/34225, Revised List of Delegates, 10 July 1938. 44 See Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 224; Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, 150–152 and 154; Weiss, Deutsche und polnische Juden vor dem Holocaust, 164–167.

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with representatives of the Israelitische Kultusgemeinde from Vienna, the city’s official Jewish community organization, directed a memorandum at the conference. Arthur Ruppin attended as the head of the Jerusalem Executive Office of the JA together with Max Kreutzberger, Siegfried Moses, and Golda Meirson (later Meir) from Palestine. Nahum Goldmann attended from Geneva, representing the World Jewish Congress (WJC), Bernhard Kahn represented the JDC, and Norman Bentwich spoke as the second representative of the Council for German Jewry.45 This is not a complete enumeration of representatives and organizations, yet it offers an impression of the broad spectrum of politically organized Jewries of the late 1930s who gathered in Évian and whose representatives wished to present memoranda outlining their various strategies and convictions. Despite intensive efforts and numerous attempts, the Jewish organizations had not managed to agree on a mutual position before the beginning of the conference.46 In his opening speech at the Hotel Royal on 6 July 1938, Myron Charles Taylor, the head of the American delegation and a formative personality at the conference, announced a decisive change in refugee politics: “The [refugee] problem is no longer one of purely private concern. It is a problem for intergovernmental action.” Previously, he had stressed: “The time has come when Governments […] must act and act promptly and effectively in a long-range program of comprehensive scale.” At the same time, however, he pointed out that “we must admit frankly, indeed, that this problem of political refugees is so vast and so complex that we probably can do no more at the initial Intergovernmental meeting than put in motion the machinery.”47 The organizers of the conference, which served as the founding assembly of the Intergovernmental Committee, were fully aware of its limited potential and tried to limit the public’s expectations for a quick fix of the refugee issue. Al-

45 See LONA, S543/8, Associations, undated. The list comprises 71 names of representatives of various non-governmental organizations. Unfortunately, it is incomplete, as for example the delegates of the Reich Representation and the Israelitische Kultusgemeinde were not officially recognized. 46 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 21 June and 26 July 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 189 and 194; idem, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, 239; LBINY, AR7183/5/23, Aus einem Brief von Dr. Kreutzberger vom 8. Juli 1938: Evian, 2. Bericht; Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 240 f. 47 LONA, R5801/50/34596/34225, Proceedings of the Intergovernmental Committee, Evian, 6–15 July 1938, here Myron C. Taylor (United States), 6 July 1938, 12 f. In later accounts of the conference, an article is often cited from a Newsweek correspondent which augments Taylor’s “governments must act and act promptly” quote with the line: “Most governments represented acted promptly by slamming their doors against Jewish refugees.” See for example Wyman, Paper Walls, 50; Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 249.

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though Taylor and the US government basically preferred the establishment of an organization dedicated to all refugee issues, the new committee was ultimately limited to dealing with the refugees from Germany and Austria.48 Underlying this was the fear that an institution responsible for all current and potential emigrant groups could induce a mass exodus of Jews from Eastern Europe. The British government wished above all to avoid this, fearing that it would further inflame the complicated political situation in Mandatory Palestine.49 Following Taylor’s speech, Lord Winterton, head of the British delegation, completely omitted Palestine in his own speech, much to the chagrin of many Zionists. He merely spoke in vague terms of settlements in East African territories, but warned his audience that many areas were not suitable for European settlers or were already overcrowded, “while in others” – by which he clearly also meant Palestine – “local political conditions hinder or prevent any considerable immigration.”50 The phrase “political conditions” was a euphemistic circumlocution for the Arab revolts raging in Palestine since the summer of 1936. Although the British government  – with support from the JA51  – had managed to settle the rebellion with force and through the mediation of the surrounding Arab rulers, the situation remained volatile. The Peel Commission established in the wake of the uprising concluded in its July 1937 report that the British mandatory territory should be partitioned into an Arab and a Jewish state as well as an autonomous zone stretching from Jaffa to Jerusalem. The potential of realizing this plan, however, was from the outset rather unpromising due to the complex conditions on the ground.52 The uprisings that erupted once

48 The question of remit was the subject of controversy between the United States, the United Kingdom, and France. See Doc. 19, Report by Myron C. Taylor on the Intergovernmental Meeting at Evian to the Secretary of State, July 20, 1938, in: John Mendelsohn/Donald S. Detwiler (eds.), The Holocaust. Selected Documents in Eighteen Volumes, New York/ London 1982, vol. 5: Jewish Emigration from 1933 to the Evian Conference of 1938, 245– 264. There was a consensus concerning official speech that those fleeing from Germany were classed as “political refugees” and not explicitly as “Jewish refugees,” although all those involved knew that the latter constituted by far the largest group of refugees. See Mashberg, American Diplomacy and the Jewish Refugee, 1938–1939, 342 and 348. 49 On this point of view, see Michael R. Marrus, The Unwanted. European Refugees in the Twentieth Century, New York/Oxford 1985, 141–145. 50 LONA, R5801/50/34596/34225, Proceedings of the Intergovernmental Committee, Evian, 6–15 July 1938, here Lord Winterton (United Kingdom), 6 July 1938, 14 f. 51 See Tom Segev, Es war einmal ein Palästina. Juden und Araber vor der Staatsgründung Israels, Munich 2005, 417. 52 See Benny Morris, Righteous Victims. A History of the Zionist-Arab Conflict, 1881– 1999, London 1999, 121–160; Yehoshua Porath, The Emergence of the Palestinian-Arab National Movement, 2 vols., here vol. 2: From Riots to Rebellion, 1929–1939, London 1977, 217–229; Gudrun Krämer, Geschichte Palästinas. Von der osmanischen Eroberung bis zur Gründung des Staates Israel, Munich 2002, 327–332.

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more in September 1937 and attained their climax in the following summer and fall took on very different local forms. The actors involved ranged from strikers through criminals and gangs of youths to uniformed paramilitary forces whose motives were equally variable, including resistance against the British mandatory power, attacks against Jews whose acquisition of land was to be limited or even reversed, and old family feuds.53 The political situation in Mandatory Palestine in the summer of 1938 was therefore anything but secure. The British government saw itself forced to acquiesce to Arab demands for a cap on Jewish immigration if it did not wish to see the situation escalate further, as the increasing retaliatory measures on the Jewish side were driving Palestine to the brink of a civil war.54 The British Foreign Office in particular was invested in deescalating the situation and ridding itself of the “unsolvable problem” of Palestine as quickly as possible.55 The opening of Palestine as an emigrant destination to tens of thousands of German and Austrian Jews was thus beyond discussion for the British diplomats at Évian both for strategic as well as security reasons.56 Before the conference participants could even turn to discussing immigration possibilities and settlement territories, a “technical” subcommittee headed by Michael Hansson was to establish the status quo of national immigration laws and practices on the basis of which potential admittance capacities could be determined. A second subcommittee was set up to deal, as the name indicated, with the “Reception of Organisations concerned with the Relief of Political Refugees Coming from Germany.” This committee was headed by the Australian Minister for Trade and Customs, Thomas Walter White, who had previously emphasized in his public speech that Australia could not privilege any one refugee group over the others. Regarding Jewish immigrants, he remarked: “as we have no racial problem, we are not desirous of importing one.”57 Despite this bad omen, the Jewish organizations had a platform here to present their analyses and to sketch their settlement con53 See Morris, Righteous Victims, 144–147; Krämer, Geschichte Palästinas, 320–322 and 333 f. 54 See ibid., 339–340; Segev, Es war einmal ein Palästina, 476. 55 The Foreign Office rejected the recommendations of the Peel Commission in 1937 as it feared Arab resistance, while the Colonial Office preferred the founding of two states. See Krämer, Geschichte Palästinas, 332; on the chagrin of British politics towards Palestine generally, see Segev, Es war einmal ein Palästina, 436 and 440. 56 Tom Segev assessed Palestine’s admittance capacity through the example of Ben Gurion’s “often fanciful number games” and the process of many decades which still would only have seen a part of all Jews brought to Palestine. Even in the most optimistic estimations, “only a fraction of the increasingly embattled Jews of Europe would have found refuge in Palestine in the 1930s.” Ibid., 429 f. 57 Michael Blakeney, Australia and the Jewish Refugees from Central Europe. Government Policy 1933–1939, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 29 (1984), 103–133, here 116.

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cepts and emigration plans. As the representatives were only granted a few minutes each for their presentations, this procedure was in later depictions of the conference often characterized as “humiliating”, “disheartened and disillusioning” or generally as the “unwinding of a tragedy.”58 However, this assessment misses the point that the contents of the memoranda had been made public in advance and were therefore known. As such, the statements were only intended to serve as a short and trenchant introduction.59 Norman Bentwich submitted a memorandum signed by altogether seven organizations and emphasized the Council for German Jewry’s view on the necessity of greater admittance capacities and a state-ensured financial plan as well as negotiations with the German government.60 Goldmann and Ruppin submitted separate memoranda for the WJC and the JA respectively. The head of the delegation of the Reich Representation, Otto Schiff, was by contrast unable to submit the memorandum for which Adler-Rudel had prepared the groundwork to the subcommittee. Nevertheless, the delegations from Germany and Austria were able to voice their views in various personal conversations with diplomats, including with Taylor and Winterton and with representatives of South American countries.61 From the perspective of the Reich Representation, the “emigration problem, which for the Jews in Germany has become a matter of life and death,” was to be solved through a comprehensive, organized resettlement.62 In order to limit the burden to the host countries as far as possible, the immigrants were to be apportioned in a decentralized fashion, according to their skills and the admittance capacities of the respective country. This would prevent the “existence of a new class of refugees,” as befitting Adler-Rudel’s social planning. There was no mention in the memorandum of an explicit steering of emigration to Palestine. Aside from the establishment of an “emigration bank,” the Reich Representation 58 See among others Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, 255; Kurt Jakob Ball-Kaduri, Vor der Katastrophe. Juden in Deutschland 1934–1939, Tel Aviv 1967, 138. 59 See the report Taylor Leaves for Evian; Will Address Opening Session; Berenger to Preside, in: JTA, 5 July 1938, (21 December 2018). 60 See Memorandum of Certain Jewish Organizations Concerned with the Refugees from Germany and Austria, in: Arieh Tartakower/Kurt  R. Grossmann, The Jewish Refugee, New York 1944, Appendix I, 545–555. This was signed by the Council for German Jewry, the JCA, the Hias-Ica Emigration Association, the Joint Foreign Committee of the Board of Deputies of British Jews and the Anglo-Jewish Association, the German Jewish Aid Committee, and the Agudas Israel World Organization. On Bentwich’s statement, see LONA, S543/2, Synopsis of Statements of Organisations, 16 July 1938, 2. 61 See Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 242 and 246–248. 62 On other plans, see For the Conference at Evian. The Reichsvertretung der Juden in Deutschland, in: Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question, Appendix I, 261–271, here 268.

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was in favor of expanding the transfer of goods to other countries while not abrogating the Haavara Agreement. However, the memorandum contained no concrete funding plan, constituting rather an information-rich appeal to the international community of states to implement new courses of action.63 As befitting the original conception of the conference, neither the unofficial conversations and subcommittee discussions nor the public closing session on 15 July involved elaborated plans, nor would any such plans have been put to the vote. The memoranda of the Jewish organizations were too sketchy and divergent and the potential host countries too reserved. As Adler-Rudel recalled, questions of funding were not addressed at all during the entire conference.64 It was left to the Intergovernmental Committee, which was established in the closing resolution, to elaborate and implement an appropriate project.65 Its objectives clearly exceeded all prior measures in refugee politics: First, it incorporated potential emigrants, so those who had not yet crossed the German border, into its planning since their fragile status was recognized; second, it was empowered to negotiate with Nazi Germany; third, it constituted the first international refugee organization the activities of which were not temporally limited; and fourth, the United States were involved, managing to push through their demand to establish the committee independently of the League of Nations.66 Adler-Rudel attached great expectations to the committee. Following the many debates he participated in at Évian, he came to regard the safeguarding of Jewish property through a combination of wealth and property transfers as thoroughly realizable.67 Even though there was no official discussion at the Évian Conference concerning Palestine and its potential as an emigrant destination, Winterton saw himself forced to take a stance on the issue at the end of the conference. The potential of the British mandatory territory seemed too significant to the Jewish refugee crisis as to leave it out. The Zionists followed different objectives: One group (represented, for example, by Arthur Ruppin) understood that Palestine could only be one place of refuge among others in the

63 See also Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 246. 64 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 26 July 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 195. 65 Roosevelt had already expressed his conviction on this matter in his invitation letter to Taylor, see Franklin Delano Roosevelt Library, Myron C. Taylor Papers/Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees, 1938, Roosevelt to Taylor, 26 April 1938, 13 f., (21 December 2018). 66 On the core aspects of the League of Nations’ refugee activities and the new approaches of the committee, see Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted, 15 f. and 37 f. 67 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 26 July 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 193 f.

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diaspora, while others, especially David Ben-Gurion, claimed leadership in the representation of world Jewry. Accordingly, he aimed at establishing Palestine as the central safe haven for the European Jews, even though he was aware of the fact that Palestine did not have the capacity to absorb hundreds of thousands of Jews. In so doing, he attempted to increase the pressure on British policy.68 In contrast to that and in opposition to his first speech, Winterton emphasized explicitly that a demand based on the claim “that the whole question, at least of the Jewish refugees, could be solved if only the gates of Palestine were thrown open to Jewish immigrants without restriction of any kind” was untenable. Such a demand could not possibly be reconciled with the conditions of the mandate nor with the local situation between Arabs and immigrating Jews, which could simply not be ignored. Instead, he proffered a “small-scale settlement of Jewish refugees” in Kenya.69 This did not meet Zionist expectations, while Adler-Rudel also warned of excessive optimism concerning the Kenyan option, which only promised settlement possibilities for 2,000 families.70 However, his proposals had also not earmarked more people for colonization projects and the memoranda of the Reich Representation and the Council of German Jewry followed his position. Winterton’s closing remarks changed nothing in the outcome of the conference. Taylor summarized the outcome in his closing speech and announced that “our work must, and it will, continue, tirelessly, without interruption […]. This meeting is merely a beginning. From this time forward, the Intergovernmental Committee is in permanent session.”71 The next meeting was scheduled for 3 August 1938, to be held in London.

Disillusionment – Salomon Adler-Rudel’s Transformation to a ­Pragmatic Zionist Although the committee commenced its work as planned and appointed as its chairperson George Rublee, a lawyer from New York with experience

68 On the complex and ambivalent stances within the Zionist movement, see Weiss, Deutsche und polnische Juden vor dem Holocaust, 161–163; Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, 158. 69 LONA/R5801/50/34596/34225, Proceedings of the Intergovernmental Committee, Evian, 6–15 July 1938, here Lord Winterton (United Kingdom), 15 July 1938, 42. 70 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 26 July 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 195. 71 LONA, R5801/50/34596/34225, Proceedings of the Intergovernmental Committee, Evian, 6–15 July 1938, here Myron C. Taylor (as Chairman), 15 July 1938, 41.

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in international negotiations, Taylor’s proclamation that efforts would be continued “without interruption” were very quickly overtaken by circumstance.72 The decisive negotiations with representatives of the German government were delayed for months, which was due especially to two factors: The international crisis simmering since June over the Nazi regime’s claim on the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia pushed the European states to the brink of war in the late summer of 1938. By the end of September, Adler-Rudel had to note that “the world and the people upon whom our fate depends” had become preoccupied with “other and greater worries” than the Jewish refugees.73 The Sudeten crisis was temporarily resolved on 30 September in Munich through the mediation of the Italian Prime Minister Benito Mussolini, whom Adler-Rudel had envisaged as a potential mediator in the refugee question in May since he hoped that Mussolini’s involvement in negotiations on the relaxation of transfers would ensure greater complaisance on behalf of the German government.74 However, in acquiescing to Nazi demands against Czechoslovakia, which henceforth had to relinquish the Sudetenland to Nazi Germany, the Munich Agreement had marked “the ultimate failure of the politics of collective security.”75 Furthermore, this resulted in another 24,500 Jews coming under Nazi rule, who consequently had to endure the introduction of German anti-Jewish laws within a matter of a few weeks. By the end of 1938, about half of the Jews of the Sudetenland had fled – most to Prague and thus into the still existent rump of Czechoslovakia.76 Once a European war had been forestalled for the time being, events began to unfold over the coming weeks that had already begun with the annexation of Austria and transformed Jewish emigration into a Reich-wide refugee crisis. For fear of Polish Jews fleeing Germany and Austria and returning to their country of origin, the Polish government had already passed a law on

72 Adler-Rudel considered Rublee “personally a wonderful figure” but doubted that he would be a suitable negotiator vis-à-vis the Nazis. See Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 23 September 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 209. 73 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 23 September 1938, in: ibid., 208. See also Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 259 f. and 287. 74 LBINY, AR4473/1/II, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Bemerkungen und Vorschlaege zu der von der amerikanischen Regierung geplanten internationalen Konferenz, 10 May 1938, 5. 75 Jürgen Zarusky/Martin Zückert, Das Münchener Abkommen von 1938 in europäischer Perspektive (introduction), in: idem (eds.), Das Münchener Abkommen von 1938 in europäischer Perspektive, Munich 2013, 1–15, here 2; see also David Faber, Munich. The 1938 Appeasement Crisis, London et al. 2008. 76 The official name of this state was Czecho-Slovak Republic, it only existed from 30 September 1938 to 15 March 1939. On the Nazi persecution of Jews in the Sudetenland, see Jörg Osterloh, Sudetenland, in: Wolf Gruner/Jörg Osterloh (eds.), The Greater German Reich and the Jews. Nazi Persecution Policies in the Annexed Territories 1935–1945, New York/Oxford 2015, 68–98, here esp. 72–76.

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31 March – which remained a secret until the late summer – that decreed a time when Polish citizens living abroad would lose their citizenship.77 When the effective date was finally made public, at short notice and just a few weeks after the Sudeten crisis, the Nazis – who feared that soon a great number of stateless Jews would remain in the country for whom no government would feel responsible – decided to deport thousands of Jewish Poles from the territory of the Reich into the “no-man’s-land” between the German and Polish borders. In an attempt to raise international awareness of these arbitrary measures, the young Herschel Grynszpan, whose family was affected by the deportations, shot at an official of the German embassy in Paris on 7 November. In reaction, the Nazis unleashed the Reich-wide November Pogrom. Over a period of four days, with the acclaim and even support of the population, they destroyed hundreds of synagogues and Jewish businesses, abducted thousands of Jews, and murdered hundreds. On 10 November, the systematic arrest of some 30,000 mostly wealthy Jewish men began, who were interned in the concentration camps at Dachau, Sachsenhausen, and Buchenwald. They were only released when they committed themselves to quitting Germany at the soonest possible date.78 In order to drive forward the dispersion of the Jews on an institutional level, the Nazi regime decided in late November, at first unofficially, to enter into the negotiations offered by the Intergovernmental Committee.79 Official talks commenced in December between George Rublee and Hjalmar Schacht, President of the Reichsbank, who after his demission in January was replaced by Helmut Wohlthat, a senior official in Hermann Goering’s Office of the Four Year Plan.80 Despite these developments, Adler-Rudel was by early 1939 becoming increasingly disappointed with the activities of the committee and no longer felt that something positive was going to result for the funding of Jewish emigration. However, he did not apportion the blame to the leading functionaries of the committee in London, but rather to the protracted negotiations with Germany: “The threat of war and the crisis surrounding Czechoslovakia pushed the refugee problem into the background.”81 Decisive months had thereby gone lost, while the November Pogrom had dramatically exacerbated the situation of the Jews. He concluded in a report on 15 January:

77 See Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 266 f. 78 On the November Pogrom, see Raphael Gross, November 1938. Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, Munich 2013; Alan  E. Steinweis, Kristallnacht 1938, Cambridge, Mass., 2009. 79 See Kieffer, Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, 324–329. 80 See Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 315 f. 81 LBIJER, 159/I/IV/G111, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Die Juden in Deutschland zu Beginn des Jahres 1939, 15 January 1939, 13.

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“Emigrating as fast as possible, wherever possible, is the only desire of those Jews in Greater Germany who are not yet old enough to accept that they are damned to end their lives in poverty and misery, demeaned and downtrodden, within the borders of the Third Reich.”82

However, the statement “wherever possible” was not as clear to Adler-Rudel as it appears at first glance. In the same report, he described Palestine as “the only country of which one can say on the basis of prior experience and despite the current political difficulties that it offers a serious contribution to solving the emigration and settlement problems of the Jews from Germany.”83 “Wherever possible” thus denoted his departure from a model of decentralized economic and social integration of hundreds of thousands of German Jews in the economically better developed countries of Western Europe or the United States. It moreover expressed palpably his alarm at the novelty of the situation. For pragmatic reasons, Adler-Rudel placed his bets on Palestine, arguing that colonial preparations had been completed there and that transport costs would be two thirds lower than to any other destination overseas – although he provided no supporting evidence for the latter claim. Moreover, the resident Jewish population in Palestine would be ready “like in no other country in the world” to admit Jews. For the German Jews, he now regarded the Yishuv and its colonial work as a model and saw in the “feeling of not only working for one’s own livelihood, but of being involved in a great work of national salvation […] an opportunity that could empower precisely those Jews who are discriminated against and stigmatized in Germany to make the transition to heavy physical labor and to new forms of life.”84

By contrast to his earlier statements, the idealistic vision for the construction of Palestine evoked here is not especially convincing. Rather, his sudden transformation to a pragmatic Zionist seems to have resulted from the increasing lack of alternative emigration plans. The “current political difficulties” – a euphemistic circumlocution for the impending civil war in Palestine in accordance with Winterton  – were entirely secondary in his considerations.85 This leads to the conclusion that his helplessness in the face of the situation of the Jews in Germany, which he had grasped acutely, did not 82 Ibid., 6. In his account of the November Pogrom, Saul Friedländer concluded that “nothing systematic seems to have been considered by the Nazis” in advance, and that their goal had simply been “to hurt and humiliate the Jews by all possible means.” The acceleration of emigration that followed was then probably indirect. See idem, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 277. 83 LBIJER, 159/I/IV/G111, Salomon Adler-Rudel, Die Juden in Deutschland zu Beginn des Jahres 1939, 15 January 1939, 14. 84 Ibid., 14 f. 85 Ibid., 14.

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hold him back from basing his new emigration plans on unsafe conditions or from rash action. In other words, Salomon Adler-Rudel understood that direct action was required without being able to foresee what dynamic the persecution was yet to assume.

Contradictory Times – The End of the Évian Initiative Adler-Rudel perceived the Évian Conference – despite all his reservations beforehand – as a means of responding adequately to the deepening refugee crisis in the wake of the Austrian Anschluss through traditional emigration and refugee politics, and as an answer to the plain impotence of the League of Nations and the community of states. He saw the establishment of the Intergovernmental Committee on Refugees as an accomplishment of international efforts and attached new hopes to the realization of an emigration project the necessity of which was in his mind beyond doubt. However, the activities of the committee were delayed in the latter half of 1938 due to the dynamics of Nazi foreign and domestic policy. When negotiations could finally commence, the forward-looking aspects of the committee had already become outdated. There was no prospect of the international community of states responding consequentially to Germany and Adler-Rudel therefore came to see Palestine as the only realistic solution to the Jewish refugee problem. Although Adler-Rudel belonged to the Zionist Executive in the late 1930s and had formed a “circle” with Ruppin, Goldmann, and Kreutzberger at Évian,86 his support in late 1938 for a mass emigration of German Jews to Palestine was born rather from pragmatic thinking. His idea of a solution had thus changed, while his negative assessment of the Jewish living situation had already crystallized by December 1937: In the emigration model that he favored at Évian, the vast majority of German and Austrian Jews would have continued to live in the diaspora, primarily in the United States, the United Kingdom, or South America. He initially regarded emigration to these countries as the fastest and cheapest option and his plans evince his efforts to ensure that all involved parties would be integrated into their new societies as smoothly as possible. When it finally dawned on him that the basis for an organized and extremely expensive emigration project lasting several years had been obliterated, he did not however give up, but sought new solutions.

86 See LBINY, AR7183/5/23, Aus einem Brief von Dr. Kreutzberger vom 8. Juli 1938: Evian, 2. Bericht.

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As early as August 1938, Adler-Rudel had presented Schäffer with a diagnosis of present conditions emphasizing the contradictory temporal horizons of the political realities of international refugee politics on the one hand and Nazi expansion of power on the other: “All the optimism that I am trying to muster cannot obscure the thought that the mills [of the committee] here are only being ground very slowly, while in Germany the calamity is taking on a frenzied speed.”87 The growing threat and irrationality of the situation made it appear to him “as though the devil had his hand in the game.”88 He came to the exasperated conclusion that Germany was not willing to negotiate and continued to raise the pressure to emigrate, while the South American countries increasingly sealed themselves off. This era, which he had already before Évian described as “crazy,” seemed to have completely lost all grasp on worldly and rational imperatives of action. The Jewish emigration plans conceived to run over long periods of time collided with the dizzying speed and unprecedented dimensions of Nazi anti-Jewish policies. David Jünger thus concluded that as early as the mid1930s “the emigration plans were doomed to fail because tried and tested instruments could not be applied to the German situation. The realization of these plans was predicated on a politically stable situation, the primacy of rational planning, and a temporal horizon of years and decades.”89

In the fall of 1938, the situation escalated even further, rendering utterly redundant all three preconditions for the committee’s working plan. Following the November Pogrom, all that remained was the immediate humanitarian action of a few states, above all of the United Kingdom, which between January and September 1939 admitted 50,000 Jewish refugees from Germany, annexed Austria, and smashed Czecho-Slovak Republic.90 As necessary as these steps were, they also illustrate that nobody at the time had been aware of the fact that only total evacuation of the Jewish population would have 87 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 20 August 1938, in: Adler-Rudel, Das Auswanderungsproblem im Jahre 1938, 204. 88 Adler-Rudel to Schäffer, 23 September 1938, in: ibid., 209. 89 Jünger, Jahre der Ungewissheit, 327. The fact that traditional procedures in diplomatic negotiations no longer prevailed with the Nazis became clear for example to the British Prime Minister Arthur Neville Chamberlain during the Sudeten crisis. After his first discussion with Adolf Hitler, he came to the conclusion “that here was a man who could be relied upon when he had given his word.” Only a week later, Hitler revoked the agreed terms. See Frank McDonough, Neville Chamberlain, appeasement, and the British road to war, Manchester, N. Y., 1998, 64 f. 90 See Gross, November 1938, 99. Similar to the British position, the Australian government, too, whose leading delegate had been deprecatory towards the Jewish refugees in Évian, declared itself willing in late November 1938 to accept 15,000 refugees over the next three years. See Blakeney, Australia and the Jewish Refugees, 121.

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been the appropriate measure to save them.91 Instead, most of the delegates of the conference hoped that the Intergovernmental Committee would help with a coordinated and long-range emigration project. However, the Évian initiative was practically finished before it had even properly begun, even though negotiations with Nazi Germany were continued. The “Agreement” between the committee and the German emissary Wohlthat dated 2 February 1939 envisaged the emigration of more than 150,000 male Jews of working age along with their next of kin. This was to be financed over a period of three to five years through an international bond issued by Jews all over the world, vouchsafed by the Jewish property to be left behind in Germany.92 Adler-Rudel had supported a similar concept merely a year earlier, but by this point no longer held any hopes for it. Although Herbert Emerson, who had assumed the running of the committee in personal union with the High Commission for Refugees following Rublee’s resignation,93 continued the discussions with Wohlthat, nothing new proceeded from this vague plan. The onset of World War II permanently put an end to the work of the committee. An analysis of Adler-Rudel’s various assessments of the Évian Conference and of the committee evinces a shift in his view beginning around late 1938 and early 1939. His disillusionment following the ineffective work of the committee clouded his view of the conference which only the previous summer he had regarded positively. This revaluation continued in heightened form in the essays he wrote about Évian during the 1960s, when he was director of the Leo Baeck Institute in Jerusalem.94 In his 1968 essay Die Enttäuschung von Evian (The Disappointment of Évian), he characterized Roosevelt’s “magnanimous initiative” as having been “watered down” even before it began. He put the failure to discuss an expansion of emigration to Palestine at the conference down to the United Kingdom’s “lack of willingness to help” and was equally critical of the decision of the delegates not to harshly condemn the German policies. Without naming any reasons, he claimed that the committee had achieved “no results of any kind.”95 91 On this valuation, see Diner, Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, 150. A large part of the researchers argued exactly that the main failure of the Évian Conference was not to arrive at such a plan, see Wyman, Paper Walls; Feingold, The Politics of Rescue; Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage. In his study Judenverfolgung in Deutschland – eine innere Angelegenheit?, Kieffer has taken an intermediary approach nuancing the possible modus of political intervention by highlighting the problems of international payment transactions and foreign exchanges. 92 See Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 315 f. 93 See Sjöberg, The Powers and the Persecuted, 58; Wyman, Paper Walls, 33. 94 Adler-Rudel, The Evian Conference on the Refugee Question; idem, Die Enttäuschung von Evian (1968), in: Kurt R. Grossmann, Emigration. Geschichte der Hitler-Flüchtlinge 1933–1945, Frankfurt a. M. 1969, Appendix, doc. 1, 315–317. 95 Adler-Rudel, Die Enttäuschung von Evian, 316 f.

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Adler-Rudel’s disillusionment in 1939 and his disappointment in 1968 need to be analyzed on two different levels: In 1939, it was vital to find new solutions beyond the committee, while in 1968 he was in shock following the Holocaust and was confronted with the retrospective knowledge that Nazi policies had already made impossible any comprehensive emigration project that could have been conceived of in the summer of 1938. As discussed above, the reconsideration of the political constellation in Évian and in its aftermath may alleviate his retrospective attribution of irresponsibility or even liability of the conference participants towards the German and Austrian Jews.96 Nevertheless, his assessment that “the little that was achieved” stood “in no proportion to the hopes that Roosevelt’s initiative had inspired in the first place” rings true.97 However, the causes of this circumstance did not only lie in the lack of willingness to help on behalf of the Western democracies.

96 See for example Weingarten, Die Hilfeleistung der westlichen Welt bei der Endlösung der deutschen Judenfrage, 204. 97 Adler-Rudel, Die Enttäuschung von Evian, 317.

Michal Frankl

No Man’s Land: Refugees, Moving Borders, and Shifting Citizenship in 1938 East-Central Europe In November 1938, the Czechoslovak refugee activist Marie Schmolka reported from her visit to a group of refugees close to Mischdorf (Miloslavov in Slovak), only several kilometers away from Bratislava. As one of the few relief workers allowed access, she found more than three hundred Jews dwelling in an open, muddy field in temperatures below zero, with no shelter or adequate equipment: “They built scanty huts and roofs from maize stalks and dug pits in which they placed their children (some of these children are only a few months old).”1 Two weeks after their forcible arrival, many were still living in these provisional, self-made huts which offered only poor protection from the quickly approaching winter. No chairs or tables were available in the whole camp and, without running water, the refugees had almost no possibility to upkeep basic hygienic needs. Only seriously ill people found shelter in four furniture vans provided by nearby Jewish communities. Schmolka went on to describe their misery: “Lying side by side are cripples who are quite unable to move, a blind woman, one who is seriously ill with haemhorrhage of the stomach, war invalids, people with high fever, tuberculous, sufferers from serious women’s complaints, etc.”2

Mischdorf wasn’t her first time to tour a refugee no man’s land. In fact, the conclusion to her report reads like a Czechoslovak account of where and 1

United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Archives (USHMM Archives), RG-59.006M, Foreign Office: General Correspondence, FO 371/21588, Report by Mrs. Marie Schmolka, manageress of HICEM Prague on her visit to the camp at Mischdorf near Bratislava on 27 November 1938, and other reports from no man’s land. The transcript is also published in Peter Heumos, Flüchtlingslager, Hilfsorganisationen, Juden im Niemandsland. Zur Flüchtlings- und Emigrationsproblematik in der Tschechoslowakei im Herbst 1938, in: Bohemia 25 (1984), no. 2, 245–275, here 272–275; an almost complete Slovak translation has been published in Eduard Niž nˇ anský, Židovská komunita na Slovensku medzi c ˇ eskoslovenskou parlamentnou demokraciou a slovenským štátom v stredoeurópskom kontexte [The Jewish Community in Slovakia between Czechoslovak Parliamentary Democracy and the Slovak State in the Central European Context], Prešov 1999, 54–56. See also Michal Frankl, Reports from the No Man’s Land, in: EHRI Document Blog, 19  ­ January 2016, (19 December 2018). 2 Ibid. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 247–266.

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how during 1938 Jewish refugees got stranded in the border zones between Czechoslovakia and its neighbors. She referred to an overcrowded boat sheltering Jews expelled from Burgenland, anchored in the Danube (not far from Mischdorf), which she had visited earlier that year. Having been forcibly evicted from their homes in the Burgenland communities of Kittsee and Pama, in mid-April 1938 at night, and sent on small boats onto the Czechoslovak side of the Danube, the sixty refugees spent the rest of the night cold and wet. Czechoslovak police secured these refugees in the morning, allowed the Jewish community to provide food and assistance – and deported them back to Austria. Similar events repeated themselves on the Hungarian border and eventually the group was forced to linger in desperate conditions in the no man’s land that was the meeting point of Czechoslovak, Hungarian and Austrian borders. With none of the states willing to provide even temporary refuge to the group (to avoid setting a precedent and triggering off a chain reaction), the Jewish community in Bratislava found the only shelter available: a towboat anchored in the Hungarian side of the Danube, in international waters. “It is now three months that these people, smitten with despair, refused by every country, and even grudged the stay aboard the ship […]. We have seen their unspeakable mental distress, even increased by physical torture, as they either must stay in the narrow rooms downstairs which are infested with rats and vermin, or on the upper deck where they are left to the weather’s mood,”

reported Schmolka from her July visit.3 Only in August did Jewish organizations finally manage to organize emigration of the members of this unfortunate group to Palestine and the United States.4 Not long after the liberation of the Burgenland Jews from the towboat, Schmolka attended to Jews living on the demarcation line between Germany and Czechoslovakia following the Munich Agreement and the Kristallnacht (which also took place in Sudetenland, newly annexed by Nazi Germany).5 In numerous places, probably not all of them accounted for in the known sour­

3

4

5

The Wiener Library, Jewish Central Information Office, The Burgenland Jews on the Danube Tug-Boat. An Eye Witness Report, 5 August 1938; National Archives of the Czech ˇ Republic, Prague (henceforth NA CR), Presidium of the Ministry of Interior, X/R/3/2, Box 1186, Pavel Deutsch to the President Edvard Beneš, 28 July 1938 (with attached copy of Schmolka’s report). Kinga Frojimovics, I Have Been a Stranger in a Strange Land. The Hungarian State and Jewish Refugees in Hungary, 1933–1945, Jerusalem 2007, 51. On the expulsions from Burgenland, see also Milka Zalmon, Forced Emigration of the Jews of Burgenland. A Test Case, in: Yad Vashem Studies 31 (2003), 287–323. YIVO Archives, New York, RG 245.10, Records of the HICEM Office in Prague, Folder 6, Confirmation by HICEM Regarding Schmolka’s Visit to the Sudetenland Demarcation Line, 24 November 1938.

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ces, groups of Jews found themselves caught between German and Czechoslovak positions, often in the open field and with their possessions, such as furniture, simply dumped along the road. For instance, thirteen refugees from Saaz (Žatec) and Kaaden (Kada nˇ ), aged 23 to 80 years, spent more than three weeks just outside of the town of Louny, living in tents and in a caravan. The local Red Cross organization helped by providing tents and straw.6 While most of the refugees stranded in the wake of the Munich Agreement eventually made their way into Czechoslovakia, some were interned in a former, now dysfunctional factory in the Southern Moravian town of Ivan cˇ ice (Eibenschütz). Originally intended as provisional housing for expellees from Southern Moravian communities annexed by Germany, it was transformed into an internment camp for foreign and stateless Jews after the occupation of Czechoslovakia in March 1939.7 At the end of October 1938, Schmolka’s Polish counterparts, the staff of the Warsaw office of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or JOINT), rushed to Zb  aszy   n´ (Bentschen), a town on the Polish-German border and a traditional center of East-Western transmigration. Izchak Giterman, head of office, found it filled with desperate, hungry and depressed Jews deported from Germany in response to a revision of passports of Polish citizens living abroad. Deportees described having been taken by surprise as policemen delivered on 27 and 28 October, often in early morning, their expulsion decrees and, the moments of unexpected, abrupt and final departure from their homes. Loaded onto trains and speedily dispatched to several locations on the German-Polish border, they were forced to march in large groups, amid SS shouts and beating, into Poland. The Polish response wasn’t consistent: In the first hours, many groups were left between the borders, in the cold and rain, but later on, the deportees were allowed into what formally

6

Archives of the Jewish Museum in Prague, Walter Ullmann Collection; YIVO Archives, New York, Archive of the American Joint Distribution Committee (henceforth AJDC Archive), New York Office 1933–1944, file 541. 7 Jiˇrí Široký, Z historie židovské obce v Ivan cˇ icích. Zˇrízení uprchlického tábora [From the History of the Jewish Community in Ivan cˇ ice. The Creation of the Refugee Camp], in: Ivan cˇ ický zpravodaj [The Ivan cˇ ice Newsletter] 25 (1996), no. 10, 12–16; idem, Osudy d eˇ tí v ivan cˇ ickém židovském interna cˇ ním táboˇre [The Fates of Children in the Jewish Internment Camp in Ivan cˇ ice], in: Židé a Morava [Jews and Moravia] 13 (2006), 197–209; idem, Židovský interna cˇ ní tábor v Ivan cˇ icích [Jewish Interment Camp in Ivan cˇ ice], in: Expedice speculum. Putování za záhadami a zajímavostmi regionu “Zrcadla” [Expedition Speculum. Search for Secrets and Remarkable Sites of the Region of the “Mirror”] 1 (2009), (19  December 2018); Silvestr Nová cˇ ek, Protinacistický odboj židovské mládeže v Ivan cˇ icích 1939–1942 [The Anti-Nazi Resistance of Jewish Youth in Ivan cˇ ice, 1939–1942], in: Židé a Morava 1 (1995), 94 f.; idem, Nacistické “kone cˇ né ˇrešení” židovské otázky v Ivan cˇ icích [The Nazi “Final Solution” of the Jewish Question in Ivan cˇ ice], Brno 1984.

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was Polish territory. While some received permission to proceed into the interior, a large part of them (originally about 7,0008) were interned in the border town of Zb  aszy ´  n, which turned into a large refugee camp where many deportees eked out a living until the summer of 1939. Those whom Schmolka found, only several days after the expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany, languishing in Mischdorf and in similar makeshift camps (such as in Vel’ký Kýr [Nagy-Kér], close to Nitra), were only a small part of Jews deported by the Slovak authorities after the First Viennese Award of 2 November 1938, which shifted sovereignty over the large swathe of Southern and Eastern Slovakia to Hungary. Upset and humiliated, the Slovak leadership striving for complete independence from Czechoslovakia acted on their antisemitic worldview and hastily ejected some 7,500 Jews across the new demarcation line, just before the territory would be occupied by the Hungarian army. Only several weeks later was the Mischdorf group allowed back into the Slovak interior, with the stateless or people without Czechoslovak citizenship interned in a camp established in Bratislava and supported by Jewish organizations. While not complete and lacking in eyewitness testimony for many places, this sequence of events, as experienced by Schmolka and other relief workers, encapsulates the very dynamics of exclusion of 1938 and introduces a new type of geography, the no man’s land for Jewish refugees. As a committed Jewish social worker and relief activist who led the work of the Czechoslovak Jewish committee assisting refugees from Germany and Austria, Marie Schmolka had first-hand knowledge and expertise with people in need of assistance, both material and legal. Yet, the new, radical forms of expulsion and restrictive refugee policies of 1938 were perceived as a striking shift even by highly experienced refugee activists like Schmolka. Her alarming reports were read by government officials and relief workers and – together with similar accounts – spread in the press. On 26 December 1938, the New York Herald Tribune, for instance, reported from Paris, based on information from the European office of the JDC: “A Christmas marked by severe frost on this continent found thousands of unwanted Jews today in ‘no-man’s lands’ along central and eastern Europe’s frontiers, and other thousands detained in isolation camps in countries bordering on Nazi Germany.”9

8 Jerzy Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung. Die Vertreibung polnischer Juden aus Deutschland im Jahre 1938, transl. from the Polish by Victoria Pollmann, Osnabrück 2002, 188. 9 The YIVO Archives, New York, RG 335, AJDC Archive, New York Office 1933–1944, file 541.

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Towards a Comparative History of the No Man’s Land The quick adoption of the term “no man’s land” by Jewish relief workers and journalists, to describe these unprecedented phenomena, testifies to the sense of novelty and urgency. The term itself, while even older, became firmly established as a reflection of soldier experience between the front lines of European armies during World War I, especially between the trenches of the Western front. It referred (as Niemandsland in German or zem eˇ nikoho in Czech) to the state of lawlessness, exclusion and sense of non-belonging experienced by soldiers trapped in the in-between. More broadly, it stood in cultural representations of the war for the soldier experience away from home and for uncertainty as such.10 For refugees in 1938, however, the no man’s land was not only a piece of land next to a road, or a makeshift camp to which they were restricted, but it figuratively encompassed the situation when no state would take responsibility and provide protection for human beings subject to exclusion. Indeed, only a smaller part of Jews forced to leave their homes throughout 1938 was trapped in a no man’s land. For instance, of the thousands of Austrian Jews attempting to cross to Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia and other countries, only small groups of dozens were caught between the border lines. Of the approximately 20,000 Jews expelled into the interior of Czechoslovakia after the Munich Agreement and of the 7,500 Slovak Jews brought over the demarcation line in early November 1938, possibly about one thousand people shared this experience. Yet a much larger part of the almost 20,000 Polish Jews driven out of Nazi Germany in October 1938 travelled through a no man’s land along the border or was later kept in limbo in Zb  aszy   n – ´ or both. While relatively modest compared to the total number of Jewish refugees in 1938, it is striking that both the absolute numbers as well as the proportion of refugees in no man’s land rose significantly over the course of that year. However, the significance of the no man’s land is not to be measured in numbers of refugees or in their destitute situation, powerfully described by Schmolka and other relief workers. The no man’s land of 1938, then, was an intrinsically Jewish story: That refugees were placed outside of state control, physically, but also in terms of their legal status, was a new and frightening phenomenon which visualized the growing exclusion of Jews and their loss of rights. In this absence of the state (both in its protective and oppressive qualities), the no man’s land differed from the refugee camps of the era, for instance the World War I camps in the Habsburg monarchy, or those erect10 Eric J. Leed, No Man’s Land. Combat and Identity in World War I, Cambridge/New York 1979, 1–38.

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ed in Western Europe around 1938, with a strict spatial division and tight control over movement, labour and sanitary conditions. The interventions of states were mostly limited to upholding the borders and strict border controls – the no man’s land and its forced inhabitants were understood to be outside of state authority. The situation of complete exclusion brings to mind Hannah Arendt’s analysis of a refugee as a figure standing outside of national and international law and beyond state protection. Stripped of all rights, stateless individuals were at the mercy of the police, thus paving the way towards what Arendt categorizes as totalitarian state. Inevitably, the exclusionary nature of interwar nation-states led to full denaturalization and to the internment camp (not structurally identical with the no man’s land) as the only “substitute for a nonexistent homeland.”11 Arendt’s compelling argument can also be criticized for its element of teleology leading to the seeming inevitability of the decline of the nation-states into totalitarianism. Arguably, the picture which the German-Jewish political philosopher with her own refugee experience had in mind might well have been the one of 1938. While she was right to highlight the relationship between the imperfections of citizenship in interwar nation-states and the rightlessness of refugees, these states were not predestined to adopt the large-scale exclusion and denaturalization policies of 1938, nor to remove refugees into no man’s land. It is therefore essential to look at the transformation and erosion of Jewish (and other) citizenship as a dynamic and multifaceted process. While the forced displacement of Jews from Nazi Germany and Austria, as well as the inadequate reactions of Western states, were widely documented by historians, not much attention was given to refugee policies of states East of Germany and the rapid proliferation of the refugee no man’s land. The policy of driving out (mostly “foreign”) Jews from Austria after the Anschluss into the surrounding countries, the expulsion from Sudetenland into the interior of Czechoslovakia and the deportation from Southern Slovakia to Hungary after the Munich Agreement and the First Vienna Award, as well as the deportations of Polish Jews from Nazi Germany to Poland, all taking place within a short time frame between March and December 1938, have never been thoroughly analyzed in a comparative way, nor as part of the same process.12 11 Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism. New Edition with Added Prefaces, San Diego, Calif./New York/London 1973, 284. See also, out of extensive research on Arendt, a recent analysis of her theory of the figure of a refugee: Julia Schulze Wessel, Grenzfi­ guren. Zur politischen Theorie des Flüchtlings, Bielefeld 2017, 25–53. 12 For shorter accounts linking together some of these events, see e. g. Saul Friedländer, Nazi Germany and the Jews, 2 vols., New York 1997–2007, here vol. 1: The Years of Persecution, 1933–1939, New York 1997, 263–268; Tara Zahra, The Great Departure. Mass Migration from Eastern Europe and the Making of the Free World, New York 2016, 143–149.

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The existing research pertaining to these events either documents the prehistory and the course of the individual expulsions13 or discusses the development of national refugee policy14. Inspired by critical research in Western states, historians challenged national historiographies to discuss the restrictive reflex which resulted into turning Jews back at the borders and tougher internal controls. Wolf Gruner examined the role of these “first deportations,” and, in particular, of the expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany, in the development of the Nazis’ chaotic anti-Jewish policies into systematic deportations.15 This article provides a different perspective by drawing attention to the effects of the expulsions of Jews on the states eastern of Germany, most notably Poland and Czechoslovakia. It examines the refugee no man’s land from without rather than within, exploring its creation as well as its broader meanings and contexts while leaving the life inside these improvised refugee collectives to another study. In what follows, the no man’s land will be comparatively analyzed from three perspectives: 1) against the backdrop of shifting gov-

13 For expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany: Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung. The deportation of Polish Jews from Germany is historiographically the by far best documented of the sequence of large-scale expulsions of 1938; see also Karol Jonca, The Expulsion of Polish Jews from the Third Reich in 1938, in: Antony Polonsky/Jerzy Tomaszewski/ Ezra Mendelsohn (eds.), Jews in Independent Poland, 1918–1939, London/Washington, D.  C., 2004, 255–281; idem, “Noc kryształowa” i casus Herschela Grynszpana [The “Kristallnacht” and the Case of Herschel Gryznszpan], Wrocław 21998; Sybil Milton, The Expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany, October 1938 to July 1939. A Documentation, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 29 (1984), no. 1, 169–199; Bonnie M. Harris, From German Jews to Polish Refugees. Germany’s “Polenaktion” and the Zb a¸ szy n´ Deportations of October 1938, in: Kwartalnik Historii Zydow  ˙ [Jewish History Quarterly]  230 (2009), no. 2, 175–205; Gertrud Pickhan, “Niemandsland.” Die Briefe der Greta Schiffmann und das Schicksal einer jüdischen Familie, ausgewiesen aus Dortmund im Oktober 1938, in: Beiträge zur Geschichte der Stadt Dortmund und der Grafschaft Mark 91 (2000), 170–201; for Southern Slovakia: Eduard Niž nˇ anský et  al. (eds.), Holokaust na Slovensku. Dokumenty [Holocaust in Slovakia. Documents], 8  vols., Bratislava 2001– 2008, here vol. 1: Obdobie autonómie (6.10.1938–14.3.1939) [The Period of Autonomy (6.10.1938–14.3.1939)], Bratislava 2001; Eduard Niž nˇ anský, Židovská komunita na Slovensku medzi c ˇ eskoslovenskou parlamentnou demokraciou a slovenským štátom v stredoeurópskom kontexte; for Sudetenland (among others): Jan Benda, Út eˇ ky a vyhán eˇ ní z pohrani cˇ í c ˇ eských zemí 1938–1939 [Flight and Expulsions from the Border Areas of the Czech Lands], Prague 2013. 14 For Hungary: Frojimovics, I Have Been a Stranger in a Strange Land; for Czechoslovakia: ˇ Frankl, Unsichere Zuflucht. Die Tschechoslowakei und ihre Kateˇrina  Capková/Michal Flüchtlinge aus NS-Deutschland und Österreich 1933–1938, transl. from the Czech by Kristina Kallert, Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 2012. 15 Wolf Gruner, Von der Kollektivausweisung zur Deportation der Juden aus Deutschland (1938–1945). Neue Perspektiven und Dokumente, in: Birthe Kundrus/Beate Meyer (eds.), Die Deportation der Juden aus Deutschland. Pläne  – Praxis  – Reaktionen 1938–1945, Göttingen 2004, 21–62.

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ernment policies which led to complete border closure and, in effect, the appearance of the physical refugee no man’s land; 2) within the context of the multi-ethnic nation-states Eastern of Germany and their destabilization following the territorial revisions of 1938; and 3) in its relationship to the large-scale denaturalization of Jews in Poland and Czechoslovakia.

Domino of Closing Borders Until 1937, crossing physical state borders only rarely presented a significant challenge to the majority of refugees from Nazi Germany. The difficulties of finding a stable, semi-permanent refuge, legalizing one’s residence and obtaining a labor permit were much more important and troubling parts of the usual European refugee experience. Starting with 1938, as a result of the radicalization of Nazi policies of exclusion and expulsion, Jews from Germany (and increasingly from other countries) were now turned back at the borders. In this accelerating domino effect, radicalized violence, expulsions and stricter refugee controls reinforced each other and triggered off a rapid disintegration of the imperfect, yet at least partially functional, refugee regime developed in interwar Europe.16 Whereas earlier international refugee bodies and arrangements had aimed at providing refugees with certain rights normally reserved for citizens (such as labor permissions) and reduced the possibility of their expulsion, the Évian Conference of 1938 served participating states and organizations solely to discuss emigration from Europe and thus come to terms with the very reality of strengthened borders, which made any of such rights obsolete. The events of 1938, only selectively documented here, highlight this domino effect and the mutual entanglement of Nazi Germany and its neighbors in persecution, expulsion and border closure. Following the Anschluss of Austria in March, the new standard policy vis-à-vis Jewish refugees throughout Europe was to refuse the entry of all but the most narrowly defined categories. Already in early January 1938, the Ministry of Interior of Czechoslovakia prohibited the entry of Jews (and Communists) from Romania and intro­duced visa requirements for Romanian citizens in reaction to the measures of their newly elected right-wing, nationalist, pro-fascist and staunchly antisemitic Government. During its six weeks in power – until the declara16 Claudena M. Skran, Refugees in Inter-War Europe. The Emergence of a Regime, Oxford/ New York 1995. For an overview of refugee policies of Western European nation states, see Frank Caestecker/Bob Moore, Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Liberal European States, New York 2010.

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tion of royal dictatorship by King Carol II of Romania – this government under Octavian Goga rushed to issue a number of anti-Jewish decrees. At the time, this caused few  – if any  – Jewish refugees to try and cross into Czechoslovakia.17 After the Anschluss, however, refugees from Austria were arriving at the Czechoslovak border in large numbers, either on their own initiative, and driven by fear, or forcibly brought to the border by the Nazis. Many Jews fleeing to the Czechoslovak border held Polish citizenship or were stateless, most of them living in Austria since World War I. The Czechoslovak Ministry of Interior imposed a ban on the entry of Austrian citizens as early as evening of 11 March, as an immediate response to the occupation of the country and before any larger number of refugees could arrive. During the night from 11 to 12 March, Czech border policemen at the Lundenburg (Bˇreclav) railway station sent back several hundred Austrian citizens who had boarded the night train from Vienna, delivering many to the hands of the Gestapo. In the coming weeks and months, Czechoslovak border guards literally hunted down (mostly Jewish) refugees or expellees along the long green border, leading to an estimated total of 10,000 Jewish refugees caught in the border zone and returned to Austria.18 The reaction of the Polish government was strikingly similar, both in its speed and nature: Deputy Foreign Minister Jan Szembek, for instance, recorded a telephone conversation on 13 March 1938 with Prime Minister Felicjan Sławoj Składkowski who, out of hand, restricted the number of Polish Jews to be repatriated from Austria to a maximum of 500. The embassy in Vienna was instructed to conduct rigorous examination of applicants for Polish passports and to – “wherever possible – create difficulties and [use] bullying [robi c´ wstr ety i szykany].”19 Unlike the Czechoslovak refugee para­ noia, Polish suspicion was, from the very beginning, directed against Polish-Jewish citizens living abroad. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs exploited the fact that many of those living in annexed Austria did not possess a valid passport and routinely used other forms of identification for administrative or travel purposes. The Polish Consulate in Vienna was barred from issuing

ˇ CR, Presidium of the Ministry of Interior, 1936–1940, X/R/20, Box 1200–1202; 17 NA  Michal Frankl, “Židovstvo ztrácí své základy.” c ˇ eskoslovensko a rumunská uprchlická krize (1937–1938) [“The Jewry Looses its Foundations.” Czechoslovakia and the Romanian Refugee Crisis (1937–1938)], in: Terezínské studie a dokumenty [Terezín Studies and Documents] (2005), 297–309. – Other neighboring countries, for instance Yugoslavia, reacted according to a similar pattern. See Anna Maria Grünfelder, Von der Shoa eingeholt. Ausländische jüdische Flüchtlinge im ehemaligen Jugoslawien 1933–1945, Vienna/ Cologne/Weimar 2013, 46. ˇ 18 For details and references to sources, see  Capková/Frankl, Unsichere Zuflucht, 248–274. 19 Jan Szembek, Diariusz i teki Jana Szembeka, 1935–1945 [Diary and Documents of Jan Szembek, 1935–1945], 4 vols., London 1964–1972, here vol. 1, London 1964, 81.

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any new passports to Jewish citizens residing in Austria – a convenient way for the Government to prevent their return to their home country. There was, of course, no discussion about the possible admission of other Jews, those without Polish citizenship. Albeit driven by the Nazi expulsions in the first place, the interplay and transfer of exclusive and restrictive policies between states like Poland and Czechoslovakia further exacerbated the refugee position. The role of Czechoslovakia in the flight of Polish Jews from Austria illustrates this policy race between the states of which none wanted to put up with homeless Jewish refugees. From the first days of National Socialist rule in Austria, foreign, mostly Polish, and stateless Jews were subjected to escalating violence and confiscation of property. Many were brought directly to the borders of neighboring countries. Czechoslovak officials who feared an “invasion” of these unwanted “Eastern” Jews initially attempted to send them back; often only to apprehend them in yet another desperate attempt to cross the border. Eventually, they decided to transport them to the Polish border under guard to avoid the alleged risk of them illegally hiding in Czechoslovak territory. Over the course of spring and summer 1938, several thousand Polish Jews were deported through the country in this way.20 Their transfer across Czechoslovakia strengthened Polish efforts to prevent their entry by other means. The Czechoslovak approach to Jews fleeing from Sudetenland after the Munich Agreement, while quickly evolving and not entirely consistent, mostly followed the template tested on Romanian and Austrian refugees. The difference was in their numbers and ethnic categorization: About 250,000 people (including state employees) fled from the territory taken by Germany and Poland21 in what was the most extensive refugee flow in Bohemian lands since World War  I; and, in contrast to the earlier refugee groups, most of them were considered ethnic Czechs for whom Czechoslovakia recognized a special responsibility. In the first days, the government attempted to prevent the influx of Germans and Jews and, at times, returned them back; at the same time, it returned groups of German anti-Fascists back into contested territory where a plebiscite was supposed to take place (the vote, as it turned out, was never allowed by the Nazis) and where the Gestapo was already firmly established. During the Kristallnacht, which devastated what was still left of Jewish communities in Sudetenland, only five weeks after the German occupation, Czechoslovak authorities issued a strict ban on the entry of Jewish refugees.22 This intention ˇ 20   Capková/Frankl, Unsichere Zuflucht, 270–274. 21 For a more detailed listing of such estimates, see Benda, Út eˇ ky a vyhán eˇ ní z pohrani cˇ í c ˇ eských zemí 1938–1939, 128–136. ˇ Ministry of Labour and Social Welfare, 1938–1951, R 433, Box 161. 22 NA  CR,

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and many border incidents notwithstanding, most Jews from Sudetenland eventually found their way into the country. Knowledge of local topography, proximity and family connections, as well as the insufficient protection of the new demarcation line, all contributed to the fact that an overwhelming majority of Sudetenland Jews (approximately 20,000) could flee to the territory of the smaller, humiliated and antisemitic Czechoslovak Second Republic.23 These expulsions and the counter-measures were the result of the radical­ ization in the wake of Nazi territorial expansion. The new frontiers of the ­Reich also catalyzed attempts to solidify and enforce the frontiers within, those of the Nazi Volksgemeinschaft, through humiliation, violence and expulsion. Whereas the cases described above were characterized by chaotic removal of smaller groups, they also paved the way to more systematic largescale deportations in October and November 1938.

Challenge to the Nation State Border closure and desperate refugees caught between border lines were in no way limited to the eastern borders of Nazi Germany. Jacob Toury documented how, from 1937 onwards, Jews were ejected over the Western (“non-Slavic”) borders of Nazi Germany and, in many cases, turned back and caught in the no man’s land – typically very limited in time, space and number of refugees involved.24 Yet it was in East-Central Europe where this specific phenomenon multiplied and achieved a much larger significance, measured in number of cases and refugees affected, as well as in duration. The appearance of the no man’s land was related to the sensitivities encoded in the very existence of these multi-ethnic nation-states, and to the destabilization of their borders and sovereignty. 23 Jan Gebhart/Jan Kuklík, Druhá republika 1938–1939. Svár demokracie a totality v politickém, spole cˇ enském a kulturním život eˇ [Second Republic, 1938–1939. The Conflict of Democracy and Totalitarianism in Political, Social and Cultural Life], Prague 2004; Jan Rataj, O autoritativní národní stát. Ideologické prom eˇ ny c ˇ eské politiky v druhé republice 1938–1939 [Towards an Authoritative Nation State. Ideological Transformations of Czech Politics during the Second Republic, 1938–1939], Prague 1997; Miloš Pojar/Blanka Soukupová/Marie Zahradníková (eds.), Židovská menšina za druhé republiky. Sborník pˇrednášek z cyklu ve Vzd eˇ lávacím a kulturním centru Židovského muzea v Praze v lednu až c ˇ ervnu 2007 [The Jewish Minority during the Second Republic. Series of lectures in the Educational and Cultural Center of the Jewish Museum in Prague from January to June 2007], Prague 2007. 24 Jacob Toury, From Forced Emigration to Expulsion. The Jewish Exodus over the Non-Slavic Borders of the Reich as a Prelude to the “Final Solution,” in: Yad Vashem Studies 17 (1986), 51–91.

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A map placing the geography of the 1938 no man’s land on top of pre1918 East-Central Europe, before the rise of the nation-states, would reveal the novel character of such borders: None of the lines between which the refugee no man’s land arose were in place before 1918. The new borders were carved out of the pre-World War I empires, especially the multi-ethnic Habsburg Empire, hence the central role of the borders of the new Czechoslovakia, Austria, Hungary and Yugoslavia. All of these borders, including the German-Polish border, cut through territory with a population mixed in terms of language and religion. Many border zones featured insecure or contested ethnic/national identities and were influenced by histories of intense and hateful nationality conflicts, as well as of practices reflective of state nationalization policies.25 As demonstrated by Caitlin Murdock, borderland concepts and visions often influenced nationalist propaganda and state policies nationwide.26 Moreover, in the wake of the World War I, population exchanges affecting large numbers of people (either spontaneous or regulated by option treaties) gave these borders a new meaning. In 1938, refugees were seen as harbingers of something beyond just a competition on the labor market or challenge to the social system of the receiving state. In states like Czechoslovakia and Poland, they were perceived through an existential lens. Refugees (some of whom these states themselves “produced”) allegedly endangered the very construction of the nation-states as established after World War I, bringing back with new strength and renewed validity questions of national belonging, loyalty and citizenship dating back to the period of the “nation-building” at the end of the war and in its immediate aftermath. Annemarie H. Sammartino, in her inspiring study of the German-Polish “impossible” border, underlined the sensitivities and dilemmas of the German state’s inability to stabilize and control its frontiers during and after World War I. Contemporaries, so Sammartino, processed the war, defeat and post-war crisis and migration as related phenomena working “in tandem to undermine the relationship among territory, nation, and state.”27 Similarly, in 1938, the views of and policies towards refugees cannot be understood in separation from the territorial revisions and the growing anxiety of the multi-ethnic nation-states.

25 In lieu of of the extensive literature about nationality conflicts and national “frontiers,” see Pieter  M. Judson, Guardians of the Nation. Activists on the Language Frontiers of Imperial Austria, Cambridge, Mass./London 2006; Peter Haslinger (ed.), Grenze im Kopf. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Grenze in Ostmitteleuropa, Frankfurt a. M. et al. 1999. 26 Caitlin Murdock, Changing Places. Society, Culture, and Territory in the Saxon-Bohemian Borderlands, 1870–1946, Ann Arbor, Mich., 2010. 27 Annemarie H. Sammartino, The Impossible Border. Germany and the East, 1914–1922, Ithaca, N. Y., 22014, 3.

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The 1938 deportations tested not only the ability to protect the border, but the very sovereignty of the receiving states and their control over citizenship. Eventually, after the Munich Agreement, Czechoslovakia, including the more or less independent Slovak nationalist and anti-Semitic leadership, and Poland, were forced to yield to the Nazi pressure and (at least temporarily) accept the expelled Jews onto their territories. Throughout 1938, the dynamics of ethnic and racial exclusion and the “crisis of sovereignty” reinforced each other and ultimately resulted in the emergence of the no man’s land situated along the moving borders. Recent research on borderlands, their complex societies, loyalties of their inhabitants and fluidity of the meaning of the borderlines contributes to the explanation of the appearance, as well as the form of many cases of the refugee no man’s land of 1938. Historian Holly Case argued that the territorial disputes between nation-states such as Slovakia, Hungary and Romania, with their obsessions about Jewish disloyalty, should be better integrated into the historiographic study of the Holocaust.28 James Ward linked together the First Vienna Award, the deportation of Jews to disputed territories and the further development of anti-Jewish policies of the Slovak state. Slovakia could serve as a paradigmatic case in which territorial claims and irredentism helped to train and implicate a nation-state in persecution and deportation.29 The fragility of these border zones was foregrounded by the territorial revisions which not only demonstrated the impact of Nazi Germany and the prospect of its further expansion, but also dismantled the imperfect system of minority protections in these mixed nation-states. The Anschluss in March, the Munich Agreement in September and the First Vienna Award in November 1938, unsettled the already complex relationship between state, territory and (an imagined) nation. The border closures against refugees were thus concurrent with the subversion of the very same borders. The Czechoslovak army, for instance, thought of the same territory as a war zone and developed defense strategies and capacities, while Czechoslovak border guards busied themselves with tracing and returning refugees from Austria. The no man’s land which disproportionately proliferated on the new demarcation lines was also a result of attempts to re-establish the border, imagined as a clear and impermeable barrier. Wherever the instances of the no man’s land were linked to territorial revisions, as in the case of expulsions

28 Holly Case, The Holocaust in Regional Perspective. Antisemitism and the Holocaust in Hungary, Romania, and Slovakia, in: Murray Baumgarten/Peter Kenez/Bruce Thompson (eds.), Varieties of Antisemitism. History, Ideology, Discourse, Newark, Del., 2009, 75– 92. 29 James Mace Ward, The 1938 First Vienna Award and the Holocaust in Slovakia, in: Holocaust and Genocide Studies 29 (2015), no. 1, 76–108.

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from Sudetenland and from Slovakia, and where the demarcation lines between the posts of the states were still improvised and sometimes in flux, refugees would find themselves literally in the open, camping on a field or just along a road. On the other hand, on a more established border, refugees would often be interned within the broader border zone, for instance in  n. ´ Zb  aszy  The expulsion of Slovak Jews in November 1938 and the frequency of the no man’s land along the new Slovak-Hungarian demarcation line illustrate best the borderland dynamics and the nationalist obsessions with territory and nation, ethnicity and loyalty. The loss of Southern Slovakia led to the radicalization of accusations of Jewish disloyalty which was characteristic of Slovak interwar discourses:30 The expulsion of Slovak Jews was framed by national newspapers and political elites as a “just” reprisal for their alleged complicity with the Hungarians. In short, Jews were described as guilty of “Hungarization” and, by extension, of the humiliating shrinking of national territory. Slovak radical nationalists referred to an allegedly Jewish pro-Hungarian demonstration in Bratislava on 1 November, the eve of the diplomatic conference in Vienna.31 Yet, Slovak nationalism, antisemitism and sense of humiliation were not the only factors: While details remain undocumented, Adolf Eichmann, head of the Zentralstelle für jüdische Auswanderung in nearby Vienna, met with Slovak officials in Bratislava and probably had significant impact on the initial decision.32 The Slovak expulsion was initiated by a similar dynamic as the Czechoslovak reaction to refugees from Sudetenland: As early as 2 November 1938, the land office in Bratislava prohibited the entry of Jews from Southern regions of Slovakia which were soon to be ceded to Hungary. This decree did not differentiate between Czechoslovak citizens and foreigners and also stipulated the deportation of “Gypsies” to Hungary.33 Yet just before the beginning of the transfer of authority over the territory, Josef Tiso, Prime Minister of the Slovak autonomous government, ordered the district offices to deport Jews 30 Rebekah Klein-Pejšová, Mapping Jewish Loyalties in Interwar Slovakia, Bloomington, Ind., 2015. On the impact of the post-World War  I borders on the identity of Slovak Jews, see Éva Kovács, Identität oder Loyalität. Die Juden von Košice (Kaschau, Kassa) von der Ziehung der tschechoslowakisch-ungarischen Grenze bis zum Ersten Wiener Schiedsspruch, in: Haslinger (ed.), Grenze im Kopf, 103–114. 31 Niž  nˇ anský, Holokaust na Slovensku, vol. 1, Document 108, 226 f.; idem, Židovská komunita na Slovensku medzi c ˇ eskoslovenskou parlamentnou demokraciou a slovenským štátom v stredoeurópskom kontexte. 32 Idem, Holokaust na Slovensku, vol. 1, 237–245; see also Livia Rothkirchen, Slovakia II., 1918–1938, in: Guido Kisch (ed.), The Jews of Czechoslovakia. Historical Studies and Surveys, 3 vols., Philadelphia, Pa./New York 1968–1984, here vol. 1, 1968, 85–124, here 116. 33 Niž  nˇ anský, Holokaust na Slovensku, vol. 1, 228.

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several kilometers across the demarcation line, allowing them no more than a few hours to do so. The group of people intended for deportation was defined in a contradictory way in the sequence of orders sent out from Bratislava, either as destitute Jews or as those of a foreign nationality, testifying to the chaotic nature of the expulsion.34 The poorly prepared action was canceled by Tiso only three days later, yet a large number of expellees, in particular those without the right of domicile in the (now smaller) territory of Slovakia, continued to be displaced or lingered in the no man’s land. On the other side of the demarcation line, the Hungarian administration and the nationalist paramilitary units were equally preoccupied with outlining the borders of the national community. This included violent expulsion of local Slovaks, especially those who had immigrated to the Hungarian-speaking parts of Slovakia after 1918 with the support of the state and were considered “colonists.” The arrangements between the two states as laid out in the First Viennese Award anticipated voluntary movement of population according to national identity, and Czechoslovak authorities were supposed to only accept Slovaks and Jews.35 At the same time, Hungarian authorities expelled Jews who had been forced across the border by the Slovak deportation order, as well as those not possessing the right of domicile in the ceded districts. Many Jews on the other side of the border, in the newly acquired regions of Hungary, were further on considered foreign, or of uncertain citizenship, and were the first ones to be deported and massacred in 1941, following the invasion of the Soviet Union.36

From Citizens to Refugees In both Poland and Czechoslovakia, the “defense” against unwanted refugees was not restricted to the protection of unstable borders and contested border zones. The increasingly radical removal of Jews from Austria and 34 Idem, Židovská komunita na Slovensku medzi c ˇ eskoslovenskou parlamentnou demokraciou a slovenským štátom v stredoeurópskom kontexte, 35 f. 35 Katarína Ristveyová, Migrácia Slovákov a c ˇechov z južného Slovenska po viedenskej arbiráži (s dôrazom na región Žitného ostrova) [Migration of Slovaks and Czechs from Southern Slovakia after the First Vienna Award (with Emphasis on the Region of Žitný Ostrov)], in: Michal Šmigel ’/Pavol Tišliar (eds.), Migra cˇ né procesy Slovenska (1918–1948) [Migration Processes of Slovakia (1918–1948)], Banská Bystrica 2014, 229–247, here 247. 36 George Eisen/Tamás Stark, The 1941 Galician Deportation and the Kamenets-Podolsk Massacre. A Prologue to the Hungarian Holocaust, in: Holocaust and Genocide Studies 27 (2013), no. 2, 207–241.

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Germany, including the freshly annexed Sudetenland, led to the re-conceptualization of citizenship along ethnic lines. These changes, starting with emigration policies and resulting in large-scale denaturalization, were first tested on those who were (supposed to be) trapped in the no man’s land, potentially extending to all Jewish citizens of these countries. The physical no man’s land for refugees therefore visualized, communicated and negotiated the very possibility of future exclusion of Jews within the country, such as in Poland and Czechoslovakia. To understand this process, it is first necessary to take into account the strategies states deployed to control emigration in order to shape the body of remaining citizens.37 In Poland and Czechoslovakia, the emigration policies were increasingly debated as a government policy in conjunction with the demise of the protection of minorities sponsored by the League of Nations. In Poland, the emigration of Jews as a way towards a more homogeneous nation-state and an alleged solution for the country’s economic difficulties (instead of tackling its structural underdevelopment) was increasingly adapted by the Camp of National Unity (OZON) which supported the government. While officially refusing the antisemitic radicalism and anti-Jewish violence of the endecja and other nationalist forces, the Polish government perceived Jews as a foreign element with deleterious economic and social effects. It exerted pressure on a substantial part of Jews to emigrate and Polish diplomats attempted – without success – to negotiate settlement options around the globe with possible receiving countries.38 Thus, in January 1939, for instance, the prime minister pledged support to “the most effective means of solving the Jewish question in Poland” in response to an interpellation of OZON deputies. Jewish emigration, argued Sławoj Składkowski, was necessary not only for political, but primarily for demographic and economic reasons.39

37 Nancy L. Green/François Weil (eds.), Citizenship and Those Who Leave. The Politics of Emigration and Expatriation, Urbana, Ill., 2007; Eric Lohr, Russian Citizenship. From Empire to Soviet Union, Cambridge, Mass., 2012; Zahra, The Great Departure. 38 Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung, 39–62; Edward D. Wynot Jr., “A Necessary Cruelty.” The Emergence of Official Anti-Semitism in Poland, 1936–39, in: The American Historical Review 76 (1971), no. 4, 1035–1058; Emanuel Melzer, No Way Out. The Politics of Polish Jewry, 1935–1939, Cincinnati, Oh., 1997; Wiktor Tomir Drymmer, W słu z˙ bie ´ z lat 1914–1947 [In the Service of Poland. Polsce. Wspomnienia  z˙ ołnierza i pa nstwowca Recollections of a Soldier and Official, 1914–1947], Kraków/Warsaw 22014; Hans Jansen, Der Madagaskar-Plan. Die beabsichtigte Deportation der europäischen Juden nach Ma­ dagaskar, with a preface by Simon Wiesenthal, transl. from the Dutch by Markus Jung, Munich 1997. 39 [Felicjan Sławoj Składkowski], Emigration Policy of Poland, Contemporary Jewish Record 2 (1939), no. 2, 71–74.

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By the time of the Munich Agreement, Czechoslovakia joined Poland in officially adopting the belief that overpopulation combined with economic crisis had to be addressed through ethnically filtered emigration. This was exemplified by the activity of the government-sponsored Institute for Refugee Welfare (Ústav pro pé cˇ i o uprchlíky). Established several weeks after the Munich Agreement, the Institute’s mission was to take care of the refugees from the border areas annexed by Germany and later by other states. While it supported ethnic Czechs to be reintegrated and obtain social welfare services, health care and employment, Germans and Jews were pressured to emigrate. The institute director, Lev Zavˇrel, was involved in the British-Czechoslovak negotiations of a post-Munich loan accompanied with a gift to fund refugee emigration.40 Although the emigration plans of these nation-states were not met with much success, they still had an impact on the general understanding of citizenship. Merely by discussing Jews as subjects of emigration, they also marked them as potential non-citizens, or as citizens until further notice. Soon, the physical no man’s land was also accompanied by unprecedented legal steps excluding from citizenship Jewish refugees seeking to escape to their own country. By 1938, mass denaturalization of political opponents or of people categorized as Jews was indeed not new. The Soviet denaturalization of political émigrés in 192141 as well as the policies of Nazi Germany provided influential models. A law of July 1933 made it possible to strip of their German citizenship well-known political opponents who fled abroad and to revoke post-World War I naturalizations, in particular those of Jewish immigrants.42 40 Tara Zahra explores the exclusionary nature of the activities of the institute which later  – under the occupation  – contributed to confiscation of Jewish property. Idem, The ˇ Great Departure, 171–175. See the collection in NA CR, Ministry of Labor and Social Welfare; further see the defensive account by Jaroslav Šíma, c ˇ eskoslovenští pˇrest eˇ hovalci v letech 1938–1945. Pˇrísp eˇvek k sociologii migrace a theorie sociální pé cˇ e [Czechoslovak Migrants in the Years 1938–1945. A Contribution to the Sociology of Migration and Theory of Welfare Care], Prague 1945. On emigration from Czechoslovakia, see also Peter Heumos, Die Emigration aus der Tschechoslowakei nach Westeuropa und dem Nahen Osten 1938–1945. Politisch-soziale Struktur, Organisation und Asylbedingungen der tsche­chischen, jüdischen, deutschen und slowakischen Flüchtlinge während des Nationalsozialismus. Darstellung und Dokumentation, Munich 1989. 41 Lohr, Russian Citizenship, 145–151. 42 Dieter Gosewinkel, Einbürgern und Ausschließen. Die Nationalisierung der Staatsangehörigkeit vom Deutschen Bund bis zur Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Göttingen 2001, 369–403; Martin Dean, Robbing the Jews. The Confiscation of Jewish Property in the Holocaust, 1933–1945, Cambridge/New York 2008, 33–46; Michael Hepp/Hans Georg Lehmann (eds.), Die Ausbürgerung deutscher Staatsangehöriger 1933–45. Nach den im Reichsanzeiger veröffentlichten Listen, 3 vols., Munich et al. 1985–1988, here vol. 1: Listen in chronologischer Reihenfolge, Munich et al. 1985.

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With the adoption of the Nuremberg Laws, as well as measures to prevent Jewish refugees from returning to Nazi Germany, and the quickened pace of their denaturalization, other states became much more reluctant to receive such fugitives: Czechoslovakia, for instance, began around 1936 to differentiate between allegedly real refugees and economic migrants, who were thought of as Jewish and treated as unwanted.43 The exclusionary dynamic of 1938 can be measured in the series of revisions to citizenship laws in the nation-states in East-Central Europe. In January, the Romanian government ordered a modification of Jewish citizenship, designed to undo the more inclusive rules of the 1920s which Romania had been forced to accept as a part of the peace treaty and which were largely based on the territorial principle (such as the right of domicile). Started under the government of Octavian Goga, the revision was continued even after its early abdication and eventually resulted in the denaturalization of approximately 225,000 Jews, mostly from the newly acquired territories.44 Soon thereafter, the Anschluss of Austria was the incentive for a revision of Polish citizenship law along ethno-nationalist lines. By the end of March 1938, the Sejm adopted new legislation permitting the withdrawal of citizenship from people living abroad and engaging in anti-Polish activity, or “losing connection to the Polish state,” that is, failing to enter the country for more than five years. While seemingly addressing the issue of political refugees, the actual aim of the revision was the denaturalization of Polish Jews living in Germany and elsewhere. This law, and the subsequent examination of passports, served the Nazis as a pretext for the large-scale expulsion of October 1938. While passed as an immediate reaction to the influx of Jews from Austria after the Anschluss, the law had already been prepared in 1937 in the Consular Section of the Polish Ministry of Foreign Affairs by Wiktor Tomir Drymmer and his collaborators, who favored the vision of an ethnically homogeneous Poland, binding citizenship to ethnicity.45 In January 1939, Czechoslovakia followed suit with a government decree revising the citizenship rules for those who had lived in Sudetenland beˇ Presidium of the Ministry of Interior, 1936–40, 5/51/20, Instructions of the MinCR, 43 NA  istry of the Interior, 18 May 1936; ibid., Instructions of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 3 July 1936. 44 Joshua Starr, Jewish Citizenship in Rumania (1878–1940), in: Jewish Social Studies  3 (1941), no. 1, 57–80; Constantin Iordachi, Citizenship and National Identity in Romania. A Historical Overview, in: Regio Yearbook (2003), 3–34; idem, The Unyielding Boundaries of Citizenship. The Emancipation of “Non-Citizens” in Romania, 1866–1918, in: European Review of History/Revue européenne d’histoire  8 (2001), no.  2, 157–186; Dietmar Müller, Staatsbürger auf Widerruf. Juden und Muslime als Alteritätspartner im rumänischen und serbischen Nationscode. Ethnonationale Staatsbürgerschaftskonzepte 1878–1941, Wiesbaden 2005, 454–459. 45 Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung, 82.

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fore the Munich Agreement or had been naturalized after the establishment of independent Czechoslovakia two decades earlier. The decree stipulated ethnicity as one of the key factors in deciding about citizenship (Czechs, Slovaks and Subcarpathian Russians were excluded from the revision). As a result, authorities routinely denaturalized Jewish refugees from Sudetenland over the spring and summer of 1939. The decree was probably seen as a quick fix to what officials saw as an imperfect arrangement allowing inhabitants to choose between Germany and Czechoslovakia after the Munich Agreement. While following up on the post-World War I option treaties by granting citizens of the other nation the right to choose the citizenship of another nation state, the Czechoslovak-German option treaty of November 1938 differed in two ways. First, Czechs, Germans and Jews were fleeing the annexed territories due to a direct threat of persecution. Second, there was a telling contradiction between the Czechoslovak and Nazi interpretation of the right to choose: Whereas the German side based it on racial rules and excluded Jews, Czechoslovakia made it at least theoretically possible for Jews to claim Czechoslovak citizenship. Under the option treaty, Sudeten Jews who automatically acquired Reich German citizenship (if they, their parents or grandparents were born in Sudetenland before 1910) had the right to opt for Czechoslovak citizenship as the Nazis didn’t consider them ethnic Germans.46 The comparison of Polish and Czechoslovak denaturalization practices imposed on Jews brings interesting insights exactly because the geopolitical situation of both countries, at the time these laws were enacted, was strikingly different with regard to territorial integrity. A still sovereign Poland attempting to play great-power diplomatic games, and a post-Munich Czechoslovakia, weakened and increasingly under the pressure of Nazi Germany both shared the understanding of Jewish refugees holding their respective country’s citizenship but living outside their territory as an anomaly and destabilizing factor to the imagined borders of the nation. If such refugees, considered foreign based on ethnic categorization and nationalization politics, were citizens, the rules of citizenship were ultimately to be altered. Moreover, since exclusion from citizenship also affected its inclusive parameters, the restrictive policies towards marginalized groups of Jews would also have an impact on the local, long-naturalized Jewish communities. In both countries, Jewish organizations feared that the revocation of citizenship of specific groups of Jews was only the first step towards a denaturalization of all Jewish citizens. 46 Vladimír Verner, Státní ob cˇ anství a opce v d u˚ sledku pˇripojení sudetského území k N eˇ mecku [Citizenship and Option as a Consequence of the Annexation of the Sudeten Territory to Germany], Prague 1938; Gebhart/Kuklík, Druhá republika 1938–1939, 35.

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Refugees sheltered along roads and in dilapidated buildings between the borderlines and those whose citizenship was revoked were often the same people. The 1938 no man’s land for refugees is a significant topic for the study of the Holocaust in linking together two forms of exclusion, both in Nazi Germany and in the nation-states of East-Central Europe: the barriers erected at external borders, where the no man’s land was physically located, and the redefinition of the internal frontiers of the nation, a figurative no man’s land. It demonstrates that the rise of restrictive refugee policies based on ethnic categorization led to a re-framing of citizenship and the transformation of all Jews into refugees, de facto stateless and without rights, as experienced and described by Arendt.47

47 The research for and the writing of this paper was made possible by my Margit Meissner Fellowship for the Study of the Holocaust in Czech Lands at the Jack, Joseph and Morton Mandel Center for Advanced Holocaust Studies of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, the Sorrell and Lorraine Chesin/JDC Archives Fellowship, by the support from the Zukunftsfonds Österreich for the project “BeGrenzte Flucht. Die österreichischen Flüchtlinge an der Grenze zur Tschechoslowakei im Krisenjahr 1938,” as well as by the Czech Research Agency project “Citzens of the No Man’s Land. Jewish Refugees and Erosion of Citizenship in East-Central Europe, 1935–1939,” no 18-16793S.

Alina Bothe

Forced over the Border: The Expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany in 1938/39 The so-called Polenaktion of 1938 was the first organized and bureaucratically implemented mass expulsion, bearing semblance to later deportations. On 26  October that year, Reichsführer SS and Chief of German Police, Heinrich Himmler, issued a Schnellbrief (express letter) ordering the mass deportation of about 20,000 Polish Jews from across the Reich. Between 27 and 29 October, they were brought to collection points, and from there taken to the Polish border by regular or non-regular service trains. This was the beginning of the unique persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship as a group in the Reich, which would affect at least two thirds of the passport holders directly and potentially nearly hundred percent indirectly, due to family or other relations. Having been described as “prelude to destruction” (Jerzy Tomaszewski1) or “general rehearsal” (Yfaat Weiss2), present-day assessments of the Polenaktion are largely based on today’s knowledge of subsequent events, and will hardly ever perceive it as a chapter of the history of the Shoah in its own right. Outstanding is Tomaszewski’s pioneering monograph from 1998 (1999 in German translation).3 Shorter works on the topic were prepared by Karol Jonca, Trude Maurer, Sybil Milton and Yfaat Weiss.4 All of them provide general overviews, but do not explore in 1 Jerzy Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung. Die Vertreibung polnischer Juden aus Deutschland im Jahre 1938, Osnabrück 2002. 2 Yfaat Weiss, Deutsche und polnische Juden vor dem Holocaust. Jüdische Identität zwi­ schen Staatsbürgerschaft und Ethnizität 1933–1940, Munich 2000, 195–204. 3 His study is an excellent analysis of the Polish diplomatic and foreign history, but he did not consider German files nor reports or testimonies. Furthermore, he focussed on the first Polenaktion, only hinted at the following events and, eventually, did not relate his findings to other processes of deportation between 1938 and 1941. 4 Trude Maurer, Abschiebung und Attentat. Die Ausweisung der polnischen Juden und der Vorwand für die “Kristallnacht,” in: Walter H. Pehle (ed.), Der Judenpogrom 1938. Von der “Reichskristallnacht” zum Völkermord, Frankfurt a.  M. 1988, 52–73; Wolf Gruner, Von der Kollektivausweisung zur Deportation der Juden aus Deutschland (1938–1945). Neue Perspektiven und Dokumente, in: Birthe Kundrus/Beate Meyer (eds.), Die Deportation der Juden aus Deutschland. Pläne  – Praxis  – Reaktionen 1938–1945, Göttingen 2004, 21–62; Werner Benecke, Ausgewiesen ins Niemandsland. Die NS-“Polenaktion” JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 267–288.

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detail in what way the Polenaktion, as the first mass deportation under highly different local circumstances, was implemented. Therefore, regional studies are of huge importance, but have not been conducted and evaluated systematically.5 All existing local studies have their focus on one city rather than a whole state, and lack a most valuable comparative dimension. But especially the framework of the states and Gaue is important to understand the implementation of this expulsion and the persecutions it entailed. This article places the persecution of Polish Jews in October 1938 within the context of NS persecution policies as well as of the crucial year 1938. The persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship is considered an independent chapter on the path towards the Shoah, thereby allowing for the detailed analysis of both the group of Polish Jews as a specific target and the key role of this persecution. It is important to look behind given labels, and to keep in mind that the expulsion was not meant to be a “prelude to extermination.” Rather, it was first intended as an attack against a group of Jews based on their citizenship and campaigned against for years, a group seen as the epitome of the Ostjude, target of Nazi Politics since the early 1920s. And second, it was intended as a violation of the Polish border, which becomes even more obvious in the events of 1939. Therefore, in this article, for the first time, an approach on the state or regional level is considered, which expands the perspective beyond a certain city and takes into account interplay on a higher administrative level as well as obstacles and problems faced by the perpetrators on this level. The Saxonian Ministry of Interior received reports from all over the state on the implementation of Himmler’s expulsion order, this

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des Jahres 1938 im europäischen Kontext, in: Kerstin Schoor/Stefanie Schüler-Springorum (eds.), Gedächtnis und Gewalt. Nationale und transnationale Erinnerungsräume im östlichen Europa, Göttingen 2016, 150–165; Karol Jonca, Spor niemiecko-polski o wysiedlenie Zydów z Trzeciej Rzeszy, in: Prace Prawnicze [German-Polish Conflict about the Deportation of Jews from the Third Reich] 186 (1990), 105–127; Bonnie Harris, From German Jews to Polish Refugees. Germany’s Polenaktion and the Zbaszyn Deportations of October 1938, in: Kwartalnik Historii Zydów 230  ˙ (2009), no. 2, 175–205. Bettina Goldberg, Die Zwangsausweisung der polnischen Juden aus dem Deutschen R ­ eich im Oktober 1938 und die Folgen, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 46 (1998), 971–984; Gertrud Pickhan, “Niemandsland”. Die Briefe der Greta Schiffmann und das Schicksal einer jüdischen Familie, ausgewiesen aus Dortmund im Oktober 1938, in: Bei­ träge zur Geschichte der Stadt Dortmund und der Grafschaft Mark 91 (2001), 170–202; dies., W obozie w Zb  aszyniu. ˛ Losy ludzi wygnachych z Niemiec na przykładzie jednej rodziny [In the Camp of Zb  aszy ´ ˛ n. The Fate of the People Expelled from Germany – an Example of One Family], in: Izabela Skórzynska/Wojciech Olejniczak (eds.), Do Zobaczenia Za Rok W Jerozolimie. Deportacje polskich Zydów  ˙ w 1938 roku z Niemiec do Zb  aszynia ˛ [See You Next Year in Jerusalem. Deportations of Polish Jews from Germany to Zb  ˛ aszy ´n in 1938], Pozna ´n 2012, 85–94; Alina Bothe/Gertrud Pickhan, Ausgewiesen! Berlin, 28. Oktober 1938. Die Geschichte der “Polenaktion”, Berlin 2018.

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allowing for comparison of the various ways it was executed, including the distinctly different deportation regimes in urban and rural areas. A number of questions will be discussed in this article: Which differ­ences in the local deportation regimes between smaller and larger towns, rural and urban, can be stated? Who were the main agents on the ground? Which problems arising from the expulsion for the perpetrators could hint at later adaption processed? How did the deportees respond? Pioneering research into the topic has been done, but an integrated analysis of the events within the context of crucial months before the German attack on Poland is still missing.6 This article, based on a vast amount of empirical material that provides insights into regional, local and biographical contexts, will discuss new perspectives on the persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship in the Reich, focussing on 1938. The State of Saxony will be used as a case study, the samples from Berlin as comparative examples. Saxony was selected as it had in Leipzig a centre of Polish-Jewish migration and also a sizeable number of Jews with Polish passports in different cities, with still more than 3,000 Jews with Polish citizenship registered in 1938. Berlin was the hub of Eastern European Jewish migration from the 1880s onwards and had still ten thousand Jews with Polish passports living in the city in 1938.7 Most of them were either born in Berlin or in Galicia, then Austria, and received Polish citizenship after the minority treaties resulting from the Paris Peace Conference. The first mass expulsion8 cannot be discussed without considering the external and internal political developments between 1933 and 1939. Especially the year 1938 is now regarded as pivotal. During that year, the Reich was not only able to consolidate its position in foreign politics, but to strengthen it considerably: Austria was annexed on 12 March 1938; in July, the Évian

6 With regard to the German invasion of Poland, two aspects concerning the persecution of Polish Jews in the Reich need further research: There is a noticeable overlap of senior figures of the Ministry of Interior and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs responsible for the expulsions as well as for the preparation of the German attack. This is worth considering when conceptualizing the expulsions of 1938/39 not only as an antisemitic action, but as an attempt at weakening the Polish state and at penetrating the Polish border. A second overlap can be observed with regard to the Reichssicherheitshauptamt. 7 Anne-Christin Saß, Berliner Luftmenschen. Osteuropäisch-jüdische Migranten in der Wei­marer Republik, Göttingen 2012, 15.   8 Wolf Gruner pointedly argued against the use of the term “deportation” for the Polenaktion. Even though the actions bore resemblances and the term has been used in contemporary publications, it is important to mark a clear difference to later deportation, but just with a nuance to Nisko in 1939 and Schneidemühl/Piła in 1940; Jonny Moser, Nisko. Die ersten Deportationen, Wien 2012. I discuss the use of terminology in Alina Bothe, Refugees or Deportees? The Semantics of the First “Polenaktion” Past and Present, in: S:I.M.O.N. (forthcoming).

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Conference concluded without eliciting any commitments from participating countries towards Jewish refugees; in September, the “Sudeten crisis” led to the Munich Agreement.9 Domestically, Germany’s drastic changes in the persecution of the Jewish population must be taken into account: “The year 1938 stands for a new dimension of violence against Jews, for the transition from discrimination and disenfranchisement to systematic persecution, dispossession and expulsion.”10 This included extreme acts of violence in Vienna in March 1938, the so-called Juni-Aktion (Aktion Arbeitsscheu Reich), the first Polenaktion, the November Pogroms and following deportations to concentration camps, which meant the incarceration of thousands of Jews in the Reich.11 It is always as difficult as it is important to mark ruptures between earlier and later practices of persecution. Expulsions of Jews from Eastern Europe happened more or less regularly in the Weimar Republic, as well; smaller-scale actions were taken from 1933 onwards, followed, in 1938, by failed expulsion orders against Jews from the Soviet Union and Romania. A couple of factors, however, mark both Polenaktionen as unique. First of all, the first action was carried out in as little as two days, aiming at the largest target group yet to be deported from the Reich. Second, it had been planned for at least six months prior to October 1938. Third, the victims had been registered on lists with the involuntary assistance of Jewish organizations. Fourth, a broad range of authorities and institutions worked together to make the expulsion happen, among them not only the police or the SS, but, for example, the German Reichsbahn and the German Red Cross. Fifth, this was not a one-time operation, but carried out repeatedly against the same group, defined by their citizenship as Ostjuden until at least June 1942, with the Aryanization through the Haupttreuhandstelle Ost, Abteilung Altreich, into 1942. The Polenaktion was in no way spontaneous, but a thoroughly planned continuing campaign.

  9 See Martin Jost’s article in this volume. 10 Raphael Gross, November 1938. Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, Munich 2013, 9. 11 Christian Faludi (ed.), Die “Juni-Aktion” 1938. Eine Dokumentation zur Radikalisierung der Judenverfolgung, Frankfurt a. M. 2013; Kim Wünschmann, Before Auschwitz. Jewish Prisoners in the Prewar Concentration Camps, Cambridge, Mass./London 2015.

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Polenaktion 1938: From the Legal Prelude to Expulsion Following the German invasion of Austria, the Polish parliament (Sejm) passed a law on citizenship as part of the so-called March Laws. This law had been in preparation for a while based on fears, as Jerzy Tomaszewski has highlighted, that growing persecution in Austria and the German Reich could cause masses of impoverished Jews with Polish citizenship to (re)migrate to Poland.12 Polish citizens who lived abroad and had not re-entered Poland in the last five years, could now be stripped of their citizenship. The law was neutral in language, but clearly aimed at Jews with Polish papers living in Austria and Germany. The statements of the Polish government and the Sejm, defending the new law with a mix of anti-Semitic and economic arguments, confirmed this target.13 After an extensive exchange of notes between the two states, in which the Reich demanded the revocation of the March Laws, the Ausländerpolizei­ verordnung (regulation of the police’s handling of aliens) came into force on 22 August 1938. This regulation had been drafted in preparation of the expulsions and stated that the residency permit of a resident alien became invalid the moment this person had his or her citizenship revoked.14 This implied that Jews who lost their Polish citizenship under the March Laws, would lose their right to reside in Germany at the same time. Recognizing their growing vulnerability to the new Polish and German jurisdiction, some people at risk of deportation made great efforts to emigrate in early 1938, as we know from letters and testimonies.15 Article 5, section 2 of the Ausländerpolizeiverordnung stipulated that the ban on residence could be extended to spouses as well as children of resident aliens, even “if the legal prerequisites for such ban do not exist in the person 12 Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung, 74. 13 Gertrud Pickhan, Polen, in: Handbuch des Antisemitismus. Judenfeindschaft in Geschichte und Gegenwart, ed. by Wolfgang Benz on behalf of the Center for Research on Antisemitism of the Technische Universität Berlin, 8 vols., Munich 2008–2015, here vol. 1: Länder und Regionen, Munich 2008, 276–283. 14 Ausländerpolizeiverordnung vom 22.  August 1938, in: Zeitschrift für ausländisches öffentliches Recht und Völkerrecht  8 (1938), 793–799, here 794, (17 December 2018): “Die Aufenthaltserlaubnis (§ 2) erlischt, (2) sobald der Ausländer keinen gültigen, nach den Paßbestimmungen erforderlichen Paß oder Paßersatz mehr besitzt; (3) wenn der Ausländer seine Staatsangehörigkeit wechselt oder verliert.” 15 “I said to my father – this measure is directly intended against us Polish Jews and I told him, I am afraid, that I am convinced the Nazi Government would […] take some action.” USC Shoah Foundation, Visual History Archive, Julius Buck Interview 37719, 1997, Segment 34–35, Min. 4:31–5:01.

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of the members of the family.”16 In most German states, women received the citizenship of their husbands upon marriage. But with this regulation, the deportation of children under the age of 15 as well as of spouses with German citizenship became possible. The execution of the deportation was ruled in article 7, section 5: “The alien under the legal prerequisites of section 1 is to be expelled from the Reich’s territory by use of force, if he does not leave the Reich voluntarily or if the use of force seems necessary for another reason. The alien can be taken into custody to secure his deportation.”17

Exactly those arrests started in the West of the German Reich in the late afternoon of 27 October. When arrested, deportees were usually allowed to dress, and to take with them a small suitcase and a maximum of 10 Reichsmark only, depending on local deportation regimes. In Nuremberg, for example, most deportees were arrested and deported in their nightgowns, without food or proper clothing. In most cases, whole families were deported, while some cities, like Berlin, deported mostly adult men and boys over the age of 15.18 Of all the trains that collected Jews from across the Reich for deportation, about half went to Neu-Bentschen (Zb   aszynek). ˛ From there, the deportees were forced at gunpoint to march towards the Polish border and across into no-mans-land, where they would often be met with the violent resistance of Polish border guards. For those who had to march from Neu-Bentschen, the aszy ´ ˛ n/Bentschen. About 8,000– first Polish border town they reached was Zb   9,000 deportees reached Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n that last weekend in October 1938. Others were deported at different border posts, like Beuthen  O.S./Bytom (Upper Silesia). Some managed swiftly to leave Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n or Beuthen behind and reach Warsaw and Cracow, while others arrived on direct trains in Poland’s larger cities. The deportations stopped on 29 October 1938 as Poland threatened to expel ethnic Germans from Poland in return.19 Some thousand people could leave Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n in the very first days and travel to the mainland of Poland. But for the majority, the small town of Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n became a place of transitory existence for many months. They were, in Sybil Milton’s words, “people between borders.”20 The small town had little to 16 Ausländerpolizeiverordnung vom 22. August 1938, 794. 17 Ibid., 795. 18 Alina Bothe, “… wird gegen Sie ein Aufenthaltsverbot für das Reich erlassen.” Die Deportation von Jüdinnen und Juden polnischer Staatsangehörigkeit aus Berlin im Oktober 1938, in: Henning Borggräfe (ed.), Freilegungen. Wege, Orte und Räume der NS-Verfolgung, Göttingen 2016, 83–105. 19 Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung, 86. 20 Sybil Milton, Menschen zwischen Grenzen. Die Polenausweisung 1938, in: Menora. Jahrbuch für deutsch-jüdische Geschichte, Munich 1990, 184–206. For a discussion of these No-Man’s-Lands see the paper of Michal Frankl in this volume.

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offer in terms of accommodation, like stables and a mill, and later tents. It eventually turned into a huge, improvised refugee camp, which had some characteristics of an internment camp.21 The deportees or refugees were supplied by Polish Jewish charities. In many cities, relief committees for the refugees were formed. “After the first days of sheer chaos, the soon arriving Jewish relief organizations were able to create a sort of infrastructure in the camp. Schools, Polish-language classes, workshops and canteen kitchens were established that made life easier for the deportees.”22

International observers criticized the inhumane situation in Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n and expressed their sympathy with the victims, but their response stayed without consequences.23 On 24 January 1939, a bilateral agreement between Poland and the German Reich was signed that allowed some deportees to return for a short time, but their number was not to exceed 1,000. The number of people who returned to Germany is unknown yet. Those who returned sold their belongings in a hurry and at ridiculous prices (Verschleuderung) or sometimes tried to ship parts of it to Poland if their financial situation permitted to do so. During 1939, three types of response to the situation became most common for deportees: 1. They prepared to settle in Poland; 2. they tried to emigrate to different countries by any means necessary; or 3. they attempted to return illegally to the Reich. Many of those who returned legally or illegal to Germany were arrested in September 1939 in the so-called second Polenaktion. A bird’s eye view of the events unfolding in late October 1938 in Germany reveals a fixed pattern: Jews with Polish passports were arrested all over the German Reich, aside from Austria, and transferred to the Polish border, which they were forced to cross. Here, they either had to stay in makeshift aszy ´ ˛ n or could move on to shelters and improvised accommocamps like Zb   dation within the interior of Poland. Few were able to return, to emigrate to third countries or to have their relatives join them in Poland. Observing this historic episode from a medium-level perspective, however, its complexity becomes more evident. Among the German states, and even on a local level, the Schnellbrief was executed very differently. Therefore, it is worthwhile to discuss events and experiences of the expulsion measures in their local contexts in comparison.

21 Skórzynska/Olejniczak, Do Zobaczenia Za Rok W Jerozolimie, passim. 22 Pickhan, “Niemandsland”, 175. 23 Tomaszewski, Auftakt zur Vernichtung, 161.

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Saxony’s Policies of Expulsion: Preparations before October 1938 The expulsion of October 1938 was not the first time since 1933 that the State of Saxony tried to drive out Jews with Polish citizenship. One organized attempt, for example, took place in May 1935. Unlike the later mass expulsion, it was mostly aimed at those with a criminal record or otherwise deemed dangerous to the Volksgemeinschaft, for instance, by being in a non-marital relationship with an “Aryan” woman. Between the Kreishauptmannschaft (administrative district) Leipzig and Saxony’s Ministry of Interior in Dresden a longer dispute developed on how the expulsion should be implemented without risking complaints from the Polish Embassy.24 While the measure, entailing primarily the deportation of convicted Rassenschänder to Poland,25 was ultimately revoked on the Reich’s level, it is worth considering the arguments discussed between local and state bureaucracies. As mentioned above, the persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship was closely intertwined with the Polish German relations in general. One can observe a long running conflict between different agents of the NS regime regarding their stance towards Poland. When, in May 1935, the Gestapa Dresden wrote to the Police President of Leipzig that “[t]he expulsion of the East Jewish immigrants from the German Reich territory has always been an excellent goal of the National Socialist movement,”26 it was an unusually blunt statement on the part of Saxony’s Ministry, and not at all in accordance with the diplomatic tone officials tried to maintain at Reich’s level until mid-1939. An Aktenvermerk (file note) of the ministry states accordingly: “In the application of these racial-political principles regarding Polish Jews, no special consideration shall be given to the foreign-policy relations with Poland.”27 It seems noteworthy, however, that doubts about the expulsion were carefully voiced on local administrative levels, based on laws as well as contracts with the Polish state: “As long as the trade deals etc. include Jews, it will not be possible to expel them from the Reich if they behave impeccably.”28

24 Sächsisches Hauptstaatsarchiv Dresden (henceforth SächsHStA), Ministerium des Innern, no. 11705, fol. 234–236, Präsident des Gestapo-Bezirks Sachsen to Minister des Innern, Dresden, 7 September 1935. 25 The connection between sexuality, sexual policies and the Polish Jew as the epitome of the Ostjude would be worth considering in broader detail. 26 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11705, fol. 235, Präsident des Gestapo-Bezirks Sachsen to Minister des Inneren, Dresden, 7 September 1935. 27 Ibid., fol. 124, Aktenvermerk Staatsminister des Innern, Dresden, 3 May 1935. 28 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11687, fol. 180, Kreishauptmann zu Chemnitz to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, 13 May 1938.

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By the time the Polish March Laws came into force, Saxony had already prepared a register of all foreign Jews living in the state, with particular focus on Czech and Polish Jews. This register began on 6 January 1938, but information seems to have been filed during spring that year.29 For example, on 16 March 1938, the Staatspolizeileitstelle (state police office) Chemnitz ordered members of the Jewish community of Chemnitz holding Polish citizenship to fill in a questionnaire that had been sent to them.30 This questionnaire asked for personal details, but also for connections to the Jewish community, such as membership in associations before 1933. Expulsion might have been the ultimate goal of this procedure, but gaining information on potential deportees was the other.

Implementing Orders: Local Deportation Regimes A few thousand people were arrested in late October 1938 in Saxony, and the majority of them was sent to Poland. As far as these deportations can be reconstructed today, their most common destination was Beuthen/Bytom. Compared to Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n, the immediate border situation there has not yet been studied thoroughly. The order to arrest and expel Jews with Polish passports arrived in larger cities by telegram and was passed on to local Dienststellen by phone. In most smaller communities, either the mayor or the police commander took responsibility for the orderly implementation of the deportation. It is estimated that the number of Jews being deported from Saxony in October 1938 was higher than 3,000. More than 1,600 persons from Leipzig, a further 724 from Dresden, and over 250 from Chemnitz and the surrounding area. Great differences can be seen along the following vectors: center and periphery, size of Jewish population with Polish citizenship, actions of local authorities. By discussing examples from different cities and areas in Saxony, these differences will be made visible. For the smaller towns, Falkenstein in the Vogtland region can be seen as paradigmatic. The district chief (Amtshauptmann) received the expulsion order on 27  October at 5.30 pm by phone, followed by the identification of

29 Ibid., fol. 105 f., Fragebogen Gestapo Sachsen, March 1938; ibid., fol. 116, Erfassung der polnischen Juden durch das Polizeiamt der Stadt Dresden, 8 March 1938. 30 Ibid., fol. 128, Staatspolizeileitstelle Chemnitz to Israelitische Religionsgemeinde, 16 March 1938.

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23 potential deportees, Jews with Polish citizenship.31 The deportees were arrested at their homes by four local policemen, under the supervision of two state officials and five members of the German Red Cross32 (two male, three female), and taken to an assembly point with their luggage. One family was without passports, which they had sent off to the Polish consulate in Leipzig for extension of their validity. In his assiduous report, the Amtshauptmann claimed the family had done so intentionally to be spared deportation. Shortly past midnight, a bus, hired from a local company on short notice, left Falkenstein for Chemnitz carrying 18 deportees, the police officers and the members of the Red Cross, and accompanied by a truck that transported the luggage of those deportees. They arrived in Chemnitz at 2.30 am at a Ballhaus, a dance hall that was hired as a collection point for deportees by order of the local police president, which was a pattern in Saxony. From this collection point, they were driven to the central police station of Chemnitz and handed over to the Chemnitz police. The report of the Amtshauptmann remarks on the importance of the Red Cross members on this transport: “There are no significant incidents to report for the journey from Falkenstein to Chemnitz. However, the company of the [male and female] helpers proved to be exceptionally important as their helpful intervention was necessary on several occasions.”33

In the Schnellbrief from 26 October, there is no indication that local forces should include the Red Cross. It could have been a local strategy to balance a shortage of personnel, for instance. After all, only 11 personnel were available for the deportation of 18 individuals, who amounted to nearly 80 percent of all Jews with Polish citizenship in Falkenstein. Other Saxonian towns were similarly understaffed: In Zwickau, for example, 153 deportees – 73 percent of all Jews with Polish citizenship in Zwickau – were handled by 19 officers. Nine out of the 18 Falkensteiners deported that night were born in the Reich, seven of them in Falkenstein. The youngest was fourteen-year-old Pinkus Chojnacki.34 Most of the deportees had already arrived in Falkenstein before or during World War I and had thus lived there for at least two decades. One can only assume how deep the social and economic roots ran

31 For the following see SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no.  11708, fol. 13 f., Der Amts­hauptmann zu Auerbach im Vogtland to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, Auerbach, 28 October 1938. 32 The German Red Cross played an important role within the deportations in Saxony. See ibid., fol. 79, Der Kreishauptmann in Zwickau to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, 8 November 1938. This topic still requires further research. 33 Ibid., fol. 13, Der Amthauptmann zu Auerbach im Vogtland to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, Auerbach, 28 October 1938. 34 Ibid., fol. 14.

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that each of those people were forced to abandon in Falkenstein – homes, friendships, livelihoods lost over night. Not even a fortnight later, the Amtshauptmann sent his account of the deportation to Saxony’s Ministry of Interior: The transport of 18 deportees by coach, the rental of the truck for the luggage, and the daily allowance for two senior officials, four police officers and five members of the German Red Cross’s, brought the first round of deportations to a total cost of 223 Reichs­ mark (RM), or 12,39 RM per head. It can be observed that in smaller towns and villages throughout the German Reich, the action was carried out very efficiently, as the following examples from the State of Braunschweig show. The parish of Wolfenbüttel had no resident Jews with Polish citizenship, but hosted two guests in the local spa resort, Ruchel Groß and Frieda Pfeffer from Hamburg. “After having been served the deportation order with immediate effect,” the Kreishauptmann of Bad Harzburg wrote, “both Jewesses were, as instructed verbally and telephonically by the local government official [Referent], taken to the court prison in Braunschweig at noon today.”35 As in Wolfenbüttel, in the neighbouring parish of Bad Gandersheim no Jews with Polish passport were permanently residing. The local head of administration (Kreisdirektor) nevertheless acted as follows: “I telephonically requested the mayors of those parishes hosting Polish farmworkers to check that there was no Jew among them. The mayors did not detect a Jew.”36 Neither the Schnellbrief nor the Braunschweig Ministry had ordered to investigate temporarily residing or visiting Polish Jews. Nevertheless, two local administrations felt the need to do just that, which needs to be taken into consideration. In Dresden, 724 men, women and children were arrested. Taken from their homes in the evening hours, 35 trucks transported them to three gathering points, an assembly and two dance halls, rented by the police. Many received their deportation letters as late as on the train to Poland, which was staffed with two members of the Aliens’ Office for that purpose, as well as one officer of the Schutzpolizei (state protection police) and 60 regular policemen (Wachtmeister). The overall costs for the deportation, including daily allowances for the police, rented properties and the train to Beuthen came to 7391  RM, or 10,21 RM per deportee. As per instructions of the Schnellbrief, the Staatspolizeileitstelle Oppeln, responsible for the district

35 Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv Wolfenbüttel (henceforth NLA WF), 12 Neu 13, no. 15781, Kreishauptmann Bad Harzburg to Braunschweigisches Ministerium des Innern, 28 October 1938 (unpaginated). 36 Ibid., Kreisdirektor Bad Gandersheim to Braunschweigischer Minister des Innern, 28 October 1938 (unpaginated).

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close to Beuthen at the Polish border, was informed by telegram as the train left Dresden.37 To the authorities in Leipzig, the deportation order posed a particular challenge: The fur trade, so important to the city’s economy, was still dominated by Jews with Polish citizenship. More than 3,000 of them resided within the city’s boundaries in 1938, of which about 1,600 were deported on 28 October. The arrests started in the early morning with the first special train (Sonderzug) leaving the city at 9 am, the last at 8.02 pm. Among the deportees were about 200 children, which was, compared to other cities, a relatively small number. For Leipzig, the death of one woman as a direct consequence of the deportation can be confirmed. While no more details are known about the woman, a witness report speaks of growing violence by the 15 to 17 policemen on the trains to Beuthen, the closer they came to the Polish border: Especially from Beuthen to the border extreme violence is reported.38 “Around midnight we arrived in Beuthen at the Polish border. The station hall was already filled with thousands of fellow sufferers from all corners of the Reich. The Gestapo guarded the exits, and then I saw, for the first time, the real, long-hidden faces of these sadists when their batons stroke down recklessly at just about anyone around them, especially women.”39

Despite the aforementioned death of a woman in Leipzig, the police president reported “no significant incidents,” and the deportation did not receive any public attention. However, with four special trains departing from Leipzig that day, and more than 1,500 Jews hiding on the premises of the Polish consulate in Leipzig, it is unlikely that there were no further incidents. The police president reported that he had more than 2,000 deportation orders prepared, of which only three quarters were served. This means, first of all, that only half or less of all potential deportees were actually considered for deportation. It is not clear from the documents which criteria the selection was based on, but the files of the police precinct reveal a rather subjective interpretation of the order sent from Berlin:

37 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11708, fol. 11, Polizeipräsident Dresden to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, Dresden, 28 October 1938. 38 Ibid., fol. 24, Der Polizeipräsident zu Leipzig to Sächsischer Minister des Innern über den Kreishauptmann Leipzig, Leipzig, 29 October 1938. 39 Joachim Kalter, Eine jüdische Odyssee. Von Leipzig nach Polen abgeschoben und deutsche Lager überlebt. Ein Bericht 1938–1946/A Jewish Odyssey. Deportation from Leipzig to Poland and Survival in German Camps. A Report 1938–1946, ed. by Erhard Roy Wiehn, Konstanz 1997, 18.

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“A further number of Jews could not be included in the transport because of old age, frailty, serious illness, mental illness and certified medical conditions (among them highly pregnant women), as well as those who were able to demonstrate to our satisfaction that their emigration to other countries is imminent, and those already in possession of ship or flight tickets and valid visa, train tickets etc.”40

In the urban setting of Berlin itself a prearranged departure or complete deportation, as it was attempted in some places in Saxony, was not possible; apart from that sickness or pregnancy were no reasons to be spared deportation, the enforcement of the order still proved to be nearly impossible on such short notice. Here, an even smaller number of Jews was deported. Leipzig is the only city in this sample that reported actions taken by the Jewish community. In the same report mentioned above, the police president added: “I would like to mention, that the social department of the Jewish community did help, from the second special train onwards, by handing out money (each traveler received 10 RM) and distributing plenty of food.”41 The Jewish communities throughout the German Reich reacted quite differently, from mere ad-hoc assistance to well-prepared measures. The special trains requested by the Leipzig police headquarters caused a longer conflict with the railway division (Reichsbahndirektion) about the bill. Due to the slightly chaotic situation, none of the trains carried the minimum number of 500 passengers required by the Reichsbahn for a special train. Therefore, the first bill amounted to 17,300 RM. After a long and complicated negotiation, the Reichsbahn adjusted it, which was accepted by the police. All in all, Leipzig had to pay the same amount of money per person as Dresden’s authorities: 10 RM. Due to the number of deportees, this meant significant costs for the city of Leipzig. The police president of Leipzig reported the success of the operation to the Ministry of Interior: “reichlich 50 Prozent” – a good 50 percent – had been deported.42 As opposed to the smaller towns, cities like Dresden and Leipzig had not compiled final lists of deportees, and ultimately could not tell whom they had deported, and who had possibly returned after their denied entry to Poland. In the first week of November, they had to face the questions of the Ministry of Interior, which contacted them to find out what the situation on the ground was really like.43

40 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11708, fol. 25, Der Polizeipräsident zu Leipzig to Sächsischer Minister des Innern über den Kreishauptmann Leipzig, Leipzig, 29 October 1938. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid., fol. 14. 43 Ibid., fol. 69.

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Consequences of the Expulsion More than 17,000 residents were expelled overnight. Even more so than Jews with German citizenship, foreign residents were deeply rooted, economically and socially, in German society, as they were spared, up to that point, much of the NS  persecution.44 Therefore, their sudden deportation was to cause problems. Three issues were particularly pressing after the expulsion: economic ramifications, complaints, and temporary return. First of all, the abrupt departure of such a large number of individuals and families – workers, professionals, tenants, costumers etc. – directly affected many businesses and property owners. And as their everyday life came to a literal standstill, those sent off to Poland set about writing complaints to the German government, causing months of discussion on how to react to these. Some deportees received the permission to return for a short period of time, either to liquidate their belongings or for emigration purposes, following the aforementioned Polish German exchange of notes on 24 January 1939. It might not be so surprising that the first concerns about the economic consequences of the deportations came from Leipzig, where a couple of businesses lost important personnel and tradesmen. In a report dated as early as 29 October 1938, the Kreishauptmann of Leipzig wrote to the Minister of Interior in Dresden: “Particular attention I must draw to the economic difficulties that have resulted from the sudden removal of the Polish Jews. In a great many businesses, the Aryan workers cannot receive their wages, as there is no one available who is authorized to access the company assets. Furthermore, many Aryan companies have, in parts, significant outstanding accounts with the companies of the expelled Polish Jews […]. There is thus the most urgent need for a prompt and consistent ruling in this matter. From my point of view, there will be no other way than to appoint trustees for the businesses of the Polish Jews. The Chamber of Industry and Commerce has already begun the necessary preparations.”45

In Saxony, but also in Erfurt and in Braunschweig, trusteeships were established very soon, with the Jewish community as trustee in some cases. It required further research to determine whether Jutta Hoschek’s assumption that trusteeship significantly advanced “Aryanization” is accurate.46 But what can be noted is that Leipzig had already placed 29 companies under trusteeship 44 It should also be mentioned that the Polish Embassy acted partly as a guardian for Polish-Jewish business people until 1938. 45 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11708, fol. 24, Kreishauptmann zu Leipzig to Sächsischer Minister des Innern, Leipzig, 29 October 1938. 46 Jutta Hoschek, Abgeschoben aus Erfurt. Dokumente zur “Polenaktion” 1938, ed. by Landeshauptstadt Erfurt, Stadtverwaltung, Netzwerk “Jüdisches Leben in Erfurt,” Erfurt 2017, 22.

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not even a fortnight after the deportations on 10 November. It can also be established that this matter led to a lively exchange of letters between different local and state agencies and the Reichsführer SS and Chef der Deutschen Polizei in Berlin. Still, a final decision could not be reached until well into the new year. In the meantime, the economy remained in limbo, enervating officials everywhere in the Reich. The following is an example letter from the first week of December, in which the Minister for Interior complained to the Office of the Reichsführer SS und Chef der Deutschen Polizei about the pending decision on how to handle the situation on the ground. One can grasp the ongoing conflict and the importance of this problem: “In my report dating 24 November 1938 […] I kindly requested the soonest possible decision in a case where the Aryan creditor of an expelled Polish Jew wished to proceed to the enforcement of the sale of the latter’s furnishings. In the meantime, more and more such cases have emerged. The judicial authorities, which we have been able to encourage to hold still until now, are, regardless of my precautionary order to seal those apartments, now proceeding to order the seizure of the furnishings. […] In this development I see the imminent danger of a general ‘run’ on the vacated apartments.”47

The property of the expellees was also one of the major points in their correspondence with the perpetrators, with whom they tried to negotiate the dispatch of at least parts of their belongings to Poland, or to have their apartment cleared by an appointed agent.48 Regarding the temporary return of some deportees, economic issues were highly relevant. Following a very strict application process, their return was allowed only through a joint Polish German border office by Neu-Bentschen. Once the returnees crossed the border to Germany, they were tracked closely and had to report regularly to their local police office – for most a horrible experience of humiliation. Their stay could be extended, depending on the goodwill of the local authorities. After Germany’s attack on Poland, a return to Poland was impossible for most, as they could not cross the border. When they stopped reporting to the local police station, search warrants were issued.49 The returns started in spring 1939, when the tide had already turned in Germany’s policy towards Poland, and persecution was stronger than the year before. The return cases had to be discussed on a local level. Beforehand, the offices of the local police presidents had been deluged with complaints 47 SächsHStA, Ministerium des Innern, no. 11708, fol. 132, Sächsischer Minister des Innern to Reichsführer SS und Chef der Deutschen Polizei, Dresden, 6 December 1938 (draft). The word “run” is used in the original source. 48 Ibid., fol.  139, Amtshauptmann Auerbach to Kreishauptmann Zwickau, 28  November 1938. 49 Sächsisches Staatsarchiv Leipzig (henceforth StAL), Sig. P-PS SF 3949, fol. 5644, Fremdenpolizei Leipzig, Akte Rubin Triebwasser, Fahndungsaufruf, April 1940.

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from Poland against the deportations. Many of them were hand-written statements arguing the wrongfulness of the measure on pre-printed forms, probably handed out by a Jewish charity. In the case of Leipzig, for example, the standard text explained that the respective person had lived in the Reich from 1918/19 onwards, never committed any crime, had children and payed taxes.50 Especially the first complaints show the shock and surprise of the Jews who had received the order. In his individual note, a man called Rubin Triebwasser wrote: “I have lived in Germany since 1903, have done no wrong and therefore feel that the expulsion is unjustified.”51 The here discussed consequences of the Polenaktion of 1938 – state and individual economic challenges, temporary return and complaints – are particularly interesting in that they shed light on the interaction between the expelled and the perpetrators. They are, however, only few of the many facets characterising the aftermath of this operation.

Expulsion from Berlin: The Case of Joachim Singer In order to highlight the unique aspects of the deportation regime in Saxony as well as similarities to other locations, the deportations from Berlin will be briefly discussed in this section. A special version of the deportation order was issued for Berlin, and printed in advance in numerous copies, distributed to the local police offices. While a number of deportees were arrested by police officers, others remember having been taken away by either SS or Gestapo.52 At least 1,500 people were arrested in the early hours of 28 October 1938 in Berlin, mostly men and boys over the age of fifteen. They were detained at local collection points, such as schools and administrative buildings, taken by truck to a second collection point, often Alexanderplatz or Treptow, and from there were aszy ´ ˛ n/Bentschen. There are, however, many stories that sent by train to Zb   diverge from this general pattern: Like that of Julius Buck, who was on a train sent directly to Poznan and, after one night there, went on to Cracow, where a central shelter had been opened; or James Bachner and his father, who were able to hide that morning, but turned themselves in after a couple of hours. Others again, faced with the threat of deportation, tried to cross 50 Ibid., Fremdenpolizei Leipzig, File of Rubin Triebwasser, Complaint against expulsion, sent from Poland. 51 Ibid. 52 Landesamt für Bürger- und Ordnungsangelegenheiten Berlin, Abt. I Entschädigungsbehörde (henceforth LABO Berlin), no. 304025, Bl. 6.

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the border themselves. And in a few cases, such as Max Engelhardt (later Max Englard) and his father’s, the deportation failed and both were released after five days of custody in the police headquarters Alexanderplatz. In most cases, women were not deported from Berlin and received no expulsion order before February 1939.53 Still, a small number of women was among the first deportees, which led to a shift in the gender dynamics of families that is especially noteworthy for Berlin, but also for other regions of the Reich. The largest number of women was deported between February and August 1939, with high intensity from April/May onward. At the same time, there appears to have been a voluntary emigration movement from Berlin either to Poland or other countries of exile in response to the increasing pressure. The fate of Joachim Singer,54 born close to Lemberg (Lwiw) in 1875, somewhat speaks for itself. He was caught in the first Polenaktion, stayed in Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n for a few months, and was eventually allowed to return to Berlin. His emigration plans failed, though, due to the war, and he was arrested in the second Polenaktion and subsequently murdered in the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. As young boy Singer received traditional Jewish education, first in a cheder and then in a Talmud Torah school. At that age he wanted to be a rabbi, but later became a scene painter and artist, studying in Vienna, New York and Budapest. He ultimately returned to Vienna in 1903 or 1904 to marry Fanny Mirjam Schlag in 1903 or 1904, with whom he had two children shortly after. A third child followed nearly a decade later, born in Berlin in 1914. In Berlin, the family had a fairly good life with Singer working for several companies and earning well. All three children emigrated to Palestine just in time, but Joachim stayed in Berlin, where his wife had died in 1938, arranging for his own escape. On 28  October 1938 Joachim Singer was arrested in his apartment and deported to the Polish border town of Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n/Bentschen, from where he could only return to Berlin on 3 June 1939, after more than seven months. Upon his return, he rented a room from Paula Nisselowitsch. While he was living there, he received the next expulsion order on 13 June. “As per Article 1, part 5 of the Regulation of the Police’s Handling of Aliens of 22 August 1938, a state-wide ban on residence has been issued against you. You are requested to leave the Reich within eight weeks after receiving this order.”55 Singer was to leave before the middle of August, at a time when tens of thou53 LABO Berlin, no. 50805, Entschädigungsakte Max Englard; Landesarchiv Berlin (henceforth LAB), 82 WGA 1654/65, fol.  63, Wiedergutmachungsakte Max Englard; James Bachner, My darkest Years. Memoirs of a Survivor of Auschwitz, Warsaw and Dachau, Jefferson, N. C., 2007, 46–59. 54 LABO Berlin, no. 35612, Entschädigungsakte Joachim Singer. 55 LABO Berlin, no. 35612, M 22 Expulsion Order against Joachim Singer, Berlin, 13 September 1939.

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sands of others desperately sought to emigrate. It was indeed an objective very hard to achieve. We know from his landlady, Paula Nisselowitsch, what happened next, as she detailed it in a letter to Singer’s son dated 12 October 1939: “He had to report on the 21st and did not return home. His belongings were with me until the day before yesterday. Then your dear aunt and your dear mother-in-law came to collect them. The day before yesterday I inquired about him again [at the police], because he took my keys with him and I hoped to get an address to be able to contact him.”56

Joachim Singer had to report regularly to the local police station after his return from Zb   aszy ´ ˛ n and after having received the second expulsion order on 13 June 1939. This and other forms of harassment were part of the daily life of Singer and thousands of others, as we know from many testimonies. His intentions had been to return to Berlin and emigrate from there, but he was not able to do so after the German occupation of Poland. He was trapped. On 8 September, Heydrich issued a decree ordering the detention of all Jews of Polish nationality. On 13 September, the second Polenaktion began, followed by the internment of Polish civilians on 21 September. But only the Jewish prisoners from Berlin were sent to Sachsenhausen. Joachim Singer arrived there on 22 September as one of more than 700.57 In January 1940, Rudolf Höß, later commander of Auschwitz extermination camp, developed an early method of mass murder in Sachsenhausen.58 He forced the prisoners to line up outside for many hours on the coldest days of the year. In the following days, the death rate rose as many succumbed to illnesses, as weak and exhausted as they were. The Berliner Joachim Singer was murdered in Sachsenhausen, registered as a “foreign Jew,” on 24 January 1940.

From the First to the Second Polenaktion: Persecutions 1938–1939 As the example of Singer shows, the expulsion of 1938 was not a single event, but needs to be discussed within the broader framework of the persecution of Polish Jews in the Reich in the years 1938–1939.

56 Ibid., M 25 Letter from Paula Nisselowitsch to J. Singer’s son in Denmark, September 1939. 57 International Tracing Service, Bad Arolsen, 1.1.38.1/4094443, Liste der am 13. September im Konzentrationslager Sachsenhausen registrierten Häftlinge (Polnische und staatenlose Juden). 58 I thank Niels Weigt for this information.

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The year 1939 saw two imminent challenges: first the return of a few thousand of the deportees, and second the future of the remaining Polish Jews in the Reich. Among those who stayed in Poland, there was a disproportionally high number of people who moved to the Soviet occupied parts of Poland after 17 September 1939 and survived there. The persecution of Jews in the Reich took a turn for the worse in 1939 and, at that time, was mainly organized by the office of the Reichsführer SS, especially Werner Best and Reinhard Heydrich, and Adolf Eichmann in Austria. In a letter from May 1939, Heydrich reminded police authorities that the expulsion of all Jews with Polish citizenship should be completed by 31 July 1939: “The border police authorities at the German-Polish border are ordered to enforce the deportation of these Polish Jews across the green ‘illegal’ border by all means available to the police.”59 However, mass deportations like in October 1938 were not to take place. Still, Berlin deported more than 4,000 Jews, about three times the number of 1938. In May and July, the sources indicate two major operations in Leipzig, with small-scale deportations all over the year, targeting at least another 1,000 individuals. On 8 September 1939, Heydrich ordered the incarceration of Jews with Polish citizenship in the Reich. From 13 September onwards, at least 750 Jews from Berlin were imprisoned in Sachsenhausen. Even higher numbers can be assumed for Dachau, and particularly Buchenwald, where all Jews with Polish citizenship from Vienna were sent, called Praterhäftlinge, after an operation organized by Eichmann. An estimated number of at least 4,000 seems realistic. Of the more than 1,000 prisoners from Vienna, only about 27 lived to see their liberation, according to Austrian historian Herbert Rosen­ kranz.60 The number of survivors from Berlin was much higher. Roughly one third of all prisoners was murdered by spring 1940, one third was released and one third remained within the concentration camp system. One of the longest serving survivors of Sachsenhausen was Harry Naujoks, who devoted several pages of his memoirs to describe the brutality of the camp. He also indicates that it was in Sachsenhausen, where the planning of the large-scale deportation in Vienna had been carried out beforehand: “At the end of August 1939 the SS camp administration had the blocs 37, 38 and 39 of the so-called ‘new camp’ cleared out. The ventilation shafts were blocked off with boards and made airtight with glued-on paper. […] Before prisoners were moved to

59 In contrast to “legal” expulsions, where the people have to cross an official frontier post, expulsions “across the green line” lead to border-crossings without informing the state concerned. 60 Herbert Rosenkranz, Verfolgung und Selbstbehauptung. Die Juden in Österreich 1938– 1945, Vienna 1978, here 45–47.

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these blocks, the members of the prisoners’ records office were strictly ordered to not take care of these blocs. Then large transports of Jewish prisoners arrived. From my memories, they carried about 1,000 new entries.”61

He describes the extreme brutality with which the prisoners were handled, especially in one night, that left many injured and caused conflicts between the camp commander and the Concentration Camps Inspectorate. After the second Polenaktion, evidence of assaults in the Reich targeting specifically Jewish citizens of Poland is less frequent. Nevertheless, the process of so-called “Aryanization” was still actively and aggressively pursued through the Haupttreuhandstelle Ost, Abteilung Altreich between 1940 and 1943.

Conclusion The focus of this article was to discuss the mass expulsion of 1938 at the local level, thereby exploring the actions of the perpetrators, for the very first time, from a comparative perspective and in consideration of the individual experiences of the deportees. The new focus and the comparative perspective allowed for a number of insights: The smaller a town was, the higher the percentage of deportees. This is remarkable, as especially in the smaller towns, the contacts between Jewish and non-Jewish residents must have been much closer than in large cities. The German Red Cross participated extensively in the deportations, with a high number of female “helpers.” Particularly remarkable is the observation of the different challenges facing the German authorities as a consequence of the expulsion. As stated on each deportation order, the person concerned could object in writing within two weeks of receipt, and many thousand did so, sending letters to the police president of their city. The Schnellbrief did not state in any way how to proceed with these objections. Therefore, the state police headquarters in Berlin received numerous calls from local police officials requesting a decision in the matter, which took months to be reached. In the end, the letters were to be formally answered as non-qualified and thereby rejected. The second major problem was the handling of the diverse economic relations of the deportees: Who was to pay the rent for deserted apartments and shops? How

61 Harry Naujoks, Mein Leben im KZ Sachsenhausen 1936–1942. Erinnerungen des ehemaligen Lagerältesten, ed. by Ursel Hochmuth, Martha Naujoks and the Sachsenhau­senKomitee für die BRD, Berlin 1989, 146.

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were customers to receive items already paid for, and those handed-in for repair or other services? Up until October 1938, the economic and social roots of prospective deportees still ran deep in the respective villages, towns and cities that they called home. Numerous letters sent to the police by different people – landlords, most notably – document the need to resolve this crisis. Linked to this issue was the question of return. Return was an option never thought about by the German authorities. A new procedure had to be developed and did not work well: The two weeks granted to short-term returnees to liquidate all belongings – decades of living in Germany – were often too short, and an extension so frequently requested that the police in Berlin had to use printed special forms. All this shows clearly that the order given in Berlin with the Schnellbrief was interpreted very differently throughout the Reich. Such deviations are not to be found in later deportations. It also demonstrates that, while the expulsion was well prepared over a couple of months, its consequences were not fully anticipated. It might be that the German side was surprised by Poland’s March Laws coming into effect on 6  October and felt pressured to issue the expulsion order as soon as possible, doing so only a fortnight later. The resulting operation was thus crude and improvisation required in many instances that had not been planned for during the deportations and in their aftermath. The problems encountered did most certainly lead to adjustments in the persecution of Jews, especially in regard to deportations. The Polenaktion was a major moment for both perpetrators and victims alike. 17,000 people were arrested in the course of this expulsion, often without warning, and forced across the border. They became refugees overnight, left only with what they could carry. This encounter with National Socialist persecution shaped their future path. Among the most dramatic consequences of the expulsion order was the separation of deportees from their families, or the split of families when the urgent need to emigrate sent them into different directions after the expulsion. All of them lost useful resources for either emigration or survival very early into the persecution in the East, leaving them with no means in the ghettos. As families and bonds were split, transnational paths of survival and murder emerge: the flight from Poland to Western Europe; transports back to the death camps in Poland few years later; Kindertransporte (children’s transports) sent from Poland directly to the UK in 1939; youngsters trying for Aliyah on their own. Jews with Polish citizenship were among the first groups in the Reich to lose their bonds with family and friends and among the most vulnerable when stripped of almost all they had ever owned. Between January and October 1938, a narrowing in thought and discourse had made the expulsion order a logical consequence for the perpetrators. German foreign policy, most notably towards Poland, was adjusted accord-

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ingly. Meanwhile, forced migration was redirected towards “the East.” As mentioned before, an understanding of the Polenaktionen as prelude or general rehearsal for the later destruction of European Jewry is misleading, being a retrospective characterization. Rather, these operations should be considered the starting point of a specific form of persecution of Polish Jews, no longer constrained by other diplomatic interests towards Poland.

Schwerpunkt Jüdische Lebenswege im 20. Jahrhundert – Neue Perspektiven der Biografieforschung Herausgegeben von Dagi Knellessen und Felix Pankonin

Dagi Knellessen und Felix Pankonin

Einführung

»Ein Mensch ist nämlich niemals ein Individuum; man sollte ihn besser ein einzelnes Allgemeines n­ ennen: von seiner Epoche totalisiert und eben dadurch a­ llgemein geworden, retotalisiert er sie, indem er sich in ihr als Einzelheit wiederhervorbringt.«1

Vor über dreißig Jahren veröffentlichte der französische Soziologe und Sozialphilosoph Pierre Bourdieu in der von ihm mitbegründeten sozialwissenschaftlichen Zeitschrift Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales seinen inzwischen sprichwörtlich gewordenen Essay Die biographische Illusion.2 Diese sicherlich prominenteste Intervention in die wissenschaftliche Auseinandersetzung um eine kritische Methodenreflektion, die in den 1970er Jahren einsetzte, wird regelmäßig angeführt, wenn es um das theoretische Für und Wider des biografischen Zugangs geht. Bourdieu wandte sich mit seiner teils polemisch formulierten Kritik gegen die disziplinübergreifende Common-Sense-Vorstellung, »dass das ›Leben‹ ein Ganzes darstellt, eine kohärente und gerichtete Gesamtheit, die als einheitlicher Ausdruck einer subjektiven und objektiven ›Intention‹, eines ›Entwurfs‹ aufgefaßt werden kann und muß«.3 Diese Vorannahme einer linear in nur eine Richtung und auf einen Endpunkt zulaufenden Bewegung entlarvte Bourdieu als Wunsch und unbewusstes Verlangen des Biografierten wie des Biografen, ja als ein anthropologisches Grundbedürfnis schlechthin mit dem Ziel, »das Postulat des Sinns der – erzählten und implizit jeder – Existenz zu akzeptieren«.4 Das biografische Narrativ realisiere rhetorisch diese Illusion, indem es den Verlauf eines Lebens als eine Abfolge charakteristischer wie außergewöhnlicher Ereignisse konstruiere, die sich aus Ursachen erklären, gar einem Zweck dienen, jedenfalls eine sinnhafte Bewegung von Ereignis zu Ereignis erge1 Jean-Paul Sartre, Der Idiot der Familie. Gustave Flaubert 1821–1857, Bd.  1: Die Kon­ stitution, zit. nach Christian Klein (Hg.), Handbuch Biographie. Methoden, Traditionen, Theorien, Stuttgart 2009, 343. 2 Pierre Bourdieu, L’illusion biographique, in: Actes de la recherche en sciences sociales 62/63 (1986), 69–72. Zitiert wird hier die deutsche Übersetzung des Textes: ders., Die biographische Illusion, in: Texte zur Theorie der Biographie und Autobiographie, hg. und eingeleitet von Anja Tippner und Christopher F. Laferl, Stuttgart 2016, 221–231. 3 Ebd., 221. 4 Ebd., 222. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 291–302.

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ben, und damit schlussendlich die Darstellungsform eines kohärenten Lebens garantiere. Der Illusion einer künstlich-narrativen Sinngebung, der auch der Biograf durch »natürliche Komplizenschaft«5 verhaftet ist, stellte Bourdieu ganz im Denken seiner Habitustheorie die kritische Rekonstruktion der wechselseitigen Prägung von Individuum und sozialem Raum gegenüber. Der einzelne Mensch agiert demnach in ständig sich verändernden Positionen in diesem Raum, der ihn formt, den er verinnerlicht hat und der wiederum von ihm beeinflusst wird. Biografische Ereignisse stellen sich als Knotenpunkte dar, die im Moment einer spezifischen Platzierung stattfinden. Der Lebensverlauf wird als stetiger Platzwechsel konstruiert, wobei jede Bewegungsrichtung, jede neue Platzierung von den umgebenden Akteuren beeinflusst ist und alle Positionen durch eine »Matrix objektiver Relationen« miteinander verbunden sind. Damit zerfällt die auf Kohärenz angelegte lebensgeschichtliche Erzählung in eine permanente Diskontinuität, die Linie in eine Unordnung verstreuter Kreuzungspunkte. Einzig beständig bleibt Bourdieu zufolge der Eigenname, der jedoch auf nicht mehr als eine imaginierte Konstanz verweist, da er sich den Variationen von Individualität in verschiedenen sozialen Räumen und Zeiten entzieht. Bourdieus Kritik und die formulierten Parameter einer soziologisch fundierten Biografieforschung führen mit Blick auf jüdische Lebenswege und Le­benswelten im 20.  Jahrhundert zu einer verblüffend aktuellen Lektüre. Sein theoretischer Ansatz liest sich zunächst als überaus adäquater Zugang, um die reale Erfahrung der Gebrochenheit, die für die Mehrheit der europä­ is­chen Jüdinnen und Juden im 20. Jahrhundert prägend war, methodisch zu fassen und abzubilden. Dabei drängt sich die Parallele zur überindividuellen Metaebene diasporisch-jüdischer Existenz auf, die Dan Diner als ein »Ordnungsprinzip in der Axiomatik des ungeschützten Punktes«6 beschrieben hat – wäre da nicht das Attribut, das den Punkt als »ungeschützt« deklariert und damit eine elementare Differenz zwischen der Perspektive Bourdieus und der jüdischen Erfahrung markiert. Die soziologische Konstruktion des Punktes beziehungsweise der bourdieuschen »Position« geht von einer engen Verwobenheit mit dem umgebenden »Möglichkeitsraum«7 aus, wie Bourdieu an anderer Stelle schreibt, 5 Ebd., 223. 6 Dan Diner, Einführung, in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig hg. von dems., 7 Bde., Stuttgart 2011–2017, hier Bd.  1, Stuttgart 2011, VII–XIX, hier VII; ders., Point and Plane. On the Geometry of Jewish Political Experience, in: Julia König/Sabine Seichter (Hgg.), Menschenrechte, Demokratie, Geschichte. Transdisziplinäre Herausforderungen an die Pädagogik, Weinheim/Basel 2014, 95–104. 7 Bourdieu, Die biographische Illusion, 231.

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einem Raum, dessen rechtliche oder politische Grundlagen er jedoch nicht näher definiert. Offensichtlich wird eine – unterschiedliche, aber grundsätzlich bestehende  – soziale Teilhabe an der Umgebungswelt vorausgesetzt. Die Spezifik des »ungeschützten Punktes«, der sich auf jüdische Individuen wie auf das jüdische Kollektiv in der Diaspora bezieht, liegt jedoch genau in der Ungewissheit der von Bourdieu vorausgesetzten Teilhabe, in der Tatsache also, dass die Sicherheit einer garantierten Zugehörigkeit zur Mehrheitsgesellschaft gerade nicht erwartet werden kann. Der Kampf um rechtliche Gleichstellung durch die Anerkennung als Individuum (im Westen Europas) oder als jüdische Minderheit (im östlichen Europa) oder die Zuerkennung von Bürgerrechten durch den säkularisierten Nationalstaat waren wesentliche Bestandteile der mehr als zweihundertjährigen jüdischen Aufklärungs- und Emanzipationsgeschichte, die sich im Kontext tief greifender Umwälzungen der Mehrheitsgesellschaften vollzog und sich spätestens mit dem Zerfall der Vielvölkerreiche erheblich zuspitzte. Innerhalb der Judenheiten Europas entwickelten sich neue Formen von Zugehörigkeit bis hin zur Assimilation, dem vermeintlich vollständigen Aufgehen in den Nominalnationen, wodurch wiederum das jüdische Selbstverständnis und die Zugehörigkeit zum Judentum neu zu bestimmen waren. Der mit der Emanzipation einhergehende »Prozess der Verwandlung, Verschiebung, Verflüssigung und Auflösung«8 des traditionellen jüdischen Selbstverständnis­ses brachte Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts neue heterogene Bewegungen hervor. Einerseits orientierten sie sich an einem durch transnationale kulturelle Autonomie erlangten und gestärkten Fortbestehen des Diasporajudentums, einem geistigen Nationalismus, wie Simon Dubnow ihn vertrat, der – um mit Bourdieu zu sprechen  – den Judenheiten eine sichtbare, geschützte Position und Relation in und mit dem sozialen Raum ermöglichen wollte. Ande­rerseits gab es aber auch die zionistische Bewegung in all ihren Varianten wie die politische Strömung des neuen Jischuw, die mit der Gründung eines jüdischen Nationalstaats jeder Hoffnung auf Teilhabe am sozialen Raum von Mehrheitsgesellschaften eine Absage erteilten und jüdisches Leben »auf sich selbst« gestellt sehen wollten. Unabhängig von diesen innerjüdischen Auseinandersetzungen um eine politische, kulturelle oder rein ideelle Neubestimmung blieben die äußeren gesellschaftlichen, die politisch-ideologischen und vor allem die antisemi­ tischen Zuschreibungen bestehen. Juden blieben in dieser Sicht Juden, ganz gleich, ob sie rechtlich gleichgestellte, gar assimilierte Citoyens oder politisch gleichgesinnte Genossen waren. Im 20. Jahrhundert wurde den Juden Europas  – nach einer kurzen Phase uneingeschränkter rechtlicher Gleich-

8

Diner, Einführung, VIII.

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stellung, die von antisemitischen Agitationen begleitet war  – die Zugehörigkeit zum sozialen Raum verweigert. Mit der Machtübertragung auf die Nationalsozialisten setzte eine gewalttätige, radikale Exklusion ein, die sich mit den Expansionsetappen des NS-Regimes in den Jahren 1938, 1939 und 1941 auf fast den ganzen Kontinent ausweitete. An ihrem Ende stand die präzedenzlose Katastrophe des Massenmords am jüdischen Volk. Individuell bilden sich diese Entwicklungen für die Mehrheit der europäischen Juden in mehrfach gebrochenen Lebenswegen und verlorenen oder doch zersplitterten, lückenhaften Nachlässen ab. Biografen von Überlebenden, Emigranten, Remigranten wie auch zionistischen Pionieren stehen vor der methodischen Herausforderung, diese Brüche und Neuanfänge in ein Narrativ zu fassen, das nicht über all diese Lücken hinwegschreibt. Bourdieus Plädoyer für das biografische Durchleuchten solcher Fragmentierungen und gegen die Konst­ ruktion einer vermeintlich kohärenten Linearität war sicherlich eine in der Methodendebatte bedeutsame Position, die gerade für jüdische Lebenswege neue Perspektiven eröffnete. Seine Fokussierung auf das von ihm sozialwissenschaftlich sozusagen a priori und als »natürlich« vorausgesetzte Wechselspiel zwischen Individuum und sozialem Raum scheint hingegen als methodischer Ansatz für die jüdische Biografik im 20. Jahrhundert problematisch zu sein, allemal für die Exklusionserfahrung zwischen 1933 und 1945. Ein zweiter damit in Zusammenhang stehender fragwürdiger Aspekt betrifft den Begriff der Kohärenz. Deren nachträgliche narrative Herstellung, von Bourdieu als »Konstruktion des untadeligen Artefakts ›Lebensgeschichte‹«9 besonders kritisiert, verkennt die Auswirkungen der jüdischen Emanzipations- und Assimilationsgeschichte auf die Lebensvorstellungen und Lebenswege vor allem deutscher und österreichischer Juden. Der soziale Raum der Möglichkeiten, den es nach Bourdieu zu erfassen gilt, erschloss sich erst in genau dem Versprechen, das Juden seit Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts in der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft verwirklicht sahen: Individualität, so auch die jüdische Herkunft, zu akzeptieren und gleichwohl ein kohärentes bürgerliches Leben führen zu können. Kohärenz wurde nicht nachträglich verordnet, vielmehr barg das vermeintlich rein Illusionäre durchaus einen realen und wirkmächtigen Moment, wie es Magnus Klaue in seinem Beitrag zur Biografiekritik der Kritischen Theorie pointiert formuliert, nämlich das Erleben einer kohärenten sozialen Zugehörigkeit. Ein ähnliches Kohärenzversprechen lag für jüdische Akteure auch in der kommunistischen und sozialistischen Utopie, jegliche Herkunft über die egalitäre Zugehörigkeit zur Arbeiterklasse aufzulösen. Kohärenz auf die sozialen Bezüge zwischen Ju­denheiten und Mehrheitsgesellschaften zu übertragen, stellt also für jüdische Biografien eine besonders relevante Erkenntniskategorie dar. 9 Ebd.

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In der Konsequenz der erneuten Lektüre Bourdieus ordnet sich dessen Intervention insgesamt weniger einer Entwicklung zu, die die biografi­sche Methode kritisiert, sondern vielmehr einer, die sie nach einer Phase der Skepsis rehabilitierte. Mit Blick auf die methodischen Herausforderungen jüdischer Lebensgeschichten im 20. Jahrhundert legt sie nahe, dass die Reflexion über das hergestellte Narrativ ein evidenter und sichtbarer Bestandteil der Biografie sein sollte.10 So verstanden ist Bourdieu inzwi­schen auch dann Wegbereiter aktueller Biografien, wenn er nicht mehr eigens aufgerufen wird, wie beispielsweise in Jörg Späters jüngst veröffentlichter Biografie Siegfried Kracauers.11 Später nimmt in dieser sozialen Biografie die historisch-sozialen Kontexte in den Blick und zeigt Parallelen und Korrespondenzen zu Kracauers intellektuellem Dasein und seiner spezifischen Zeitdiagnostik auf, eine Darstellung, die Bourdieu nicht mehr als explizite Referenz, sondern als selbstverständlichen Ausgangspunkt behandelt. Die genretypische Frage nach der Bedeutung des Lebens für das Werk eines Einzelnen ist durch die Methodendebatte um die Biografie nicht überholt. In Bezug auf die Erforschung jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur gewinnt sie besondere Prägnanz. Um dies zu illustrieren, lohnt ein Blick auf die Anlage der Enzyklopädie Jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur (EJGK). Da hier keine Personennamen lemmatisiert sind, wird die biografische Dimension nicht klassisch repräsentiert – aber natürlich auch nicht dementiert. Sie wird statt­dessen umgekehrt »gelesen«: Ihren Platz nehmen sinnstiftende Denkfiguren sowie individuelle und kollektive Erfahrungen ein, als konstituierten diese die Person, anstatt von ihr selbst konstituiert zu werden.12 Der Anspruch der EJGK, Lesern einen Zugang zum Bedeutungszusammenhang der jüdischen Geschichte insgesamt zu bieten, macht das Verhältnis von Biografie und Geschichte damit zum Teil der Methode und des Ansatzes. Das Werk, sein Erscheinen oder die Institution, deren Gründung mit einem Namen ver­knüpft bleibt, teilen mit ihren Akteuren den Entstehungszusammenhang einer biografischen Erfahrung. So lässt sich etwa bei dem Holocaustforscher Joseph Wulf fast eine Identität zwi-

10 Christian Klein, Lebensbe- als Lebenserschreibung? Vom Nutzen biographischer Ansätze aus der Soziologie für die Literaturwissenschaft, in: ders. (Hg.), Grundlagen der Biographik. Theorie und Praxis des biographischen Schreibens, Stuttgart 2002, 69–85, hier 85. Der Erfolg seiner Intervention ließe sich dann heute vor allem daran messen, dass beinahe allen lebensgeschichtlichen Darstellungen Ausführungen über deren Konstruktion vorangestellt sind. Gleichwohl sei eingeräumt, dass die reine Rekapitulation der bourdieuschen Kritik dem aus ihr abzuleitenden Anspruch nicht gerecht zu werden vermag. Siehe auch Thomas Etzemüller, Biographien. Lesen  – erforschen  – erzählen, Frankfurt a.  M./New York 2012, 170–175. 11 Jörg Später, Siegfried Kracauer. Eine Biographie, Berlin 2016, 16. 12 Diner, Einführung, XIII.

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schen Leben und Werk behaupten.13 Klaus Kempter, der seiner Wulfbiografie diese Symbiose zugrunde gelegt hat, ist sich dabei der Konsequenz narrativer Konstruktion zur Herstellung biografischer Kohärenz bewusst. Indem er sich Wulfs Leben bis zur Katastrophe auf kaum 50 der fast 400 Seiten seiner Arbeit widmet, erschließt er die Bedeutung der ersten knapp dreißig Lebensjahre nur durch die Perspektive der späteren Arbeit zur Aufklärung und Dokumentation nationalsozialistischer Verbrechen. Diese bewusste Konstruktion ergibt sich bei Kempter folgerichtig aus dem Ansatz, Wulfs Leben und Werk nicht einfach chronologisch aufzuarbeiten, sondern es zugleich als »Seismografen der Entwicklung vergangenheitspolitischen Denkens und Argumentierens in der Bundesrepublik« zu verstehen, um diesen erweiterten Bedeutungszusammenhang zu erschließen. Wie eine Antwort auf die von Bourdieu formulierte Kritik, aber ebenfalls ohne explizite Bezugnahme erscheinen die einführenden Passagen in Stephan Braeses Biografie Wolfgang Hildesheimers.14 Für Braese ist die »Reserve gegenüber der kohärenzstiftenden Dynamik« des biografischen Genres, wie er sie aus den biografischen und autobiografischen Arbeiten Hildesheimers destilliert, ein wesentlicher Ausgangspunkt. Zudem betont er ebenfalls ganz im Sinne Hildesheimers, dass er die »Einsicht in die Bedeutung kon­kreter subjektgeschichtlicher Erfahrungen, gewonnen an bestimmten Orten, zu bestimmten Zeiten«, bei der Rekonstruktion von Leben und Werk des deutsch-jüdischen Schriftstellers und Malers zur Geltung zu bringen sucht.15 Zwischen den beiden Aspekten besteht jene Spannung, die Hildesheimer, der als Schriftsteller dem biografischen Genre kein Misstrauen entgegenbrachte, bewusst gewesen ist. In autobiografischen Äußerungen identifiziert Braese eine bewusste Inszenierung, mit der Hildesheimer den Bruch mit dem weithin verbreiteten Genre der Künstlerbiografie vollzog, dessen Kern das teleologische Moment der vollen Entfaltung des künstlerischen Vermögens der Biografierten ist.16 So »erzählt« Braese die Selbstinszenierung Hildesheimers, ohne sie zu affirmieren. Dabei bleiben die Widersprüche sichtbar und die Leser erkennen ein Ringen zwischen verschiedenen Formen des künstlerischen Schaffens und Ausdrucks, in dem sich die Person Hildesheimer und die Erzählung über diese gemeinsam entfalten.17 Die Absage an eine Teleologie des Narrativs, die durch eine im Text vergegenständlichte Reflexion über die fragmentarische Dimension erzählten 13 Klaus Kempter, Joseph Wulf. Ein Historikerschicksal in Deutschland, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 22014, 16. 14 Stephan Braese, Jenseits der Pässe. Wolfgang Hildesheimer. Eine Biographie, Göttingen 2016, 9–30. 15 Ebd., 30. 16 Ebd., 17–19. 17 Ebd., 25.

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Lebens ersetzt wird, erhält in Manès Sperbers Romantrilogie Wie eine Träne im Ozean besonders beredten Ausdruck. Wenngleich Sperber betont, es handle sich nicht um eine (auto)biografische Schrift, illustriert er, wie die Erzählung eines Lebens ohne einen erkennbaren roten Faden aussehen könnte. So schreibt er in seinem Vorwort etwa, dass »Episoden« ein »höchst bedeutungsreicher Teil der Haupthandlung« seien und die »zentrale Figur« deswegen langsam »zu einer Nebenfigur« werde.18 Indem Sperber jede geschilderte Situation aus dieser selbst heraus beschreibt, Überleitungen weglässt und so die Verbindungen zwischen den Episoden unerzählt lässt, sind der Anschluss an das bereits Gelesene und die Vorahnung auf den noch zu bewältigenden Text verstellt. Dem erzählten Leben einen teleologischen Sinn zu stiften, wird somit zum Gemeinschaftswerk von Autor, Protagonist und Leser: »Wer hier teilnehmen will, muß seinen Teil geben.«19 Den Bruch zum Ausgangspunkt methodischer Reflexion beim Abfassen biografischer Arbeiten zu machen, ist auch Teil einer authentischen Schilderung, die sich von jüdischen Autobiografien lernen lässt. Hans Rosenthal, der – anders als sein jüngerer Bruder – die Nazizeit in verschiedenen Berliner Verstecken überlebte und später in der Bundesrepublik als Fernsehunterhalter populär wurde, gab seinen Memoiren den Titel Zwei Leben in Deutschland.20 Lebensabschnitte vor und nach dem Bruch können nicht mehr widerspruchsfrei verbunden werden, sondern verweisen durch ihre unüberbrückbare Trennung auf die Dimension der Katastrophe. Auch andere haben den Bruch mit ähnlicher Deutlichkeit festgeschrieben, beispielsweise indem sie ihren Namen geändert haben, den Bourdieu als den lebensgeschichtlichen, kohärenzstiftenden Faktor schlechthin ausgemacht hat. André Gorz etwa, der als Gerhart Hirsch in Wien geboren wurde, durch die Konversion seines Vaters 1930 zu Gérard Horst wurde und nach dem Krieg und einer folgenreichen Begegnung mit Jean-Paul Sartre als französischer Sozialphilosoph unter neuem Namen Karriere machte.21 Ein anderer gebürtiger Wiener, der sich lange Jahre auf der Suche nach der eigenen jüdischen Zugehörigkeit befand und nach der Verfolgungserfahrung ebenfalls mit einem Namenswechsel jene unüberbrückbare Kluft zum Leben vor der Schoah markierte, war Jean Améry. Als Hans Mayer geboren, gab er sich 1955 jenen nom de plume, den er 1966 notariell beglaubigen ließ und bis zur Nie­derschrift seines Abschiedsbriefes kurz vor seinem Freitod trug. Die Ausführungen Irène 18 Manès Sperber, Wie eine Träne im Ozean. Romantrilogie, Frankfurt a. M. 102000, 6. 19 Ebd. 20 Hans Rosenthal, Zwei Leben in Deutschland, Bergisch Gladbach 1980. 21 André Gorz hatte zuvor gar versucht, sich den Nationalsozialisten anzuschließen, was sich als folgenschwere Illusion erwies. Siehe ders., Der Verräter. Mit dem Essay »Über das Altern«. Einleitung von Thomas Schaffroth und Nachwort von Jean-Paul Sartre. Aus dem Franz. von Eva Moldenhauer, Zürich 2008, 101.

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Heidelberger-Leonards zu Améry zeigen aber auch, dass die Dimension des Bruchs die Thematik der Selbstfindung, die viele jüdische Lebenswege im 20.  Jahrhundert durchzog, nicht vollständig erfassen kann. Amérys Tortur im Fort Breendonk ist daher nur ein Angelpunkt, aber nicht die »absolute Zäsur« seiner Biografie.22 Wie Gorz und Améry wählten viele Emigranten oder Überlebende im Exil oder nach ihrer Rückkehr einen neuen Namen. Im biografischen Narrativ kann die fehlende Linearität kein Makel sein, sondern sie ist vielmehr konstitutive Bedingung einer Erzählung jüdi­scher Lebenswege im 20. Jahrhundert. In den Sozialwissenschaften insgesamt und auch in den Jüdischen Studien erlebt die historische Biografie einen seit Jahren anhaltenden Aufschwung. Diesen Befund haben wir zum Anlass genommen, in einem mit Raphael Gross organisierten und im Wintersemester 2016/17 durchgeführten Forschungskolloquium am Dubnow-Institut nach dem Potenzial der historischen Biografie für die Erforschung der jüdischen Geschichte zu fragen. Im Zentrum standen die Diskussion verschiedener Forschungsprojekte und die damit verbundene Frage, inwiefern individuelle jüdische Lebenswege im 20. Jahrhundert als Zugang zu einem neuen Blick auf die Geschichte der sie umgebenden Gesellschaften dienen können. Alle Vorträge hatten die Spannung zwischen Kohärenz und Kontingenz zum Gegenstand, thematisierten aber auch ganz eigene Problematiken. Während in einzelnen Projekten die Relevanz jüdischer Zugehörigkeit zweifelsfrei gegeben war, weil die Protagonisten selbst sie reflektiert haben oder sogar mit ihrer Arbeit für eine explizit jüdische Perspektive einstehen wollten, sahen sich andere Forschungsvorhaben damit konfrontiert, welche Bedeutung der jüdischen Herkunft beigemessen werden kann, wenn diese seitens der Protagonisten nicht als biografisch relevant eingeschätzt wurde, wie dies a priori in sozia­listischen, kommunistischen oder auch nur liberal-linken Kontexten häufig festzustellen ist. In wieder anderen Projekten stellte sich diese Frage nicht auf die gleiche Weise, da die Zugehörigkeit des Biografierten zu keiner Zeit explizit infrage gestanden hatte und scheinbar keine Widersprüche dieser Art zu verhandeln gewesen wären. Und doch ist das Thema der Zugehörigkeit auch in diesen Projekten nicht abwesend, wenn beispielsweise die frühe Emigration in das Mandatsgebiet Palästina oder die USA zumeist als Reaktion auf den im Herkunftsland grassierenden Antisemitismus erklärt werden kann. Den Themenschwerpunkt eröffnet Nicolas Berg mit einem Beitrag über die Kontroverse um Emil Ludwig und die historische Belletristik. Berg dreht 22 Irène Heidelberger-Leonard, Jean Amérys »Meisterliche Wanderjahre«, in: Überlebt und Unterwegs. Jüdische Displaced Persons im Nachkriegsdeutschland, hg. vom Fritz-Bauer-­ Institut, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1997, 289–302, hier 289.

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die Frage dieses Schwerpunkts um und betrachtet hier nicht allein eine jüdische Biografie – die es im Fall von Emil Ludwig gar nicht gibt – und deren Verfasser, sondern einen jüdischen Biografen, der mit seinen Werken zum Ziel weitreichender Polemiken durch die Fachgeschichtsschreibung wurde. So zitiert er etwa Passagen aus dem Vorwort von Ludwigs Goethebiografie, in denen eine Wendung gegen den Biografismus des 19.  Jahrhunderts deutlich wird und Ludwig im Hinblick auf die Verflechtung von Autor und Werk festhält, er wolle das Werk Goethes nicht als »Zweck« verstehen, »um dessentwillen dies Leben gelebt wurde«. Hier wird erkennbar, dass Ludwig Biografien verfasste, um mit ihnen populäre Volksaufklärung zu betreiben: Paradoxerweise repräsentieren seine Helden weniger das singuläre Genie aus Politik oder Kultur (das auch), sondern vor allem einen Genius universeller Werte, der allen gemeinsam ist. Berg zeigt auf, dass Ludwig die soge­ nannten großen Männer ganz bewusst von ihren Sockeln hob, in die Reihen der nicht bekannten stellte und somit ein allen Menschen eigenes Substrat des Humanen destillierte. Der Widerspruch von rechter Seite gegen Ludwigs Biografien ist im Grunde weit weniger überraschend als jene massive Kritik von links, die prominent von Vertretern des Instituts für Sozialforschung formuliert wurde und sich gegen die Biografie als Ausdruck der reaktionären Wende des Bürgertums und der Massenkultur richtete. Magnus Klaue analysiert aus historischer Perspektive die erkenntnistheoretischen, methodischen und ästhetischen Argumentationen und Charakte­ ristika der Biografiekritik von fünf Protagonisten der Kritischen Theorie: Leo Löwenthal, Siegfried Kracauer, Theodor W. Adorno, Walter Benjamin und Max Horkheimer. Deren überaus ablehnende Haltung gegenüber der klassischen Biografie wird in den Kontext ihrer Erfahrungen als um die Wende zum 20. Jahrhundert geborene Söhne des säkularen jüdischen Bürgertums wie ihrer intellektuellen Auseinandersetzungen mit dem »Brüchigwerden überkommener Zugehörigkeiten« gestellt. Kennzeichnend für das Denken und die geistige Haltung der jungen jüdischen Intellektuellen in den 1930er Jahren war das Fortbestehen verschiedener Identifikationen: mit ihrer Herkunft aus dem im Zerfall begriffenen Bürgertum, mit einer partiellen, eher untergründigen Hinwendung zum säkularen Judentum als Reaktion auf die assimilierte Entfremdung der Elterngeneration sowie mit der kommunistischen Theorie und ihrer politisch-gesellschaftlichen Konkretisierung in der Arbeiterbewegung. Diese Spannungen verbanden sich schließlich zur Geisteshaltung eines oppositionellen Synkretismus, so Klaue, der geradezu beispielhaft in den polemischen Kritiken am zutiefst bürgerlichen und reaktionären Genre Biografie und den vielfach jüdischen Biografen zum Ausdruck kam. Diese zunächst kollektiv wirkende Haltung gegen die belletristische Biografie splittete sich durch die Zäsur des Exils und die Katastrophe des Holocausts in unterschiedliche Positionen auf, die generationelle und soziale

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Unterschiede sowie individuelle Reaktionen auf die Erfahrung des elementaren Bruchs deutlich machten. Nach der Remigration reichten die Differenzen bis hin zur Umkehrung der einst abwertenden Haltung gegenüber der »biografischen Mode« (Leo Löwenthal). So erhob Horkheimer nun die klassische Biografie zu einem jener »bürgerlichen Insignien überhistorischer Gültigkeit«. Auch zahlreiche jüdische Revolutionäre waren Söhne aus jüdisch-bürgerlichem Hause und hatten in ihrer Jugend den Marxismus und die Arbei­ terbewegung für sich entdeckt. Diese im politischen Handeln sich manifestierende dominante Identifikation hatten sie vor allem mit der Hoffnung verbunden, der Stigmatisierung aufgrund ihrer jüdischen Herkunft zu entkommen. Die Auseinandersetzung mit diesem Motiv steht im Zentrum von Mirjam Zadoffs Beitrag Shades of Red: Biografik auf den Barrikaden. Die Autorin der Biografie über den Kommunisten Werner Scholem zeigt auf, welche Bedeutung die Hinwendung ihres Protagonisten zum Kommunismus gerade wegen seiner Herkunft für das biografische Narrativ haben kann. Der Beitrag problematisiert die in der Geschichtsschreibung allzu oft vorschnell vorgenommene Unterscheidung zwischen Herkunft und Zugehörigkeit, bei der das eine zugunsten des anderen in seiner Bedeutung nivelliert wird. Dem stellt Zadoff die Betonung beider Bezüge in ihrer jeweils zu eruierenden Gewichtung gegenüber: Sich nicht auf dieses Entweder-Oder einzulassen, sondern den Fokus auf das »Dazwischen« zu legen, könne die Stärke einer jüdischen Biografie ausmachen. So angelegt, bergen die Biografien jüdischer Revolutionäre einen Erkenntnisgewinn sowohl für die jüdische Geschichte als auch für die der Arbeiterbewegung. Im vierten Beitrag findet sich eine geradezu konträre Perspektive zu dem jüdischen Revolutionär Werner Scholem, für dessen Biografie die Betonung der Frage der Zugehörigkeit narrative Innovationen bereitzuhalten vermag. Katrin Steffen beschreibt in ihrem Aufsatz die Biografien zweier polnischer Naturwissenschaftler in der Zwischenkriegszeit. Der Vergleich zwischen dem Mikrobiologen und Immunologen Ludwik Hirszfeld und dem Chemiker Jan Czochralski legt zunächst auffallend wenige Unterschiede frei. Beide machen Karriere in Deutschland, später in Polen und sind dabei recht erfolgreich. Durch den Zugriff der Doppelbiografie fällt auf, dass die divergente Herkunft – Hirszfeld ist Jude, Czochralski Katholik – zunächst die Karrierechancen kaum zu beeinflussen scheint. Viel prägender sei die transnationale Kondition gewesen, an der sich die zeitgenössischen Konflikte um Zugehörigkeit in den entstehenden Nationalstaaten brechen. Erst in den 1930er Jahren begannen die Probleme Hirszfelds, seine wissenschaftliche Karriere fortzuführen. Während Czochralski auch unter deutscher Besatzung weiterarbeiten konnte, wurde Hirszfeld ins Ghetto gezwungen. Besonders augenfällig wird der Effekt des parallelbiografischen Ansatzes, wenn Katrin

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Steffen für die Nachkriegszeit eine nun umgekehrte Konstellation feststellt: Czochralski wird der Kollaboration beschuldigt und fällt bald dem Vergessen anheim; dagegen blüht Hirszfelds unter nationalsozialistischer Besat­zung abgebrochene Karriere erneut auf. Indem Katrin Steffen mit dem Ansatz der Doppelbiografie zeigen kann, dass bis in die 1930er Jahre die wissenschaftlichen Karrieren ihrer Protagonisten von deren Herkunft weitgehend unbeeinflusst blieben, erhellt sie einen noch größeren Zusammenhang. So zeigt die Autorin auf, dass das von Czochralski und Hirszfeld miterarbeitete Wissen sich qua transnationaler Kondition ihrer Biografien gängigen Kategorien wie »Deutsch«, »Polnisch«, »Jüdisch« oder »Westlich« entzieht. Einen weiteren methodischen Zugang legt Katharina Prager in ihrem Bei­ trag über die österreichisch-jüdischen Künstler und Intellektuellen Berthold Viertel, Hermann Broch, Salka Viertel und Gerda Lerner vor. Prager greift für ihre biografische Studie über die vier in die Vereinigten Staaten Emi­ grierten das von Pierre Nora entwickelte Konzept der lieux de mémoire sowie gendertheoretische Ansätze in kritischer Form auf. Rekonstruiert werden die geschlechterspezifische Sozialisation der vier Protagonisten, ihre individuelle schriftstellerische, wissenschaftliche und politische Entwicklung im stark von jüdischen Intellektuellen und Künstlern geprägten Roten Wien der Moderne sowie ihre Auseinandersetzungen mit ihrer jüdisch-bürgerlichen Herkunft und ihrer sich wandelnden Bezugnahme darauf. Die Analyse der im amerikanischen Exil verfassten »auto/biografischen« Texte eröffnet eine Perspektive auf elementare Topoi ihrer Erinnerungskonstruktionen und ­-bilder der abrupt abgebrochenen Lebensphase sowie auf Reflexionen über die Unzulänglichkeit und Fragmentierung der eigenen Erinnerung. Auch die Biografie des Pioniers der Holocaustforschung Raul Hilberg ist, wenngleich in anderer Weise, maßgeblich von der Zäsur des Exils geprägt. Ebenfalls in Wien geboren und aufgewachsen, erlebte auch er 1938 den »Anschluss« Österreichs und die in den folgenden Tagen alles beherrschende Stimmung der antijüdischen Ausschreitungen. 1939 emigrierte Hilberg in die Vereinigten Staaten, die sein Lebensmittelpunkt blieben. Hilberg war allerdings seit dem Bruch und Neubeginn bemüht, seine Herkunft öffentlich nicht zu thematisieren und vermied insbesondere in Bezug auf sein Werk nahezu jede diesbezügliche Assoziation. Und doch arbeitet René Schlott in seinem Aufsatz zahlreiche – öffentliche wie private – Momente heraus, in denen Hilberg seine Herkunft und Zugehörigkeit verhandelte. Dennoch mag der Autor der ersten umfangreichen Dokumentation über den Holocaust gewichtige Gründe gehabt haben, seine jüdische Herkunft in Bezug auf seine wissenschaftliche Arbeit nicht an- beziehungsweise auszusprechen, da er die Diskreditierung durch mangelnde Distanz zum Forschungsgegenstand fürchtete. Im Rekurs auf die Debatte über die Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus, die in der zweiten Hälfte der 1980er Jahre zwischen Martin

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­Bros­zat und Saul Friedländer geführt wurde, kann Schlott aufzeigen, dass die Vorahnungen Hilbergs nicht gänzlich unberechtigt waren. Für die Biografie Hilbergs, an der René Schlott derzeit arbeitet, wird er folglich die Frage klären müssen, inwieweit die Sorge Hilbergs um die Rezeption in der internationalen und insbesondere deutschen wissenschaftlichen wie allgemeinen Öffentlichkeit für seinen ambivalenten Umgang mit der eigenen jüdischen Herkunft konstitutiv war. Im abschließenden Beitrag von Enrico Lucca über den in Prag geborenen Philosophen und Palästina-Pionier Hugo Bergmann bleibt die Auseinandersetzung mit der jüdischen Zugehörigkeit und der Selbst- wie Fremddefinition oberflächlich abwesend. Bergmann hatte in Prag als Leiter der kulturzionistischen Organisation Bar Kochba in einflussreicher Funktion daran gearbeitet, die europäisch-jüdische Geschichte und Kultur zu bewahren und zu fördern. Seit seiner Übersiedlung nach Palästina im Jahr 1911 prägte er in leitenden Funktionen die wichtigsten Kultur- und Wissenschaftsinstitutionen des Jischuw: die Hebräische National- und Universitätsbibliothek und die Universität. Die von Enrico Lucca gewählte Methode, die biografischen Studien zu Hugo Bergmann in den Kontext einer institutionengeschichtlichen Forschung zu stellen, liegt daher nahe. Im Zentrum des Beitrags stehen die transnationalen Vermittlungsbemühungen Bergmanns zwischen dem Ji­ schuw und der Diaspora im für Europa politisch bereits hochprekären Jahr 1937, in dem er als erster Präsident der Hebräischen Universität drei Reisen unternahm: in das Land seiner Herkunft, die Tschechoslowakei, nach Polen und in die Vereinigten Staaten. Lucca fokussiert auf die unterschiedlichen Bedingungen in diesen Ländern und die Verfasstheit der dortigen jüdischen Gemeinschaften, wodurch sich neue historiografische Erkenntnisse für die ereignisgeschichtlichen Entwicklungen aus einer dezidiert jüdischen Perspektive ergeben, vor allem mit Blick auf die beiden Länder im Osten Europas. Die in diesem Schwerpunkt unternommenen Versuche, den biografischen Zugriff entsprechend dem jeweiligen – im Kontext der jüdischen Geschichte und Kultur stehenden – Forschungsgegenstand zu bestimmen, exemplifizieren Facettenreichtum und Intensität der Auseinandersetzung mit der Methode in jüngster Zeit. Sie unterstreichen das Erkenntnisinteresse, das dem Forschungskolloquium wie auch dem Themenschwerpunkt zugrunde lag. Möge die Zusammenschau der Beiträge nicht zuletzt der kritischen Selbstvergewisserung hinsichtlich des biografischen Zugriffs in der Geschichtswissenschaft dienen.23

23 Wir danken Nicolas Berg für die wertvollen Anregungen bei der Konzeption und Umsetzung des vorliegenden Themenschwerpunkts.

Nicolas Berg

Biografische Projektionsräume – Emil Ludwig im deutsch-jüdischen Wissenskontext Emil Ludwig war einer der bekanntesten und erfolgreichsten Schriftsteller der Weimarer Republik.1 Seine Bücher wurden Bestseller und verkauften sich zu Hunderttausenden. Geboren am 25. Januar 1881 in Breslau als Sohn eines Augenarztes, studierte er Rechts- und Geschichtswissenschaft in Heidelberg, Lausanne, Breslau und Berlin; er hörte Vorlesungen bei Georg Simmel, Kurt Breysig und Werner Sombart. Vor allem das Denken Simmels prägte ihn. Ludwig charakterisierte ihn – und damit auch sich selbst – später wie folgt: Es sei wohltuend gewesen, in Simmel nicht dem Typus des professoralen Lehrers begegnet zu sein; er sei vielmehr ein »heimlicher Künstler« gewesen, ein »Anreger«, der »forschte, wenn er vortrug«, ein Intellektueller, der sich traute, öffentlich »laut zu denken«, und der mit seinen begeisterten Hörern eine Art geologische Untertagereise machte, in die hermeneutischen Stollen der Bergwerke des Wissens, um Sinnschichten unterhalb der sichtbaren Oberfläche der Phänomene zu erkunden; ein pädagogischer Reiseleiter zugleich, der dabei aber immer wieder rechtzeitig in die Wirklichkeit zurückkehrte.2 1902 trat Ludwig zum Protestantismus über, doch gab er in einer beeindruckenden politischen Protestgeste nach der Ermordung von Walther Rathenau 1922 seine angenommene Religion wieder auf und bekannte sich öffentlich zum Judentum.3 Während des Ersten Weltkriegs arbeitete er als Auslandskorrespondent an Kriegsschauplätzen und schrieb für das Berliner Tageblatt sowie für Zeitungen aus London, Konstantinopel und Wien. Das genaue Beobachten, der präzise journalistische Bericht und die spannende 1

2

3

Aus der älteren Literatur sind die Handbucheinträge von Kreuzer und Wichert immer noch zu empfehlen, siehe Helmut Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, in: Hermann Kunisch (Hg.), Handbuch der deutschen Gegenwartsliteratur, München 1965, 402 f., hier 402; Adalbert Wichert, Emil Ludwig, in: Neue deutsche Biographie, hg. von der Historischen Kommission der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 26 Bde., Berlin 1953–2016, hier Bd. 15, Berlin 1987, 426 f. Eine ausführliche Übersicht über die Schriften Ludwigs enthält jetzt Thomas  F. Schneider, Emil Ludwigs Werke. Ein bibliographischer Überblick, in: ders. (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, Hannover 2016, 209–230. Emil Ludwig, Simmel auf dem Katheder, in: Die Schaubühne 10 (1914), 411–413; ders., Simmels Vortrag, in: Vossische Zeitung, 22. Oktober 1918; beide (gekürzt) in: Kurt Gassen/Michael Landmann, Buch des Dankes an Georg Simmel. Briefe, Erinnerungen, Bibliographie. Zu seinem 100. Geburtstag am 1. März 1958, Berlin 1958, 152–157. Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 303–331.

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Reportage wurden zu seiner schriftstellerischen Haltung. Man merkte dem engagierten Stil seiner Texte auch noch später an, dass er die kleinen Formen des Kommentars, des Feuilletons, der Glosse und des Interviews auf den größeren Maßstab von Lebensbeschreibungen übertragen hatte. Mit seinen oft mehrere Bände umfassenden Porträts, biografischen Monografien und mit den buchlangen Gesprächsbänden, in denen er prominente Politiker seiner Zeit vorstellte, wurde Emil Ludwig nicht nur in Deutschland zu einem Erfolgsautor, sondern auch international. Viele seiner Biografien wurden übersetzt und erhielten in den knapp dreißig Zielsprachen abermals hohe Auflagen und breiteste Aufmerksamkeit in der Presse.4 Insgesamt verfasste er mehr als zwanzig monografische Lebensporträts und prägte so das ganze Genre der historischen Belletristik, deren Status im Ordnungssystem von Wissen, Wissenschaft, Kulturpolitik und Werturteil in einer intellektuellen, politisch aufgeheizten Grundlagendebatte in der Zeit der Weimarer Republik verhandelt wurde. Seit 1905 lebte Emil Ludwig mit seiner Frau in der Schweiz. Im Tessin schuf er sich ein Refugium, in dem über Jahrzehnte hinweg seine Bücher entstanden und in dem er ab 1933 NS-Flüchtlingen Schutz anbot. 1932 nahm er die eidgenössische Staatsbürgerschaft an. Doch acht Jahre später verließ Ludwig die neutrale Schweiz, die ihn vor den Anfeindungen aus Deutschland nicht mehr ausreichend sicher schien. Er ging in die Vereinigten Staaten, wo er als prominenter Schriftsteller und politischer Ratgeber wie ein Staatsmann empfangen wurde und die herausgehobene Stellung eines Sonderbeauftragten von F. D. Roosevelt erhielt.5 Ludwig kehrte nach Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs nach Europa zurück und engagierte sich in der Frage der deutschen Nachkriegsordnung. Durch seine rigorose Position in der Diskussion über die Umerziehung der Deutschen zog er einmal mehr heftige Kritik auf sich, dieses Mal zu seiner großen Enttäuschung auch von vielen Emigranten und Freunden. Er verstarb im September 1948 im Alter von nur 67 Jahren im schweizerischen Moscia in der Nähe von Ascona an Erschöpfung und einem damit einhergehenden Herzversagen.6

4 Ebd. 5 Diesem widmete er später ebenfalls eine Biografie. Siehe Helga Schreckenberger, Prevent World War III. Emil Ludwigs publizistische Aktivitäten im amerikanischen Exil, in: Schneider (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 185–208. 6 Über die Trauerzeremonie, die einem Staatsakt glich, gibt ein umfangreicher Erinnerungsband Auskunft: o. A., In Memoriam Emil Ludwig. 25.I.1881–17.IX.1948, Moscia 1950.

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Jüdische Selbstverständigung in der Moderne Bis heute ist sich die geschichts- und literaturwissenschaftliche Forschung nicht ganz sicher, mit wem sie es hier zu tun hat und wodurch die Heftigkeit der Kritik an seinem Werk eigentlich zu erklären ist. Jüngst kritisierte Thomas  F. Schneider zu Recht die Fixierung auf den Streit um den Biografen mit dem Argument, der Blick auf die »Umstrittenheit« von Ludwigs Werk sei »definitiv falsch und auch irreführend«, wenn man Œuvre und Motive in ihrer ganzen Breite und thematischen wie literarischen Vielfalt würdigen möchte.7 Immer wieder fallen in der Forschungsliteratur gegenläufige, mitunter regelrecht paradoxe Wendungen ins Auge: Franklin  C. West charakterisierte Ludwigs Werk Mitte der 1980er Jahre mit der seither oft gebrauchten Formel vom »Erfolg ohne Einfluß«, während Schneider in Ludwig umgekehrt weniger einen einflusslosen »politisierenden Schriftsteller« als vielmehr einen die Diskussionen seiner Zeit prägenden »schriftstellernden Politiker« erkannte.8 Sebastian Ullrich konstatierte 2001, dass Emil Ludwig heute zu den »vergessenen Schriftstellern« gezählt werden müsse, eine Einschätzung, die Armin Fuhrer jüngst noch einmal wiederholte.9 Dem entspricht, dass in Helmuth Kiesels kürzlich erschienener, über 1 300 Seiten starker Geschichte der deutschsprachigen Literatur 1918 bis 1933 Ludwig nur einmal beiläufig Erwähnung findet und sogar das 2013 vorgelegte Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Exilliteratur, in dem er nicht fehlen dürfte, seinen Namen nicht mehr enthält.10 Zu seiner Zeit aber war Ludwig »neben Thomas Mann der berühmteste Vertreter des neuen, demokratischen Deutschland« und wurde 1928 auf   7 Schneider, Emil Ludwigs Werke, 212.   8 Franklin C. West, Success without Influence. Emil Ludwig during the Weimar Years, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 30 (1985), 169–189; Thomas F. Schneider, Erfolg ohne Einfluss? Emil Ludwig. Politisierender Schriftsteller oder schriftstellernder Politiker? Eine Annäherung, in: ders. (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 11–34.   9 Sebastian Ullrich, Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar. Emil Ludwig als Historiker und Publizist, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 49 (2001), H. 2, 119–140, hier 119; Armin Fuhrer, »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«. Emil Ludwigs Kampf für die Demokratie 1919–1933, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 65 (2017), H. 4, 309–328, hier 309. 10 Helmuth Kiesel, Geschichte der deutschsprachigen Literatur 1918 bis 1933, München 2017; Bettina Bannasch/Gerhild Rochus (Hgg.), Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Exilliteratur. Von Heinrich Heine bis Herta Müller, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2013; auch in den jüngst erschienenen Bänden der Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur wird Emil Ludwig nur ein einziges Mal genannt, auch hier nicht im Kontext seiner Biografien, sondern mit Bezug auf seine Position nach 1945 in der Debatte um die Schuld der Deutschen, siehe Christian Otto/Tekla Szymanski, Art. »Aufbau«, in: EJGK. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig hg. von Dan Diner, Bd. 1, Stuttgart 2011, 182–184, hier 183.

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seiner Vortragsreise in den Vereinigten Staaten »wie ein Popstar« gefeiert.11 George L. Mosse berichtete, wie er als junger Flüchtling Anfang der 1930er Jahre bei seiner Ankunft in England von einem Zollbeamten in Dover, der hörte, dass er Geschichte studierte, angesprochen wurde: »Wohl ein zweiter Emil Ludwig, was?«12 Trotz dieser Berühmtheit fällt seine rückblickende Einordnung nach herkömmlichen Kriterien wohl auch deshalb schwer, weil von allen Seiten des politischen Spektrums Kritik an den Biografien kam. So scheinen beide Wendungen für die Beschreibung seiner Stellung in der Kultur der Weimarer Republik zuzutreffen. Zumindest sind sie konsequent: Er war sowohl ein populärer »Volksschriftsteller«, wie Mosse vor über drei Jahrzehnten konstatierte, als auch ein »elitärer Republikaner«, so Benjamin Ziemann 2016.13 In der Forschung wurde vor allem die Kontroverse zum Thema gemacht, die in den späten 1920er Jahren um die historische Belletristik und die literarische Geschichtsschreibung von Emil Ludwig und anderen Autoren entstand.14 Doch fehlt eine jüngere Auseinandersetzung, die an George L. Mosses klassisches Buch German Jews beyond Judaism von 1985 anknüpft und dem jüdischen Erfahrungs- und Wissenshintergrund des Autors mehr als nur beiläufiges Interesse widmet.15 11 Fuhrer, »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«, 326 und 328; in den Vereinigten Staaten lag die Gesamtauflage der Bücher Ludwigs zwischen 1911 und 1938 bei 1,1 Mio. Exemplaren, so George L. Mosse, Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland. Zwischen Religion und Nationalismus, eingeleitet von Aleida Assmann, übers. von Christiane Spelsberg, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1992, 51. 12 Ebd., v. a. Kap. 2: »Deutsche Juden und deutsche Volkskultur«, 45–72, hier 51. 13 Benjamin Ziemann, Der elitäre Republikaner. Emil Ludwig als politischer Publizist in der Weimarer Republik, in: Schneider (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 97–118; Mosse, Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland, 51. 14 Hervorzuheben sind über die bereits genannten Beiträge hinaus Eberhard Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«. Der Streit um die »Historische Belletristik« in Weimar-Deutschland, in: ders., Umbrüche deutscher Geschichte 1866/71 – 1918/19 – 1929/33. Ausgewählte Aufsätze, hg. von Dieter Langewiesche und Klaus Schönhoven, München 1993, 311–329 (zuerst 1992); Sebastian Ullrich, »Das Fesselndste unter den Biographen ist heute nicht der Historiker«. Emil Ludwig und seine historischen Biographien, in: Wolfgang Hardtwig/ Erhard Schütz (Hgg.), Geschichte für Leser. Populäre Geschichtsschreibung in Deutschland im 20.  Jahrhundert, Stuttgart 2005, 35–56; Ulrich Kittstein, »Mit Geschichte will man etwas«. Historisches Erzählen in der Weimarer Republik und im Exil (1918–1945), Würzburg 2006, hier Kap.  2.2: Emil Ludwig und der Streit um die historische Belletristik, 124–147; Robert Gerwarth, The Past in Weimar History, in: Contemporary European History 15 (2006), H. 1, 1–22; Christian von Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie. Menschenbilder in lebensgeschichtlicher Darstellung (1830–1940), Berlin/New York 2006, hier Kap.  4.2.3.: »Der Fall Emil Ludwig«. Eine Relektüre des Streits um die historische Belletristik, 391–410; Georg Huemer, Der Biograph in der »Hexenküche«. Emil Ludwig zwischen Historie und Dichtung, in: Bernhard Fetz/Wilhelm Hemecker (Hgg.), Theorie der Biographie. Grundlagentexte und Kommentar, Berlin/New York 2011, 155–160. 15 Die deutsche Übersetzung von 1992 erschien acht Jahre nach dem Original, siehe George L. Mosse, German Jews beyond Judaism, Bloomington, Ind., 1985.

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Es wirkt auf ironische, aber unbefriedigende Weise schlüssig, dass bisher keine wissenschaftliche Biografie des berühmten Biografen vorliegt, denn diese hätte eine solche Dimension natürlich grundlegend zu beachten und in die Interpretation einzubeziehen.16 Mosse argumentierte seinerzeit mit großer Überzeugungskraft, wie sehr die Tradition jüdischer Biografen, die er bis zu Berthold Auerbach zurückführte, dadurch geprägt sei, »Verschiedenheit zu Einheit umzuformen, regionale Traditionen mit denen der Nation und der gesamten Menschheit zu verquicken« und »jene individuelle Selbständigkeit zu verkünden, die so entscheidend für Bildung und Aufklärung war«.17 Es gilt also, in Bezug auf die offenkundig elektrisierende historiografische Methodik der Biografie, wie sie jüdische Autoren im späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhundert auffällig häufig erprobten, an Mosses vor über drei Jahrzehnten formulierte Deutung anzuknüpfen, dass »eine Analyse der Werke dieser Autoren« – Mosse bezieht sich vor allem auf Emil Ludwig und Stefan Zweig – »ein ganz bestimmtes deutsch-jüdisches Erbe erkennen [lässt], ein Judentum jenseits von Religion und Nationalität«.18 Für jüdische Autoren wie Stefan Zweig und Emil Ludwig bot sich die Biografie als Medium der Aufklärung nicht nur deshalb an, weil sie zwischen Geschichte und Literatur oder zwischen historischer Tradition und den politischen Erfordernissen der Gegenwart vermittelte; für diese Autoren, so ließe sich sagen, waren die Biografien eine Institution, ein definierter Ort, von dem aus sie öffentlich sprechen konnten. Und kein anderer Autor in der ersten Hälfte des 20.  Jahrhunderts, weder Lion Feuchtwanger noch Stefan Zweig, hat sich der Biografik als Verfahren, das der politischen Intervention und der innerjüdischen Selbstverständigung gleichermaßen diente, mit so viel Hingebung gewidmet wie eben Emil Ludwig. In dem hier vorgelegten Versuch soll dieser mit jüdischen Fragen eng verknüpfte Zusammenklang aus historisierenden und gegenwartsbezogenen »Projektionsmetaphern«19 im Zentrum stehen – auch deshalb, weil er in bisherigen

16 Jedoch hat Armin Fuhrer jetzt eine solche angekündigt, siehe Fuhrer, »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«, 328. Die gesammelten Arbeiten von Hans-Jürgen Perrey zu Ludwig setzen mit einem Dementi ein: »Dieses Buch ist keine Emil-Ludwig-Biographie.« Siehe ders., Emil Ludwig (1881–1948). Dichter  – Kämpfer  – Menschenfreund. Aufsätze, Kiel 2017,  7; außerdem  – als Hommage an die historische Belletristik  – das Porträt desselben Autors: ders., Emil Ludwig. Biographischer Roman, Weilerswist-Metternich 2017. 17 Mosse, Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland, 51 f. 18 Ebd., 50 f. 19 Jacques Picard, Gebrochene Zeit. Jüdische Paare im Exil, Zürich 2009, bes. 287–332: Das Alphabet der Erinnerung. Über Biographik und andere Zeitfelder des Schreibens und 391–400: Anmerkungen, hier 305. Mit dem Begriff versucht Picard Ideenfiguren und Erfahrungen zu benennen, die zu »Formen für eine innere Verarbeitung des Verlustes von alter Lebenswelt und Strategien für ein Weiterleben in neuen Umwelten« geworden sind, ein »Lesen« des eigenen Lebensschicksals und der durchlebten Epoche im Modus von

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Arbeiten zu seinem Werk und zur Kontroverse um die historische Belletristik nur ungenügend beachtet wurde.20 Michael Schikowski etwa, der vor zwei Jahren eine detailgenaue, kluge Kritik des Stils und der Darstellungsprinzipien von Emil Ludwig publiziert hat, in der er die statisch-festgelegten Elemente, die Geschlossenheit und Vorhersehbarkeit seines biografischen Narrativs herausstrich, erwähnt das Judentum von Ludwig überhaupt nicht. Er denkt nicht über die besonderen Bedingungen nach, die für jüdische Autoren zu den Voraussetzungen gehörten, wenn sie über Goethe, den Freiherrn von Stein, Bismarck oder Hindenburg schreiben wollten.21 Schikowski charakterisiert die biografischen Werke Ludwigs im Ton der Verwunderung geradezu als geschichtslos; dass Goethe »der wahre Führer ins zwanzigste Jahrhundert« sei, wie Ludwig selbst in der Vorrede seiner Biografie statuiert, könne man dem Buch selbst nicht entnehmen Er vermutet, dass Ludwig von seinem Goethe gar keine Botschaft für die Gegenwart der 1920er Jahre erhalten habe und dieser ihm und den Lesern eher als eskapistisches Bildungs- und Leseerlebnis diente.22 Abgesehen davon, dass Emil Ludwigs Biografien alles andere als geschichts­ los sind, wie im Folgenden argumentiert wird, und dass sie durchaus eine Botschaft für die Gegenwart enthielten, ist genau dieser Eindruck, dass er als Biograf der gewählten Persönlichkeit gleichsam unmittelbar, auf Du und Du, ohne jede Vermittlung durch Dritte gegenübertrat, richtig und erklärt sich durch die

Philosophie, Psychologie, Malerei, Musik oder eben – wie dieser Aufzählung im vorliegenden Kontext hinzuzufügen wäre – biografischer Geschichtsschreibung. 20 Christoph Gradmann, Historische Belletristik. Populäre historische Biographien in der Weimarer Republik, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1993; ders., Historische Belletristik. Die historischen Biographien Werner Hegemanns und Emil Ludwigs in der Weimarer Repu­ blik, in: BIOS. Zeitschrift für Biographieforschung und Oral History (1990), H. 1, 9­ 5–112; außerdem von Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie, 357–410. 21 Michael Schikowski, Feste Größe. Anmerkungen zu Charakter und Stil in den Biografien Emil Ludwigs, in: Schneider (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 119–140. Das besondere Verdienst dieser Untersuchung besteht darin, auf detaillierte Weise gezeigt zu haben, wie die Selbstaussagen von Ludwig über seine Biografien und deren dann wirklich vorgenommenen Bauprinzipien auseinanderfallen. Schikowski kann etwa nachweisen, wie Ludwig mit »den Mitteln des Films« (129) gearbeitet hat, dass er viele seiner literarischen Stilmittel (Close-up, Zoom, Medias-res-Anfänge u. a. m.) vom Kino auf seine Geschichtsschreibung übertrug – dies aber, ohne dass er in seinen vielen Selbstexplikationen zur Methode der Biografie auch nur einmal auf die formale Nähe zum Film hinwies. 22 Ebd., 125 f. Zur Argumentation der Monografie Christoph Gradmanns von 1993 ließe sich Ähnliches anmerken wie über die Studie von Schikowski, mit dem Unterschied, dass Gradmann auf Mosses Buch German Jews beyond Judaism (1985) hinweist und einen Verteidiger von Ludwig zitiert, Jan Romein, dessen noch in den 1940er Jahren geschriebenes, 1946 auf Niederländisch erschienenes Buch Die Biographie. Eine Einführung in ihre Geschichte und Problematik sich »wie ein verspätetes Schlußwort« zur Kontroverse lese. Gradmann fügt hinzu, Romeins Buch sei auch deswegen wichtig, weil er den Antisemitismus der Fachhistoriker in ihren Angriffen auf Ludwig vermerke. Siehe ders., Historische Belletristik, 21–23.

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jüdischen Erfahrungen des Autors, die natürlich in seine Perspektive eingingen. Erst so wird verständlich, warum er Goethe vor dem 20. Jahrhundert eher in Schutz zu nehmen versuchte, anstatt ihn in die ideologischen Kämpfe der Epoche hineinzuziehen. Mit Ludwigs Werk und mit seinen darin niedergelegten ideellen Überzeugungen liegt also in der Tat ein idealtypisches Beispiel für die Notwendigkeit vor, die Werke jüdischer Biografen im Kontext und eben mit Rücksicht auf ihre jüdischen Geschichtserfahrungen zu lesen und zu interpretieren, um sie ganz verstehen zu können. Das ist auch deshalb nötig, weil sich diese Frage bereits zeitgenössisch auf die denkbar hässlichste Weise in Form antisemitischer Anfeindungen an die Biografen richtete und sie so nötigte, die eigene Autorschaft, den eigenen Status als Schriftsteller und die eigene Herkunft mitzudenken – all das eben nicht erst nach dem 10. Mai 1933, als in vielen Städten Deutschlands Studenten auch Bücher von Emil Ludwig öffentlich verbrannten, sondern bereits seit den frühen 1920er Jahren.

Den Genius suchen, nicht das Genie: »Goethe« als Symbol Emil Ludwig schuf seinen Erfolg als Biograf mit zwei Symbolthemen der Deutschen: Er schrieb kurz vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg ein Buch über Bismarck und kurz danach eines über Goethe.23 Mit der Wahl der beiden berühmtesten deutschen Persönlichkeiten legte er seinen Lesern in kurzer Folge ein umfassendes Angebot vor, denn Goethe als Repräsentant der deutschen Geisteskultur und Bismarck als Verkörperung der deutschen Machtpolitik umfassten die beiden Seiten seines Nachdenkens über die moderne deutsche Geschichte. Mit den Portalfiguren deutschen Selbstverständnisses konnte er Höhe- und Tiefpunkte des 19.  Jahrhunderts rekapitulieren, aber auch den politischen Zustand der Gegenwart überprüfen. Mit beiden Stoffen unterlief er herkömmliche Erwartungen: Weder war Goethe für ihn der entrückte und unantastbare Klassiker aus Gymnasiallehrbuch und Universität, noch war Bismarck lediglich der »Eiserne« Kanzler des preußischen Militarismus, den

23 Emil Ludwig, Bismarck. Ein psychologischer Versuch, Berlin 1911; ders., Goethe. Geschichte eines Menschen, 3 Bde., Berlin 1926 (unveränd. Nachdruck der Originalausgabe Stuttgart 1920). Bismarck und Goethe zusammenzudenken, war im frühen 20. Jahrhundert ein Topos; noch für Sigmund Freud standen beide Namen für die komplementären Seiten Deutschlands, wenn er 1930  – anlässlich des an ihn verliehenen Goethe-Preises der Stadt Frankfurt – zum Ausdruck brachte, dass er stolz darauf sei, »nicht zum Deutschland Bismarcks, sondern zum Deutschland Goethes zu gehören«. Siehe auch Felix Hirsch, Eduard von Simson. Das Problem der deutsch-jüdischen Symbiose im Schatten Goethes und Bismarcks, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 16 (1965), 261–277.

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seine Verteidiger fälschlicherweise so gerne aus ihm machten.24 Die gemeinsame Grundthese beider Stoffe stellte sich für Ludwig als politisch komplementär dar, denn er betonte, dass Deutschland als Kulturnation zweimal, um 1800 und dann noch einmal nach seiner Einigung zum National- und Machtstaat 1870/71, daran gescheitert sei, eine stabile liberale politische Kultur zu etablieren. Stattdessen seien die Deutschen dem Sog einer fatalen Antinomie erlegen: der Vorstellung, dass Kultur und Politik Gegensätze seien. Der in der ideellen und politischen Geschichte der eigenen Nationswerdung angelegte Bruch zwischen unpolitischem Geist und geistloser Macht sei in Deutschland nie überwunden worden – mit negativen Folgen für die demokratische Entwicklung des Landes bis in die Gegenwart hinein.25 Das dreibändige Werk über Goethe von 1920 war Emil Ludwigs erste kommerziell erfolgreiche Biografie. Auch hier schrieb er nicht als Literaturwissenschaftler, sondern in der Rolle eines politisch engagierten Zeitbeobachters und ideengeschichtlichen Diagnostikers, dem es weniger um den historischen Dichter an sich ging als vielmehr um dessen Verlebendigung und Gegenwartsbedeutung. Nicht zuletzt aber schrieb er als passionierter Goe­theverehrer, der »einen neuen Goethe in viele Länder tragen wollte«26 und der über seinen persönlichen Glauben sagte, dieser sei von Goethe und der Natur nicht weniger bestimmt als von Gott.27 In seinen Erinnerungen schrieb er: »Da ich glaubte, daß ein begeistert Lernender der beste Lehrer sei, beschloß ich, was ich erfuhr, sogleich auf meine Art niederzuschreiben. Ich hatte nie eine Biographie geschrieben und nichts ließ mich ahnen, daß ich mit diesem Buche eine neue Form des Ausdrucks und daß ich gar eine Mode in Europa einleiten könnte.«28

Doch genau dies trat ein. Die Darstellung erreichte schon kurz nach dem Erscheinen die 15. Auflage und 1932, im Jubiläumsjahr des Dichters, gab der Verlag an, er habe 125 000 Exemplare des Goethebuches verkauft.29 Die Bio24 Siegfried Kracauer, der Mitte der 1920er Jahre einen Bismarck-Vortrag Emil Ludwigs rezensierte, erfasste dessen Intention genau, als er zustimmend feststellte, dass Ludwig beim Kanzler der Reichseinigung einen »höchst erfreulichen Mangel […] an Ideologien« konstatiert, dessen ganz »uneiserne Elastizität« herausstellt und ihn insgesamt als Europäer porträtiert. So schloss seine Besprechung mit der Empfehlung: »Das Bild des anderen Bismarck sollte in unseren Schullesebüchern den Popanz des eisernen Kanzlers verdrängen.« Siehe Siegfried Kracauer, Der andere Bismarck. Vortrag Emil Ludwigs [1926], in: ders., Werke, 9 Bde., Berlin/Frankfurt a. M. 2004–2012, hier Bd. 5.2: Essays, Feuilletons, Rezensionen. 1924–1927, hg. von Inka Mülder-Bach, Berlin 2011, 481 f. 25 Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402. 26 Emil Ludwig, Geschenke des Lebens. Ein Rückblick, Berlin 1931, 510. 27 Ebd., 573. 28 Ebd., 500. 29 Noch erfolgreicher waren seine Darstellung Napoleons und sein Porträt Wilhelms II., hier umfassten die Auflagen 200 000 verkaufte Bücher. Weitere Biografien widmete Emil Lud-

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grafie erlebte im Verlauf von nur einem Jahrzehnt ganze 34 Auflagen. Übersetzungen ins Ungarische (1928), Italienische (1932), Englische (1934), Französische (1936) und Spanische (1938) folgten noch zu Lebzeiten des Verfassers.30 Ludwig schrieb dieses Buch mit dem Anspruch, ein neues Goethebildnis zu entwerfen.31 Er wandte sich etwa gegen die heute vergessene, seinerzeit noch kanonische Goethebiografie von Albert Bielschowsky, die zwischen ihrem Erscheinen 1895 und dem Ersten Weltkrieg mehr als zwei Dutzend Mal aufgelegt wurde. Bielschowskys »jungmädchenhafte« Dichter-Panegyrik erschien jedoch im 20. Jahrhundert bald ganz unangemessen.32 Generell wollte Ludwig weg vom einschüchternden »Klassiker«, der zeitlose Kunstwerte aus einer anderen Epoche verkörpere. In seinem Werk, so warnte er die Leser in einer kurzen Vorrede, werde man »keinen jungen Apoll mehr finden und keinen alten Olympier, weder den glücklichen noch den harmonischen Goethe« (Bd. 1, XV). Hier wie auch in den anderen Biografien ging es ihm ganz und gar um das innere menschliche Drama, um »den sechzigjährigen Kampf« (Bd. 1, XV), also um die Individualität und den Genius des Dichters, nicht aber um das Genie, also das gleichsam Übermenschliche seiner Leistungen oder gar um den Lebenserfolg. Ludwigs Interesse am Spannungsfeld zwischen menschlicher Logik und Irrationalität war von den Schriften Sigmund Freuds geprägt. Eine solche, auch im Untertitel Geschichte eines Menschen repräsentierte Sichtweise rückt biografisches Subjekt und Leser viel näher

wig Abraham Lincoln, dem Maler Michelangelo und dem Archäologen Heinrich Schliemann, um nur noch diese drei zu nennen. Eine besondere Stellung in seinem Werk nimmt die Lebensbeschreibung von Jesus von Nazareth ein, die er 1928 in Berlin unter dem Titel Der Menschensohn. Geschichte eines Propheten vorlegte. Die Auflagenzahlen sind den Anzeigen des Verlags Ernst Rowohlt entnommen, siehe Emil Ludwig, Genie und Charakter. Zwanzig männliche Bildnisse, Berlin 1924, 284. 30 Wilfried Barner, Jüdische Goethe-Verehrung vor 1933, in: Stéphane Mosès/Albrecht Schöne, Juden in der deutschen Literatur. Ein deutsch-israelisches Symposium, Frankfurt a. M. 1986, 127–151, hier 151. 31 Ludwig, Goethe, Bd. 1, XV (nachfolgend verweisen in Klammern gesetzte Angaben im Haupttext auf Band- und Seitenzahlen dieses Werkes). 32 Albert Bielschowsky, Goethe. Sein Leben und seine Werke, München 1895; 2. Aufl. 1897; 3.  Aufl. 1901; 1903 erschien die Biografie erstmals in zwei Bänden. Der Zeitgenosse Harry Maync, Geschichte der deutschen Goethe-Biographie. Ein kritischer Abriß, Leipzig 1914 (zuerst erschienen in: Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum, Geschichte und deutsche Literatur 9 [1906], 46–76) schrieb seinem Buch noch eine autoritative Stellung zu; Wolfgang Leppmann dagegen distanzierte sich in den 1960er Jahren von der »jungmädchenhafte[n] Heldenvergötterung« im Ton des Buches, wenn beispielsweise von Goethe als dem »herrlichste[n] Lichtbringer« die Rede ist, siehe ders., Goethe und die Deutschen. Vom Nachruhm eines Dichters, vom Verfasser übers. und ergänzte Ausg., Stuttgart 1962 (zuerst Engl.: The German Image of Goethe, Oxford 1961), 101.

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zueinander.33 Alle Biografien von Ludwig sind deshalb weniger Heldenerzählung (das bleiben sie, auf eine dialektische Weise, dennoch); es sind vielmehr psychologische Mikrostudien, in denen frühe und früheste Kindheitserlebnisse auf die spätere Entfaltung von Kreativität und Selbstbildung vorausweisen, in denen Widersprüche der menschlichen Psyche als prägend hervorgehoben werden und in denen der Kampf gegen innere und äußere Widerstände im Zentrum steht. Sein Buch über Rembrandt begann etwa mit einer Szene, in der Ludwig den Kleinkinderblick des Malers auf die Windmühle und ihre sich drehenden Flügel nachvollzieht, auf eine als Urszene inszenierte Erkenntnis also, in der das Erlebnis des Spiels aus Licht und Schatten (»das flackernde Licht dieses zitternden Hauses«34) prägend wird, Jahrzehnte vor jeder formalen Ausbildung als Maler, indem sich auf intuitive Weise das Fundament seines Lebenswerkes vorbereitete, ja ausformte. Auch sein Goethebuch wollte Ludwig in diesem Sinne als Parabel auf das Menschliche, als die »Geschichte von Goethes Seele« (Bd. 1, XII) verstanden wissen, nicht als dokumentarischen Bericht über dessen Lebensstationen. Im Folgenden soll eine exemplarische Darstellung des spezifischen Biografiestils von Emil Ludwig am Beispiel dieses Erfolgsbuches zeigen, dass seine methodischen und politischen Überzeugungen hier, in diesem ersten großen Wurf am Beginn seiner schriftstellerischen Karriere, alle schon vorhanden waren. In Goethe erprobte der Autor seine Überzeugung, dass der Essay als Medium und Methode der Geschichtserzählung für den Blick in das Innere des Menschen geeigneter sei als die herkömmliche historische Wissenschaftsprosa und dass dabei vor allem die psychologische Verlebendigung die zentrale Erkenntnismethode der neuen Zeit darstelle.35 Ludwig wandte sich ironischerweise mit seiner Auffassung von Biografien gegen den Biografismus des 19. Jahrhunderts, der so tat, als sei Goethes Werk »der Zweck, um dessentwillen dies Leben gelebt wurde« (Bd. 1, XII). Nicht das Konstrukt einer deutschen Nationalliteratur war Zielpunkt seines Narrativs, sondern der Entstehungsakt von Poesie, also Kreativität, Talent, Mut, Zufall oder

33 Die Prägung durch Freuds Denken bedeutet keine psychoanalytische Ausrichtung; im Spätwerk wies Ludwig dann sogar Einflüsse der Psychoanalyse zurück und reklamierte für sich und seine Arbeit eine »verehrende« und »positive« Haltung. Siehe ders., Der entzauberte Freud, Zürich 1946, 9; siehe auch von Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie, 382. 34 Emil Ludwig, Rembrandts Schicksal, Berlin 1924, 11. 35 Ludwig, Genie und Charakter, 11 f. Hier zählt Ludwig auf, was ihn als Biografen an der Persönlichkeit interessierte: »Maße, Spannung und Lähmung ihrer Lebenskräfte, Trieb zur Tat und Hemmung durch Gedanken, das wechselnde Fluidum ihrer Stimmungen. Während unsere Väter fragten, wie der Einzelne mit der Welt harmonierte, fragen wir zuerst: harmoniert er in sich selber?«

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Kairos des besonderen Moments, aus dem Zeitüberdauerndes entsteht. Er wollte den Weimarer Dichter entnationalisieren, an die Stelle des nationalkulturellen Besitzdenkens der deutschen Goethephilologen setzte er einen psychologischen Interpretationsansatz. In der Vorrede bezeichnete er es als sein wichtigstes Ziel, die Gestalt Goethes »fort aus der Sphäre aller Vorurteile zu führen, die, um ihn ästhetisch, moralisch und national auf ihre Art klassisch zu machen, seine inneren Widersprüche verschleiern, statt sie zu beleuchten« (Bd. 1, XV). Es ging ihm allein um »die innere Welt eines Menschenlebens« (Bd. 1, XI), die er aber gleichwohl als symptomatisch begriff. So überschrieb Ludwig die zwölf Kapitel seiner Darstellung mit Begriffen aus dem Werk Goethes (»Prometheus«, »Eros« oder »Dämon«) beziehungsweise mit begrifflichen Universalismen, die sich seiner Meinung nach in Goethe besonders verkörperten (»Tatkraft«, »Pflicht«, »Freiheit«, »Einsamkeit«). Nirgendwo erscheint der Dichter bei Ludwig als der geistige Repräsentant der Deutschen oder gar als Vordenker eines – wie auch immer definierten – Deutschtums. Es sind stattdessen durchweg »die verschlungenen Kreise seines Menschenlebens« (Bd. 1, XV), also menschliche Innenbilder, »Landschaften der Seele« (Bd. 1, XII), die ihn interessieren: die künstlerischen Krisen und kreativen Wunder »einer höchst gefährdeten Seele« (Bd. 1, XV). Ludwig wollte in seiner Biografie »aus stillem Anschauen der Welt und dramatischen Verwirrungen, aus Versuchen, Erfolgen und Enttäuschungen, aus Liebe und Streit, Forschung und Gestaltung« in jedem Kapitel »die Stimmung der Seele« (Bd. 1, XII) des Individuums erkunden, keine Bilanz des Lebens, keine Kommentare über einzelne Werke verfassen oder gar den Heldenmythos der deutschen Kultur beschwören. In Goethe heißt es gleich zu Beginn in einer für Ludwig charakteristischen Wendung, die Darstellung wolle »für die Nerven unseres Jahrhunderts« den Versuch machen, »eine neue Form« zu finden, um »den Menschen zu gestalten« (Bd. 1, XI). Diesen sensualistischen Anschluss an Goethe nahm Ludwig an sich selbst und für seine Leser vor – dabei las er das Gesamtwerk Goethes, aber kaum Forschungen über ihn. In seinen Erinnerungen formulierte er, Goethe selbst habe ihm, als seien beide während der Arbeit an dem Buch miteinander befreundet gewesen, »mit hundert Worten« zugerufen, »keine Statue von ihm zu meißeln«.36 Symptomatisch für seinen Stil sind deshalb Szenen, in denen er das goethesche Bewusstsein des geschilderten Augenblicks darbietet und als inneren Monolog gestaltet, der nur mit einem Satz oder wenigen Zeilen in eine äußere Rahmenhandlung eingebettet ist. So heißt es zu Beginn des Buches über den jungen Leipziger Studenten:

36 Ludwig, Geschenke des Lebens, 510.

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»Mit mildem Lächeln tritt er ins Deutsche Staatsrecht ein. Sitzen die Strümpfe stramm? Wo sehen wir denn? Vom Kammerrichter ist die Rede, von Präsident und Beisitzern. Wie endlos trägt er wieder vor, was doch im Buche steht! Der weiße Rand ist immer noch das beste, darauf kann man die Herren zeichnen, von denen dieser ennuyante Vortrag handelt. Wenn die Uhr schlägt, dehnt man sich befreit und geht hinüber in die Physik – ob es wohl in dieser Fakultät anregender ist? Monaden, was für drollige kleine Geschöpfe!« (Bd. 1, 6)

In diesem kurzen Abschnitt ist die Form, dem Leser die Gedanken Goethes vorzuführen, das eine; das andere ist die inhaltliche Ausrichtung auf das starke Selbstbewusstsein des jungen Mannes, das Ludwig mit dem Eindruck der Eitelkeit paart, die er aber nicht herabsetzend einführt, sondern in Übereinstimmung mit einem suchenden Goethe, der seine Aufgabe noch finden muss, der in Leipzig dabei zwar wenig Staatsrecht lernt, dafür aber Zeichnen, und der von Jugend an universelle Interessen, etwa für die Physik, verfolgte. Über die Zäsur von Goethes 26. Lebensjahr schreibt Ludwig, mit ironischem Respekt, aber ganz ohne adorierende Attitüde und falsches Pathos: »Denn niemals sprüht heftiger als in diesem 26sten Jahre aus Goethe jene dämonische, von Gegensätzen zerschüttelte Natur, mit der sein Genius den Lebenskampf aufnimmt. Die große Polarität seines Lebens, sinnlich und übersinnlich, amoralisch und spinozistisch, ganz egozentrisch und ganz Hingabe, nun glänzend gesellig, nun schroff nach Einsamkeit rufend, gläubig und cynisch, Menschenfreund und Menschenverächter, stolz und gütig, geduldig und heftig, empfindsam und pornographisch, in Formen verloren oder nach Taten strebend, wüst und pedantisch, umfassender Denker, doch aus Instinkt handelnd, kalt objektiviert, doch glühend in sich selbst verrannt, ganz männlich und sehr weiblich – : so wirft sich das Doppelwesen dieses Unbehausten ins Rollen der Begebenheit, aus Lebenswillen dürstend nach Maß und Formung, und nur dem Einen gläubig anvertraut, was er grade in die Verse faßt: ›Nenn’s Glück! Herz! Liebe! Gott! / Ich habe keinen Namen / dafür. Gefühl ist alles.‹« (Bd. 1, 158)

Aus dieser Passage spricht auch der eminent synthetische Blick Ludwigs auf Goethe. Dies war ein zentrales Motiv für das Werk insgesamt, das etwa im Motto des Buches zu einem deutsch-jüdischen Bekenntnis wird, wenn er aus dem West-östlichen Diwan die Worte wählt: »Fühlst Du nicht an meinen Liedern, / daß ich eins und doppelt bin?« Man kann mithilfe dieser Zeilen zudem den vermeintlichen Widerspruch erklären, dass die Bücher Ludwigs beim Publikum, vor allem bei deutsch-jüdischen Lesern, Erfolg hatten, von den Historikern und anderen Fachwissenschaftlern aber schroff bis feindselig abgelehnt wurden. Als eine Erklärung für beides ist in erster Linie die Originalität der Passage zu nennen, denn in der gesamten Goetheliteratur vor Ludwigs Darstellung wird man vergleichbare Sätze über das »ganz männliche« und »sehr weibliche« »Doppelwesen« Goethe nicht finden, ein Wesen zumal, das als mächtige kreative Stimulanz nicht nur die Geschlechterpolarität überwindet, sondern auch die Gewähr zu bieten scheint, die im öffentlichen Diskurs der Zeit – zumeist mit negativer Intention – behauptete

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vermeintliche Antinomie zwischen Deutschtum und Judentum ganz und für immer Makulatur werden zu lassen. Ein anderer Moment im Leben Goethes, der von Emil Ludwig nicht als heroische Erzählung, sondern als fast maliziöse psychologische Vignette geboten wird, ist dessen Begegnung mit dem klassischen Rom, die in der herkömmlichen Literatur als Verjüngung und Wiedergeburt überhöht wird. Bei Ludwig dagegen heißt es sehr nüchtern: »[In Italien] wird er nichts lernen, was er hier zu lernen nicht voraus gewußt hat, wenig genießen, was er nicht erwartet. Einen Reiz des Reisens wie des Lebens, manchem der größte: Überraschung muß Goethe ganz entbehren. Wo andere Reisende in Erregung geraten, fühlt er sich beruhigt, denn was er sieht, ist ihm Bestätigung. Dies aber war es ja grade, was seine unruhvolle Natur erstrebte, als sie ihn in das Land der Kunst, der Freiheit und des Südens entbot: Ruhe der Seele, Sicherung geistigen Besitzes.« (Bd. 1, 424 f.)

Beispiele dieser Art, in denen Ludwig die Erzähltraditionen und die Erwartungen der Goethephilologie unterlief, ließen sich leicht vermehren. Das Besondere ist nun, dass seine persönliche Verehrung Goethes durch diesen – von anderen als »respektlos« wahrgenommenen – Blick auf den menschlichen, oft allzu menschlichen Goethe gar nicht eingeschränkt, sondern gesteigert wurde. Ludwig selbst empfand die Dekonstruktion des Goethemythos als Akt der Befreiung, als Verteidigung des goetheschen Erbes und somit als Ausdruck wahrer Kenner- und Liebhaberschaft. Seine eigentliche Kritik galt natürlich nicht der unpolitischen Literatur, sondern der geistlosen Politik, den Feinden der Demokratie, denjenigen, die den hohlen militärischen Ritualen des Kaiserreichs und dem Preußentum nachtrauerten. In Paris hielt Ludwig im März 1930 einen Vortrag, dessen Titel »Goethe statt Bismarck« an seinem eigenen Standort keinen Zweifel lässt.37 Der Kulturphilosoph Ernst Cassirer, auch er ein passionierter Goetheliebhaber, hat für Thomas Manns berühmten Exilroman Lotte in Weimar die kluge Frage aufgeworfen, ob diese fiktive Vergegenwärtigung des für 1816 historisch überlieferten Weimar-Besuchs von Charlotte Kestner, die mehr als vier Jahrzehnte zuvor Goethes Vorbild für die Lotte im Werther gewesen war, überhaupt Dichtung sei oder nicht vielmehr »eine freilich subtile und künstlerisch sublimierte Goethe-Philologie« darstelle.38 In ebendiesem Sinne ließe 37 Fuhrer, »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«, 326. Für den Vortrag an diesem Abend mussten mehrere Hundert Besucher abgewiesen werden, da kein Platz mehr im Vortragsraum war. 38 Ernst Cassirer, Thomas Manns Goethe-Bild. Eine Studie über »Lotte in Weimar«, in: ders., Geist und Leben. Schriften zu den Lebensordnungen von Natur und Kunst, Geschichte und Sprache, hg. von Ernst Wolfgang Orth, Leipzig 1993, 123–165, hier 143, zit. nach Irmela von der Lühe, Jüdische Goethe-Biographik und Thomas Manns Roman »Lotte in Weimar«, in: Dorothea Ludewig/Steffen Höhne (Hgg.), Goethe und die Juden,

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sich für Emil Ludwigs Goethe dasselbe sagen: Zu Teilen Forschung, Erkundung und Wissenserprobung, war auch dies eine Art von Goethephilologie, wenngleich »subtil« und vor allem »künstlerisch sublimiert«, um Cassirers Begriffe zu wiederholen.39 Ludwig hielt sich an Quellen und Fakten, wollte durch sie aber nur einen Einstieg in die individuelle Innenseite des Menschen erhalten. So entstand ein genretheoretisch zwischen Geschichtsschreibung und Roman, zwischen Fakten und Fiktionen vermittelnder Solitär, ein Werk, das Werte, für die Goethe stand, verteidigte. Ludwig war jedoch davon überzeugt, eine solche Verteidigung nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg nur dann lebendig vortragen zu können, wenn gerade nicht der offizielle Olympier, an Universitäten oder in völkisch-nationalen Kreisen beschworene Mythos, sondern ein anderer Goethe angerufen wurde, der gegen diese Vereinnahmung regelrecht in Schutz zu nehmen war. Dieses In-Schutz-Nehmen gegen eine falsche Rezeptionsweise wird noch deutlicher, wenn man das Goethebuch von 1920 mit Ludwigs zwei Jahre später vorgelegter Anthologie Vom unbekannten Goethe zusammendenkt.40 Auch mit ihr forderte er den Leser dazu auf, den Dichter »neu belebt«41 zu lesen und zu sehen. Hier wie dort  – und in weiteren Texten, Reden, Anthologien und Zeitungsartikeln zu Goethe, die hier nur erwähnt werden können42 – trieb ihn ein dokumentarisch-wissenschaftliches Ethos als Goetheforscher an, eine Haltung, die viele jüdische Gelehrte und Schriftsteller einte, und die Hermann Kesten wenig später, schon im New Yorker Exil, in einem kurzen Text, der Goethe in die Neue Welt übersetzte, so zum Ausdruck brachte: »Es scheint, als müsse man für eine fruchtbare Beschäftigung mit Goethe einen gewissen Kosmopolitismus voraussetzen, der die Grundlage für Beziehungen zum ›Weltkind‹ Goethe und den Goetheschen Begriff der Weltliteratur in sich ein-

die Juden und Goethe. Beiträge zu einer Beziehungs- und Rezeptionsgeschichte, Berlin/ Boston, Mass., 2018, 93–108, hier 106. 39 Sebastian Ullrich hat entgegengesetzt argumentiert: Das leidenschaftliche Eintreten von Ludwig für die Republik sei nicht mit dem Maßstab von Wissenschaft zu messen, sondern muss vor dem Hintergrund seiner politischen Aufklärungsarbeit und seines Bekenntnisses zu Weimar gedeutet werden. Für ihn war ein klares Erziehungsziel entscheidend: eine pazifistische Alternative zum republikfeindlichen Konsens der konservativen Historiker und den militaristischen Ansichten im rechten Milieu des neuen Staates, siehe ders., Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar, 120 und 138 f. 40 Emil Ludwig (Hg.), Vom unbekannten Goethe. Eine neue Anthologie, Berlin 1922. 41 Ebd., 5. 42 Etwa die wichtigen Dokumente seiner Goethestudien, die beide im Paul Zsolnay Verlag erschienen: Emil Ludwig (Hg.), Goethes Lebensweisheit, Berlin/Wien/Leipzig 1931; ders., Goethe, Kämpfer und Führer. Festrede der Goethe-Feier im Deutschen Volkstheater Wien, 20. März 1932, Berlin/Wien/Leipzig 1932; außerdem ders., Wie soll das Goethe-Jahr 1932 gefeiert werden?, in: Die literarische Welt 7 (1931), H. 38, 2.

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schließt.«43 Das aber war dann kein nationaldeutscher, sondern ein »jüdischer Goethe«, gegen den die völkische Rechte von Adolf Bartels über Houston Stewart Chamberlain bis hin zu Erich Koch und anderen NS-Germanisten Sturm lief. Mit dieser Haltung reihte sich Ludwig in eine lange Tradition der Goetheverteidigung durch jüdische Gelehrte, Intellektuelle, Schriftsteller und Philologen ein. Zugleich brachte ihn sein unaufdringliches Bekenntnis direkt in die Schusslinie eben dieser völkisch-politischen Rechten.

Biografische Methode und physiognomische Geschichtsschreibung Der Kulturhistoriker Peter Gay hat in seiner klassisch gewordenen Darstellung Die Republik der Außenseiter. Geist und Kultur in der Weimarer Zeit die Konjunktur von Biografien jener Epoche als »Ritual« bezeichnet, als Verkündigung eines Ideals, das die Gegenwart kritisiere, ja delegitimiere.44 Denkt man diese These mit der von George L. Mosse zusammen, nach der Ludwigs »Liebe zur Biographie«45 auch ein »Symptom für die Suche nach dem Individuum« repräsentierte in einer Zeit, »als die deutsche Politik weitgehend durch das Schwanken der irrationalen Massen geprägt war«,46 wird die schwierige erkenntnistheoretische Melange des Goethebuches – und der biografischen Methodologie Ludwigs insgesamt – verständlicher: Sie brannte an zwei Enden, wurde also sowohl von politischen Überzeugungen getragen als auch von der Tradition der jüdischen Goetheverehrung, die bis zu Rahel Varnhagen, Berthold Auerbach, Michael Bernays, Ludwig Geiger und Georg Simmel zurückführt. Mit Gay und Mosse lassen sich beide Aspek-

43 Leo Baeck Institute Archives, New York, Kurt Kesten Collection, III. Manuscripts, ARC 1617–4061, Hermann Kesten, Goethe und amerikanische Schriftsteller (unpag.) Manuskript, 4 Seiten, hier 3); allgemein zum Goethebild des Exils siehe Brita Eckert/Werner Berthold (Hgg.), »… er teilte mit uns allen das Exil«. Goethebilder der deutschsprachigen Emigration 1933–1945. Eine Ausstellung des Deutschen Exilarchivs 1933–1945 der Deutschen Bibliothek, Wiesbaden 1999 (Ausstellungskatalog); dies., Goethe-Rezeption im Exil von 1933 bis 1949, in: Claus-Dieter Krohn u. a. (Hgg.), Exile im 20. Jahrhundert, München 2000, 230–253; darauf aufbauend: Wolfgang Frühwald, Die Goethe-Rezeption in der deutschsprachigen Exilliteratur, Paderborn u. a. 2002. Lutz Winckler spricht sogar vom »Goethekult des Exils«, siehe ders., Exilliteratur und Literaturgeschichte. Kanonisierungsprozesse, in: Bannasch/Rochus (Hgg.), Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Exilliteratur, 171–202, hier 187 f. 44 Peter Gay, Die Republik der Außenseiter. Geist und Kultur in der Weimarer Zeit 1918– 1933. Mit einer Einleitung von Karl-Dietrich Bracher, übers. von Helmut Lindemann, Frankfurt a. M. 1970, 74. 45 Mosse, Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland, 57. 46 Ebd., 51.

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te seines Werkes deuten: Emil Ludwigs Biografien hatten einen klar in die Gegenwart gerichteten politischen Vektor; seine Bücher waren Fallstudien, die die Vergangenheit nicht um ihrer selbst willen rekonstruierten, sondern vielmehr der Gegenwart zum Lehrstück werden sollten. Dabei kritisierte er einerseits die Gegner der Republik und die Feinde der Demokratie; doch andererseits diente Autoren wie Zweig, Feuchtwanger, Wassermann und Ludwig das Genre der Biografie auch dazu, mit Verweis auf universalhistorische und anthropologische Konstanten intellektuell an der »Überwindung ihrer jüdischen Isolation« in der allgemein-deutschen Öffentlichkeit zu arbeiten.47 Auf dieser Seite seines Selbstverständnisses beruhte die Überzeugung Ludwigs, ein guter Biograf könne überhaupt nicht parteiisch, »national noch sonst verblendet« sein, er stehe vielmehr »parteilos […] vor seinem Helden und ist […] durch keine sogenannte Weltanschauung begrenzt«.48 Emil Ludwig berichtete im Rückblick auf sein publizistisches Werk, er habe »die Grenze zur Geschichtsschreibung« nicht absichtlich, sondern »unbewußt« überschritten.49 Dazu passt, dass er seine Arbeit und seinen Beruf auf ganz unterschiedliche Weise benannte: Mal sah er sich als »literarischer Porträtist«,50 mal sprach er von seiner »physiognomischen« Methode.51 Dann wieder nannte er sie sogar noch deutlich materialistischer »psycho-biologisch«, womit er den Aspekt des dramatischen, schicksalsvollen Lebens gegenüber dem logischen Denken oder Räsonieren akzentuierte.52 Die biografische Methode war dabei für Ludwig immer auch ein Erziehungsinstrument, zu dem er sich gerne und oft bekannte.53 Er dachte aufklärerisch und volkspädagogisch – ein Aspekt, auf den vor allem George L. Mosse wiederholt hingewiesen hat, wenn er diesen ins Allgemeine weisenden Punkt gerade nicht nur für Emil Ludwig und Stefan Zweig, sondern für die deutsch-jüdischen Intellektuellen der Weimarer Jahre insgesamt herausstrich.54 Für

47 Ebd. 48 Ludwig, Genie und Charakter, 14; als Vorbild hierfür nennt Ludwig neben Plutarch, für ihn der »modernste unter allen Porträtisten« (ebd., 11), auch Goethe und dessen Aufsatz über Winckelmann (ebd., 15). 49 Ders., Geschenke des Lebens, 500. 50 Ders., Genie und Charakter, hier v. a. die kurze »Vorrede. Über historische Gestaltung« (11–16), in der er sich mehrfach als »Porträtist« bezeichnet. 51 Ludwig entwickelt seinen Begriff von der Malerei und von Bildnissen her, die er »stumme Verräter« nennt; er war überzeugt, dass »vom Bildnis des Menschen meist die Vision seines Wesens« ausgehe, und deswegen folgerte er, dass umgekehrt Biografen in ihrer Rolle als »Porträtisten« immer und ganz gleich, ob »mit Pinsel oder Feder«, »große Physiognomen« gewesen seien (ebd., 13). 52 Von Zimmermann, »Der Fall Emil Ludwig«, 360. 53 Exemplarisch etwa in seiner Einleitung: Ludwig, Goethe, Bd. 1, XV. 54 Siehe Mosse, Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland, 49  f. (»sie wollten erziehen, Bildungsideale verbreiten und zum Gebrauch des kritischen Verstandes anregen« [53]; »das

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Ludwig bestanden Ziel und Zweck seiner Biografien darin, Vorbilder zu schaffen, diese aber nicht als unerreichbare Heroen zu gestalten, sondern als verwandte Seelen: »Dem Leser jeder Sphäre, besonders aber der Jugend darzustellen, wie große Männer keine Götter sind, wie sie von denselben allzumenschlichen Passionen, Hemmungen und Lastern geschüttelt wurden, die jeden andern Sterblichen beunruhigen, und wie sie dennoch sich zu ihren Zielen durchkämpfen: das ist unsere erzieherische Absicht.«55

Und Emil Ludwig schrieb Szenen, umkreiste das Momentum, dachte dramatisch, obgleich er später gar nicht mehr für das Theater schrieb.56 Wie Dramentitel funktionieren bei ihm auch viele der Kapitelbenennungen seiner Biografien. Immer wieder finden wir eine in fünf Akte unterteilte Dramatisierung des Stoffes mit formaler Entsprechung zur klassischen Dramentheorie, die in Exposition, verheißungsvollem Aufstieg, schicksalhafter Peripetie einer Krise und dem darauffolgenden Bewähren des Einzelnen in Leid und Not gekennzeichnet ist.57 Immer wieder orientierte sich Ludwig am Dramengesetz der Katharsis, das für seine Leser Momente des Umschlags von Glück in Leid oder von Leid in dessen Überwindung durch Erkenntnis bereithält.58 Durchgängig interessierte sich Ludwig für Bewusstseins- und Innenvorgänge, dafür also, was »dämonische Naturen im Kampf mit sich aus sich zu machen vermögen«.59 Sein ehernes darstellerisches Axiom war zwar die Chronologie, ein Beharren auf »vorher« und »nachher«, weil nur dies Ent-

55 56

57 58

59

Bemühen um Erziehung« [56] sowie »Es galt, das Humanitätsideal an die deutschen Massen weiterzugeben« [58] u. ö.). Ludwig, Genie und Charakter, 15. Als Vorbild diene ihm das Drama, so Ludwig (ebd., 16). Er begann seine Schriftstellerlaufbahn auch mit dem Verfassen von Theaterstücken (»Mit fünfzehn fing ich an, Stücke zu schreiben; Gott sei Dank sind diese ersten Versuche verschwunden«, so Emil Ludwig in einer Selbstbeschreibung von 1930; sie ist wieder abgedruckt in: Schneider (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 7–9, hier  7) und schrieb solche noch bis in die 1920er Jahre. Auch seine Bühnenstücke, etwa Bismarck. Trilogie eines Kämpfers (1922–1924), waren ebenso wie seine Biografien erfolgreich und in der Öffentlichkeit umstritten; zum Verhältnis von biografischem und dramatischem Schreiben Ludwigs siehe jetzt Christopher Meid, Biographie und Drama bei Emil Ludwig, in: Schneider (Hg.), Emil Ludwig, 35–62; zum Bismarck-Stoff bes. 44–49. Ludwig, Geschenke des Lebens, 10: »Alle fremden Schicksale, die ich verfolgt und teilweise dargestellt habe, teilten sich von selber in fünf Akte.« Bereits Kreuzer hob den »brillierenden Stil« und das »dramatische Gepränge« hervor; auch weist er schon darauf hin, dass Ludwig seine Biografien häufig in fünf Akte ordnet, siehe Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402; auch Mosse verweist auf das »mit atemloser Intensität erzählte Drama« der Geschichte in seinen Büchern, siehe ders., Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland, 54. Hier auf Goethe bezogen: Ludwig, Goethe, Bd. 1, XV; als methodologischen Ansatz formuliert er dies allgemeiner, wenn er schreibt, die biografische Darstellung müsse versuchen, »ins Innere zu dringen«, siehe ders., Genie und Charakter, 12.

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wicklung kennzeichne und »für die Erforschung der Seele« echte Aufschlüsse bringe (XIII). Aber es war im Grunde kein Interesse am Prozess des Historischen, sondern eher an der geheimnisvollen Erfüllung, die im Leben des Einzelnen vor sich ging: Das von ihm erzählte Leben entwickelt sich nicht, sondern erfüllt die in ihm angelegten Möglichkeiten.60 So besehen, schrieb Ludwig eigentlich gar keine Geschichte, denn er verweigerte sich der dafür unabdingbaren auktorialen Erzählhaltung; stattdessen setzte er den Einzelnen von der Geschichte ab, ganz so, als stünden beide Entitäten – Mensch und Geschichte – wie zwei Äquivalente des Weltgeschehens einander gegenüber.61 Am weitesten entfernt wollte Ludwig seine literarische Geschichtsprosa vom Genre des »Kommentars« wissen (XIV). Umgekehrt aber war sein höchstes Ziel, auch dieses legte er in der Vorrede zum Goethe offen, eine Synthese von Geschichtsschreibung und Dichtung zu finden, und zwar dem Ideal gemäß, die »historische Wahrheit eines Kalenders« mit der »psychologische[n] Wahrheit einer Dichtung« zu synthetisieren (XII). Diese neue Form der Biografie wurde zu Emil Ludwigs Sprachrohr, mit dem er auch allgemeine politische Überzeugungen ausdrückte, etwa Pazifismus, Demokratie, Kosmopolitismus. Der jüdische Biograf geriet vor allem deshalb ins Zentrum der Kritik, weil er die Ahnengalerie des politischen und geistigen Deutschlands nicht in einen nationalen Zusammenhang brachte. Ihm waren die Bedeutung des Zufalls und die Regie des psychisch Unergründlichen wichtiger als die »deutsche Sendung«; er erhob die Frage nach den inneren Antrieben und Abgründen der von ihm betrachteten Personen zum Leitfaden seiner Erzählung; ihre Zugehörigkeit zu einem Land, einer Nation oder einer Sprache war für ihn nicht der Erforschung wert. Dabei scheute er sich nicht vor dem Pathos des Allgemein-Menschlichen. Das macht im Übrigen auch die erneute Lektüre aus heutiger Sicht so schwierig: Die Leser der Gegenwart erlauben es sich nicht mehr, ja, empfinden es als falsch und beschönigend, Erkenntnis durch Überschwang oder Verehrung zu erlangen. Ludwigs Erkenntnismethode, seine Porträts durch literarische Vergegenwärtigung von Einzelszenen anzutreiben und dabei »den Menschen« zu meinen, wie er war, ist und immer sein wird, war sicherlich einer der Gründe für den großen Erfolg seiner Bücher beim Lesepublikum der 1920er Jahre. Dieser Ansatz ist es aber auch, der einer Neuauflage für Leser der Gegenwart im Wege steht.62

60 Schikowski, Feste Größe, 125. 61 Ullrich spricht von einer Friedrich Nietzsche nachempfundenen lebensphilosophischen Pointe seiner »ahistorischen Konstanten«, die durch »allgemein-menschliche« Werte zur Maxime des Historikers Ludwig werden, siehe Ullrich, Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar, 123. 62 So schon Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402; jetzt auch Schikowski, Feste Größe, 140.

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Für die Haltung Ludwigs war also der universalistische Gedanke entscheidend, dass das »Herz« aller Menschen gleich sei, zu allen Zeiten und überall auf der Welt.63 Das, was ihn an seinen Biografien interessierte, war weder an Sprache gebunden, noch auf einzelne Epochen beschränkt oder gar nur bestimmten Völkern oder einzelnen Volksgruppen vorbehalten.64 Den Kern seiner Botschaft bildete die mit sich selbst identische Menschheitsgemeinschaft, die nicht zerfällt und nicht zerfallen kann, trotz unterschiedlicher Religionen, trotz Klassenkampf, trotz Sprachdifferenzen und Krieg. Emil Ludwig zeigte mit seinen Büchern auf ein menschliches Substrat, das die Berühmten mit der Masse verbindet: Alle werden, so sein Credo, von denselben Kräften angetrieben oder gelähmt; und alle sind auch denselben Spannungen, Zweifeln und Ängsten ausgesetzt. In seinen frühen Essays, die er unter dem Titel Der Künstler zusammenfasste, umkreiste er – mit einem Verweis auf Goethe, bei dem er diesen Gedanken vorfand – die Bedeutung der Abbildung des Menschen, des Bildnisses oder Porträts, sowie den Gedanken der Körperlichkeit, weil er den menschlichen Körper als den Austragungsort des Ringens von Individualität und Universalität verstand. Hier heißt es: »Nichts ist persönlicher als diese ›Hülle‹, die Gestalt, nichts unvergänglicher als dieses Vergänglichste, nichts bedeutungsvoller nach allen Masken, Spielen, Träumen und Leidenschaften als das Material, in dem sich alles abspielt, der Körper. Er allein vermag dem Kundigen den letzten Aufschluß über den Menschen zu geben, wenn ihn sein Auge von Mode, Pose und dem ganzen Register der Auftrittsnoten befreit hat. Geist, Sprache und Gestus simulieren und dissimulieren. Darum ist der vollkommene Physiognomiker dem vollkommenen Psychologen als Weltmann überlegen. […] Wer aber das Geheimnis der Parallelität von Seele und Leib erkannt hat, rein empirisch, der mag allein sich feuerfest fühlen gegen die Geschosse seiner tausend verkappten Gegenspieler.«65

In einem Essay, den er Genialität des Körpers nannte, pries Ludwig den »Körperkünstler« und das »Wiedererwachen des Körpergefühls«, dem er eine »erhöhte Bildung im Physischen« als Reaktion auf den »intellektuellen Hochmut« der Elterngeneration zuschreibt.66 Heute seien »die großen 63 In seinen Memoiren, in denen er allen 36 Kapiteln ein Motto von Goethe vorangestellt hat, heißt es im Vorwort »Wie das menschliche Herz durch alle Zeiten, Klassen und Anschauungen sich gleich bleibt, das ist der Sinn aller Memoiren.« Siehe Ludwig, Geschenke des Lebens, 9. 64 Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402. 65 Emil Ludwig, Charaktere und Biographien, in: ders., Der Künstler. Essays, Berlin 1914, 204–213; ders., Über das Selbstbildnis, in: ebd., 13–38, Zitat 14. Der Band enthält auch eine Abhandlung mit dem Titel Goethes Bildnis (ebd., 252–264), die Besprechung eines Bandes mit 167 Bildnissen Goethes. Ludwigs Argument lehnt sich an Goethe an, dessen Selbstbezeichnung als »Augenmensch« (253) er übernimmt, wenn er die Überzeugung äußert, dass das Bildnis auch heute noch als Zugang zum Wesen eines Menschen Geltung habe. Siehe Ludwig (Hg.), Vom unbekannten Goethe, 95–97. 66 Ders., Genialität des Körpers, in: Der Künstler, 102–109, Zitate: 104, 103 und 102.

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Reiter und Fahrer, die Flieger, Ringer und Fechter« die wirklichen »Könige des Lebens«, allein »mit ihrem Körper sagen sie, stumm, was sie der Welt zu sagen haben«. Für Ludwig lag hierin der Trost einer Art zweiter Beweisführung seines Universalismus, wenn er das »Vollkommene« nicht in einer der Ideologien in der Arena des verbal mit Ideen und Werten ausgefochtenen politischen Kampfes erkannte, sondern allein im Bereich des Körperlichen akzeptierte; nur so kann man die Idiosynkrasie lesen, wenn Ludwig schreibt, allein der Körper des Menschen könne vollkommen sein.67 In einer Mischform aus »Porträtist«, »Psychologe« und »Physiognom« verstand sich Ludwig als Künstler, der seine Intuitionen jedoch nicht ausgedachten Stoffen oder Themen, sondern der vergangenen Wirklichkeit widmete. Der hohe künstlerische Aufwand, den er dafür trieb – in seinen Büchern selbst und in den Ausführungen über seine Methode –, diente dazu, das Genre der Lebensbeschreibung aus der Festlegung auf Abstammung, Herkunft und Klasse herauszuführen und stattdessen in jedem Menschenleben den Punkt zu finden, an dem die Einzelpersönlichkeit ihre individuelle Erfüllung erfährt. Emil Ludwig gab Mitte der 1920er Jahre an, für eine Leserschaft zu schreiben, die sich von Charles Darwin entfremdet habe.68 Damit skizzierte er den Typus seines Lesers wie in einer Sentenz. Er konnte allerdings nicht ahnen, dass die neuen Darwinisten nur wenige Jahre später seine Bücher verbrennen würden. Sein Optimismus wird dadurch nicht widerlegt. Aber der Hiathos zwischen Anspruch und Wirklichkeit markiert die große Vergeblichkeit seines ganzen Unterfangens, das zu der Zeit, als er an diese Idee glaubte, in Deutschland nicht im Sinne Ludwigs verwirklicht werden konnte.

Verworrene Fronten der Rezeption: Kritik von rechts und links Offensichtlich wurzelte die Kritik an Emil Ludwigs biografischem Schreibprogramm in erster Linie in einer Welt, die Darwin immer radikaler huldigte. Zwar hatte Ludwig viele Freunde und Kollegen, die seine Biografien – und vor allem das Goethebuch – bewunderten. Hier ist besonders an Julius Bab zu erinnern, den deutsch-jüdischen Publizisten und Mitbegründer des Kulturbundes, der seiner eigenen Goethebiografie eine Widmung für Ludwig voranstellte und aus einer dezidiert jüdischen Perspektive dessen existenzielle Projektionsmetapher aufgriff, wenn er schrieb, das »Wunder des Goetheschen Wesens« begründe die Hoffnung, »einen Zwiespalt zu überwinden«: »Wir ahnen«, so

67 Ebd., 104 und 107. 68 Ders., Genie und Charakter, 11.

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heißt es bei Bab mit Berufung auf denselben Grundgedanken bei Emil Ludwig, »im Namen Goethe eine Einheit« zu finden, »jenseits von jener Zerrissenheit, die in unseren Tagen sich bis zur Unerträglichkeit zu steigern scheint«.69 In einem Glückwunschartikel zum 60. Geburtstag nannte Bab 1941 im New Yorker Exil seinen Freund Ludwig einen »Mann zwischen den Berufen, den Formen, den Rassen und den Ländern« und pries ihn gerade dafür, dass er mit seinen Biografien »eine durchaus neue Form eigenen Rechts« geschaffen habe.70 In diesem Artikel erinnerte er auch an die historiografische Debatte um diese »Form eigenen Rechts«, wenn er andeutend hinzufügte: »Ehrwürdige Professoren mögen sich über die künstlerische Leichtigkeit, mit der hier Anschauung gegeben wird, ebenso ärgern, wie hurtige Journalisten über die dennoch große sachliche Umsicht, mit der riesige stoffliche Mengen verwaltet werden.«71 Die Anspielung auf die »ehrwürdigen Professoren« bezog sich auf die Fachbroschüre, die 1928 von der Historischen Zeitschrift (HZ) in 2 000 Exemplaren verbreitet wurde, und mit der die Historiker einen publizistischen Schlag gegen Emil Ludwig und weitere Populärbiografen führten.72 Im Streit um die richtige Form der Geschichtsdarstellung wurde der Begriff »Historische Belletristik« von ihren Gegnern geprägt.73 Die ablehnenden Kritiken aus der HZ, die unter dem gleichlautenden Titel Historische Belletristik noch einmal in einem Sammelband vorgelegt wurden, monierten das Fehlen von fachwissenschaftlichen Standards. Jedoch wird aus ihren Gegentexten deutlich, dass sie 69 Julius Bab, Das Leben Goethes. Eine Botschaft, Stuttgart 1922, 9  f.; die Widmung lautete »Emil Ludwig herzlich und dankschuldig zugeeignet«. Für Bab bestand die im Titel seines Buches angekündigte Botschaft Goethes darin, dass er »diese Gegensätze überwindet« und »uns eine Einheit darbietet, in der diese Gegensätze nicht mehr gültig sind« (11). Sein Buch erschien erneut nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg im Goethe-Jubiläumsjahr in einer 5., erweiterten Auflage (Ludwigsburg 1949); siehe auch Benedikt Jeßing, Goethe-Biographien, in: Goethe Handbuch, 4 Bde., Stuttgart/Weimar 1996–1998, hier Bd. 4.1: Personen, Sachen, Begriffe. (A–K), hg. von Hans-Dietrich Dahnke und Regine Otto, Stuttgart/Weimar 1998, 411–415, hier 413. 70 Julius Bab, Emil Ludwig. 60 Jahre, in: Aufbau, 24. Januar 1941, 6. 71 Ebd. 72 Historische Belletristik. Ein kritischer Literaturbericht, hg. von der Schriftleitung der Historischen Zeitschrift, eingeleitet von Wilhelm Schüßler, München 1928 (mit Beiträgen von Hans Delbrück, Wilhelm Mommsen, Heinrich  v. Srbik u.  a.); hierzu Sebastian Ullrich, Ernst  H. Kantorowicz und Emil Ludwig. Zwei Kritiker der Weimarer Geschichtswissenschaft und die »Krisis des Historismus«, in: Sozial.Geschichte. Zeitschrift für historische Analyse des 20. und 21. Jahrhunderts 21 (2006), H. 2, 7–33; ders., »Das Fesselndste unter den Biographen ist heute nicht der Historiker«, 35–56; ders., Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar, hier der Teil »Ludwigs Geschichtsschreibung und ihre Kritiker«, 133–138; Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«, 317. Die Broschüre erhielt 1929 zwei weitere Auflagen und wurde von der Redaktion der HZ an 160 Zeitschriften und 210 Zeitungen versandt. Kolb interpretiert die Debatte um die Historische Belletristik nicht im Hinblick auf die Biografen im Speziellen, sondern als »Symp­ tom einer Krise der Geschichtswissenschaft« im Allgemeinen (329). 73 Fuhrer, »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«, 317.

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in erster Linie die Wertungen Ludwigs und dessen politische Überzeugungen attackierten. Das neu verfasste Vorwort von Wilhelm Schüßler war selbst so tendenziös, so der Historiker Eberhard Kolb, dass sogar Friedrich Meinecke, seinerzeit Herausgeber der Zeitschrift, sich an den »Tönen aus dem Rechtslager« stieß.74 Interessant ist nun, dass nach der publizistischen Offensive in der HZ die positiven Stimmen verstummten, die es vor 1928 noch gegeben hatte – Stimmen, die etwa Ludwigs Werke für ihre Anschaulichkeit, für ihren glanzvollen Stil oder auch für ihre klug ausgewählte Quellenbasis gelobt hatten.75 Mit der öffentlichen Wucht der Broschüre setzten sich Fachhistoriker wie Wilhelm Mommsen durch, der Ludwigs Biografien zwar scharf ablehnte, im Ganzen aber noch einen gemäßigten Ton beibehielt. Vor allem erhielten nun rechtsradikale und antisemitische Autoren wie Otto Westphal und Niels Hansen Rückenwind, die Ludwig als »frechen Berufsliteraten« schmähten, der mit seinen »einschmeichelnden« literarischen »Tricks« ausschließlich »geschäftliche Interessen« verfolge. Diese Autoren bildeten eine regelrechte »Anti-Ludwig-Front« (Armin Fuhrer) von rechts und attackierten dabei Ludwigs Bücher, seine Sicht auf die deutsche Geschichte, seinen Pazifismus und seine jüdische Herkunft in extrem antiliberaler Weise, der Vorwurf des »ästhetischen Demokratismus« war noch der geläufigste.76 Bei den Nationalsozialisten wurde Emil Ludwig dann sowieso fast nur noch hämisch »Emil Ludwig Cohn« genannt; für sie war er eine Symbolfigur der von ihnen so verhassten Republik, seine »raffinierte[n] Geschichtsklitterungen« wurden in der völkischen Rechten zur wiederkehrenden Chiffre für alles, was sie am republikanischen Deutschland ablehnten. Aus diesem Grund wurde der Schriftsteller im Mai 1933 bei den in 74 Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«, 320; Gradmann nennt Schüßlers Text »drastisch«, siehe ders., Historische Belletristik, 12; Ullrich spricht von einem »Generalangriff« der Zunft, der unliebsame Konkurrenz treffen sollte. Ders., Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar, 119. 75 Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«, 321–323; Kolb verweist hier etwa auf Beiträge der Historiker Veit Valentin, Franz Schnabel und Walter Goetz. Der Verlag von Emil Ludwig reagierte auf das HZ-Sonderheft, indem er seinerseits zwei Broschüren auf den Markt brachte, die zustimmende Urteile zu den Werken Ludwigs in Auszügen zusammenstellten. Siehe Emil Ludwig im Urteil der deutschen Presse, Berlin 1928; Emil Ludwig im Urteil der Weltpresse, Berlin 1928. 76 Wilhelm Mommsen, »Legitime« und »illegitime« Geschichtsschreibung. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit Emil Ludwig, München/Berlin 1930; Otto Westphal, Feinde Bismarcks. Geistige Grundlagen der deutschen Opposition 1848–1918, München 1930, hierin: »geschäftliche Interessen« (2), »frech« und »einschmeichelnd« (6), »Tricks« (14), »Berechnung« (15), »Logik des Pazifismus« (16), »ästhetischer Demokratismus« (128), »Berufsliterat« (263); Niels Hansen, Der Fall Emil Ludwig, Oldenburg 1930. Dieses Pamphlet eines jungen Hamburger Verlagslektors wird von Fuhrer »ein echtes Hetz-Werk« genannt, geschrieben allein, um Emil Ludwig zu diskreditieren. Siehe Fuhrer, Angriff der Historikerzunft, in: ders., »Die Republik schützt mich zum ersten Mal«, 323 und 316–319; von einer rechten »Anti-Ludwig-Front« spricht Fuhrer wenige Seiten später (ebd., 326); außerdem Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«, 324 f.; Kreuzer, Emil Ludwig, 402.

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ganz Deutschland organisierten Bücherverbrennungen denn auch namentlich genannt.77 Bis nach Übersee reichte der rechtsradikale Furor; im Herbst 1936 wurde ein kritischer Vortrag Ludwigs über Paul von Hindenburg beim Internationalen Kongress des PEN-Clubs in Buenos Aires gewaltsam gestört, nationalistische Attentäter verletzten den Referenten mit einer Tränengasbombe.78 Die Fronten der Kritik waren aber verworren. Der Historiker Eckart Kehr etwa, der mit seiner Kritik an den preußischen Junkern sicherlich nicht zur radikalen Rechten zu zählen ist, steuerte die feindselige Bemerkung bei, die Autoren der historischen Belletristik hätten ein »Weltbild berufsloser Globetrotter«.79 Er zählte Emil Ludwig dabei zum Kreis um Stefan George, was schon deshalb falsch war, weil dessen Mitglieder zu seinen schärfsten Kritikern gehörten, wie Sebastian Ullrich dargelegt hat.80 Vor allem Ernst Kantorowicz tat sich hierbei hervor. Obwohl er zur gleichen Zeit selbst für seine biografische Geschichtsschreibung angegriffen wurde, assimilierte er sich bei seiner Kritik an Ludwig an den neuen Ton der Zeit, wenn er in dessen Büchern eine undeutsche und gesinnungslose »Pamphletistik« aus dem »kosmopolitischen Ullstein-Deutschland« am Werk sah.81 Kantorowicz erhielt noch 1930 auf dem Historikertag die Gelegenheit, über die Methode der Biografie zu sprechen, und attackierte dort Ludwigs »kosmopolitische Tendenzen«: Die historische Belletristik, so gab er hochmütig zum Besten,

77 Rudolf Erckmann, Götzendämmerung in der Literatur, in: Völkischer Beobachter, 6. September 1939, zit. im Kommentar zu Joseph Roth/Stephan Zweig, »Jede Freundschaft mit mir ist verderblich«. Briefwechsel 1927–1938, hg. von Madeleine Rietra und Rainer Joachim Siegel, Göttingen 2011, 418; zusammen mit Ludwig wurden hier auch Alfred Döblins »Asphaltschreiberei« und Stefan Zweigs »blenderische Stiltiraden« denunziert. Bei den Bücherverbrennungen skandierten die Studenten folgenden Spruch, als Emil Ludwig an die Reihe kam: »Gegen Verfälschung unserer Geschichte und Herabwürdigung ihrer großen Gestalten, für Ehrfurcht vor unserer Vergangenheit! Ich übergebe den Flammen die Schriften von Emil Ludwig und Werner Hegemann!«, zit. nach Hans-Jürgen Perrey, Der »Fall Emil Ludwig«. Ein Bericht über eine historiographische Kontroverse der ausgehenden Weimarer Republik, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 43 (1992), H. 3, 169–181, hier 180. 78 Schneider, Erfolg ohne Einfluss?, 11. 79 Zit. nach Kolb, »Die Historiker sind ernstlich böse«, 323. 80 Ullrich, Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar; ders., Ernst H. Kantorowicz und Emil Ludwig. 81 Zit. nach ders., Im Dienste der Republik von Weimar, 139; zum ideengeschichtlichen Kontext siehe Helmut Scheuer, »Dichter und Helden«. Zur Biographik des George-Kreises, in: Wolfgang Braungart/Ute Oelmann/Bernhard Böschenstein (Hgg.), Stefan George. Werk und Wirkung seit dem »Siebenten Ring«, Tübingen 2001, 300–314; zum gefährdeten Status von Kantorowicz selbst siehe dessen Kontroverse mit Albert Brackmann: Albert Brackmann, Kaiser Friedrich II. in »mythischer Schau«, in: HZ 140 (1929), 534–549; Ernst Kantorowicz, »Mythenschau«. Eine Erwiderung, in: HZ 141 (1930), 457–471; Albert Brackmann, Nachwort. Anmerkung zu Kantorowicz’ Erwiderung, in: HZ 141 (1930), 472–478; alle drei Beiträge sind dokumentiert in: Gunther Wolf (Hg.), Stupor Mundi. Zur Geschichte Friedrichs II. von Hohenstaufen, Darmstadt 1966, 5–48. Ich danke Jan Eike Dunkhase für diesen Hinweis.

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spreche, »zu gleicher Zeit in allen Weltsprachen erscheinend, zu den internationalen Massen und dem internationalen Halbbildungspöbel«. Gegenüber diesem »Rekordeifer plattester Internationalität« müsse Geschichte wieder »vom Standpunkt des Deutschen« her konzipiert werden, um so dem »Glauben an den Tag des Deutschen, an den Genius der Nation« zu dienen.82 In der Forschung wurde mit Recht konstatiert, dass dies kein bloßer Streit um Bücher und auch keine reine Auseinandersetzung um die richtige Art der Geschichtsschreibung war. Die Debatte um die »Historische Belletristik« kann als eine »Reise in den Zeitgeist« (Christoph Gradmann) verstanden werden und offenbart »ein Stück Geistesgeschichte der Zwanziger Jahre«.83 Dies gilt umso mehr, da die Kritik an Emil Ludwig auch aufseiten der Linken massiv war. Häufig finden wir hier Sottisen, Spott und einen heute seltsam anmutenden und etwas zu großen Aufwand, ihm zu widersprechen. Walter Benjamin versuchte Ludwigs Goethe mit einem Wortspiel zu erledigen; »das Werk befriedigte bekanntlich die Bedürfnisse des breitesten Publikums«, schrieb er in einer Sammelrezension: »Es ermöglichte dem Leser, wenn nicht sich in Goethe zurecht-, so gewiß einen kleinen Goethe in sich selbst vorzufinden.«84 Wenige Jahre später, in einem Brief an Theodor W. Adorno, in dem Benjamin mit Ratlosigkeit auf die Offenbachbiografie seines Freundes Siegfried Kracauer reagierte, behandelt er dessen Buch wie eine direkte negative Folge jener Mode der 1920er Jahre. Kracauer habe sich, so beklagte er sich nun bei Adorno, »mit zehnjähriger Verspätung dem Heerbann der Biographen angeschlossen, die einst unter dem heiligen Ludwig auszogen«.85 Adorno selbst sah in Kracauers Buch einen negativen Zusammenhang mit den Büchern von Ludwig und Zweig, auch er nannte es mit diesen in einem Atemzug als »ein starkes Stück an Konformismus und Rückständigkeit«, das ihm, wie er an Horkheimer schrieb, einen regelrechten »Chok« versetzt habe. Er fügte jedoch sogleich hinzu, »daß es eben die Not ist, die ihn intellektuell so ruiniert hat«.86 Auch Leo Löwenthal wählte einen lächerlich 82 Die Rede von Ernst Kantorowicz ist wiederabgedruckt in Eckhart Grünewald, Sanctus amor patriae dat animum – ein Wahlspruch des George-Kreises? Ernst Kantorowicz auf dem Historikertag zu Halle a. d. Saale im Jahr 1930 (mit Edition), in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 50 (1994), 89–125, die Zitate: 122–125. 83 Gradmann, Historische Belletristik, 29. 84 Walter Benjamin, Hundert Jahre Schrifttum um Goethe, in: Frankfurter Zeitung, Jg. 76, Nr. 214/215, 20. März 1932, 6 f. und Nr. 214/216, 20. März 1932, zit. nach ders., Kritiken und Rezensionen, hg. von Heinrich Kaulen, auf 21 Bde. ausgelegt, Berlin ab 2008, hier Bd. 13.1: Werke und Nachlaß. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Berlin 2011, 352–368, hier 367. 85 Walter Benjamin an Theodor W. Adorno, 9. Mai 1939, in: dies., Briefe und Briefwechsel, 8 Bde., 1994–2015, hier Bd. 1: Theodor W. Adorno, Walter Benjamin. Briefwechsel 1928–1940, hg. von Henri Lonitz, Frankfurt a. M. 1994, 241–245, hier 242. 86 Theodor W. Adorno an Max Horkheimer, 12. Mai 1937, in: Max Horkheimer. Gesammelte Schriften, 19 Bde., hg. von Alfred Schmidt und Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, Frankfurt a. M.

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machenden Ton für seine in der Sache zutreffende, aber abwertend gemeinte Kritik: Ludwig pflege »die Spezialitäten der Goethe-Mottos«.87 Viele linke Kritiker identifizierten das Genre der literarischen Biografien abschätzig mit »Massenkultur«. Sie blickten dabei in erster Linie auf das, was sie »die Funktion« der Biografien innerhalb der Gesellschaft nannten,88 kritisierten also den »Personenkult« und die falsche Heroisierung der Politiker und Gelehrten.89 Aber ihnen stieß auch ganz allgemein die individualistische Geschichtsauffassung des Genres auf oder sie wendeten sich, wie etwa Max Horkheimer, gegen die Tatsache, dass die meisten dieser Biografien soziale Themen vernachlässigten.90 Niemand theoretisierte das linke Unbehagen am Genre stärker als Horkheimer und Löwenthal, die beide in den Biografien das Ergebnis »zerstörter Utopien« (distorted utopias) erkannten.91 Vor allem Löwenthal brachte die Position des Instituts für Sozialforschung dann Anfang der 1930er Jahre in einer Studie mit dem Titel Die biographische Mode zum Ausdruck. Darin beschäftigte er sich vor allem mit Werken von Emil Ludwig und Stefan Zweig.92 Gleich im ersten Satz vergleicht er deren Biografien mit der Abteilung jedes »großen Warenhaus[es]«, in der Artikel der Vorsaison verbilligt zu haben sind: Das Genre sei mit dem »Lager sämtlicher gängiger Kulturgüter«93 vergleichbar. Die Wahl seiner vielen stark abwerten-

87 88 89

90 91 92

93

1988–1996, hier Bd. 16: Briefwechsel 1937–1940, hg. von Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, übers. von Hans Günter Holl, 143–148, hier 145. Leo Lowenthal [sic], Die biographische Mode, in: Sociologica. Aufsätze, Max Horkheimer zum 60. Geburtstag gewidmet, im Auftrag des Instituts für Sozialforschung hg. von Theodor W. Adorno und Walter Dirks, Frankfurt a. M. 1955, 363–386, 370. Theodor W. Adorno an Leo Löwenthal, 25. November 1942, in: Leo Löwenthal, Mitmachen wollte ich nie. Ein autobiographisches Gespräch mit Helmut Dubiel, Frankfurt a. M. 1980, 285. Die von links kommende Kritik an Ludwig traf allerdings einen irritierenden Punkt, wo sie sich gegen dessen Interviews mit Diktatoren wandte, hierzu siehe Wolfgang Schieder, Von Stalin zu Mussolini. Emil Ludwig bei Diktatoren des 20. Jahrhunderts, in: Dan Diner/ Gideon Reuveni/Yfaat Weiss (Hgg.), Deutsche Zeiten. Geschichte und Lebenswelt. Festschrift zur Emeritierung von Moshe Zimmermann, Göttingen 2012, 111–131. Siehe Max Horkheimer an Leo Löwenthal, 14. Oktober 1942, in: Löwenthal, Mitmachen wollte ich nie, 280. Leo Löwenthal an Max Horkheimer, 2. Februar 1942, in: ebd., 279. Zwar war die Studie gegen Stefan Zweig und Emil Ludwig gerichtet (nur diese beiden werden namentlich als Beispiele vorgeführt), im Anhang werden aber auch Klaus Mann, Valeriu Marcu, Heinrich Bauer, Ludwig Bauer, Franz Blei, Martin Gumpert, Wilhelm Herzog, Hermann Kesser, Hermann Kesten und Erich Kuttner genannt (Lowenthal, Die biographische Mode, 385 f.); zu Löwenthal siehe einführend Jan Süselbeck, Die Außenseiter sind die Lehrer. Leo Löwenthals Konzept einer Sozialgeschichte der Literatur, in: Nicolas Berg/Dieter Burdorf (Hgg.), Textgelehrte. Literaturwissenschaft und literarisches Wissen im Umkreis der Kritischen Theorie, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2014, 215–231; Esther Marian, Stereotypisierung des Individuellen. Zu Leo Löwenthal: »Die biographische Mode«, in: Fetz/Hemecker (Hgg.), Theorie der Biographie, 223–232. Lowenthal, Die biographische Mode, 363.

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den Begriffe – er nennt die Bücher »Zeug«, moniert ihre »Aufmachung« und beklagt das »kunterbunte Durcheinander der Allgemeinurteile und Rezepte«94 – belegt kein rein analytisches Interesse. Dennoch lag Löwenthal mit seiner Polemik nicht ganz falsch, wenn er etwa das Genre eine »Karikatur der Theorie«95 nannte, denn die Werke von Ludwig hatten sich einer Theorie der Theorieferne und der Lebensnähe verschrieben. Wenn Löwenthal nun die Vermutung äußert, die Bücher drückten »den Wunsch des Biographen aus, eine Biographie selbst zu leben«,96 dann traf er mit diesem Satz sogar den Kern der erkenntnistheoretischen Besonderheit vieler dieser Werke. Insgesamt aber schrieb Löwenthal eine Rezeptionsstudie über die Biografie, er interessierte sich weniger für die Motive der Verfasser, sie zu schreiben, als vielmehr für die der Leser, sie zu kaufen.97 Seiner Analyse zufolge affirmierte das Genre die Geschichte, anstatt sie zu kritisieren; das geschichtliche Subjekt erscheine hier als »bloßes Produkt«, Geschichte  – und mit dieser Menschen, Politik und soziale Prozesse  – als determiniertes Geschehen.98 Löwenthal kritisierte mit scharfem Blick für den Ton der Werke und mit guten Argumenten ihre Nähe zur Lebensphilosophie, deren Vorstellung von »Schicksal« sie faktisch propagierten.99 All diese Partien lesen sich heute einleuchtender als das rhetorische Wüten Löwenthals gegen den Stil und die Form, die »mit kunstgewerblichen Mitteln« arbeite und die Geschichte »zum Anlaß eines welthistorischen Geschwätzes« nehme.100 Auch seine Invektiven gegen den vermeintlichen »Relativismus« der »im Werturteil völlig opportunistisch« verfahrenden Bücher, die beliebig »mal Pessimismus, mal Optimismus proklamieren«,101 überzeugen heute nicht mehr. Besonders interessant sind nun aber zwei weitere Punkte: Erstens bemerkte Löwenthal genau, dass in den historischen Biografien von Ludwig und Zweig ein Prinzip Anwendung fand, das Allgemeine zu feiern und das Individuelle zu verteidigen.102 Der in allen ihren Büchern fast durchgängig angestimmte »Hymnus der Individualität« und die »Wunschphantasie der Autonomie« wurden von ihm als das bezeichnet, was sie waren: ein Märchen.103 Es war der Versuch, Geschichte so zu erzählen, dass das Gute auf

 94 Ebd.  95 Ebd., 364.  96 Ebd., 379.  97 Ebd., 364: »Die Analyse der Popular-Biographie ist […] ein Beitrag zur Analyse ihrer Leserschicht.«  98 Ebd., 367 und 372.  99 Ebd., 373. 100 Ebd., 367 und 374. 101 Ebd., 370. 102 Ebd., 374. 103 Ebd., 375 und 383.

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eine »schlichte und pathetische Art und Weise« siegte, dass »das Humane«, der »Geist« und die »Moral« ihre Universalkraft beweisen konnten, mitunter wider jede bessere Einsicht der Autoren, so Löwenthal.104 Er nannte die Biografie deshalb mit einer aus heutiger Sicht hellhörig machenden Wendung »die klassische Emigrationsliteratur des deutschen Bürgertums«,105 weil er natürlich bemerkte, dass die von ihm analysierten und kritisierten Autoren jüdisch waren und in der Zeit, in der er seine Kritik schrieb, zu Flüchtlingen und Exilanten wurden, wie er selbst, Horkheimer und Adorno. Diese Einsicht war so unabweisbar, dass Löwenthal davon Abstand nahm, Die biographische Mode zu veröffentlichen. In einem Rückblick auf die Entstehung des Aufsatzes und auf seine Entscheidung, ihn unpubliziert zu lassen, erklärt sich Löwenthal knapp fünfzig Jahre später wie folgt: »Ich habe den Aufsatz schon in den dreißiger Jahren zu Ende geschrieben. Wir haben ihn damals nicht veröffentlicht aus Courtoisie; denn ein großer Teil der von mir analysierten Autoren waren deutsch-jüdische Emigranten, denen es oft sehr schlecht ging. Manche haben sich  – wie Stefan Zweig  – sogar umgebracht. Ich habe deshalb diese Arbeit erst veröffentlicht, als sich die unmittelbaren Bezüge auf zeitgenössische Autoren etwas entaktualisiert hatten.«106

Ob der Zusammenhang Mitte der 1950er Jahre schon »entaktualisiert« war, ist hier nicht zu diskutieren. Aber mit dem Blick von heute bemerkt man natürlich, dass diese von Löwenthal für ausreichend befundene Zeit der »Courtoisie« in den 1950er Jahren wieder mit den rechten Angriffen parallel lief, die nun ebenfalls wiederkehrten. Denn zur selben Zeit, die Löwenthal für neutral genug hielt, um seine Kritik an der »biographischen Mode« der Öffentlichkeit zu präsentieren, warf sich auch der Germanist Heinz Kindermann in seiner Monografie Das Goethebild des 20. Jahrhunderts erneut auf das Goethebuch von Emil Ludwig, das er mit kaum verhüllter Abscheu »Enthüllungsbiographik« nannte.107 Er sprach hier explizit von den »Emil-Ludwig-Allüren« und vom »heutigen Konjunkturgeist«, womit er generell die Lust an der »Entgötterung« und an der »Sexualpathologie« meinte, die – in Gang gesetzt durch Sigmund Freud – »auch die Größten der Menschheitsgeschichte« auf die »Tribüne des Allzumenschlichen« zerre und die durch Ludwig zum Genre geworden sei.108 Niemand habe diese Methode der »Ent104 Ebd., 370 f. und 374. 105 Ebd., 363 f. 106 Ders., Mitmachen wollte ich nie, 186 f. Die Festschrift für Horkheimer, in der der Aufsatz dann erschien, war die erste Publikation des nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg wiedererrichteten Instituts in Frankfurt. 107 Heinz Kindermann, Das Goethebild des 20. Jahrhunderts, 2., verb. und ergänzte Ausgabe mit Auswahl-Bibliographie der Goetheliteratur seit 1952, reprograf. Nachdruck der 1. Aufl., Wien/Stuttgart 1952, Darmstadt 1966, 293. 108 Ebd., 292, 295 und 391.

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larvungen und Entthronungen« mit größerem Erfolg angewandt als er, sein Erfolg beim Publikum beruhe allein darauf, dass er dem Massengeschmack der Zeit »sensationellere Formen« geboten habe, um auf diese Weise die »Entidealisierung« der von ihm gezeichneten »Lebensbilder« zu erreichen.109 Kindermann unterstellte Ludwig, er zeichne Goethe als »schlauen Konjunkturmenschen«, er warf ihm vor, sich nur mit »seltsamen Äußerlichkeiten« zu befassen und »überspitzt«, aber »mit raffiniertem Geschick« und kaltem Blick »für das Seltsame« zu formulieren. Mit solchen Anfeindungen aktualisierte Kindermann seine Ablehnung der »psychoanalytischen Denkmäler« und ihrer »Übertreibungen«.110 Es verwundert nicht, dass er in diesen antisemitischen Ausfällen auch andere jüdische Autoren, Eduard Hitschmann und Felix Theilhaber, attackierte.111 Diese anmaßende posthume Attacke auf die schriftstellerische Integrität Emil Ludwigs, die bundesdeutsche Verlage noch in den 1960er Jahren munter in zweiter Auflage druckten, war von einem prominenten NS-Aktivisten verfasst worden, der in der NS-Zeit in ehrgeizigen völkischen Programmschriften den »artgerechten Einsatz« der Literaturwissenschaft gefordert hatte.112 In Dichtung und Volkheit. Grundzüge einer neuen Literaturwissenschaft etwa hatte er seine Vorstellungen vom »Weg unserer kulturellen Erneuerung« als Annäherung der Geistes- an die Naturwissenschaften, als Vermittlung zwischen »Bios« und »Logos« und als Entdeckung des »gemeinsamen Raums des Biologischen« skizziert und die Literatur wie ihre Erforschung zum strikten »Dienst an der Nation« verpflichtet.113 Die mit Stolz verkündete Ausrichtung der Literaturwissenschaft auf »Rassen und Völker« und das damit einhergehende Glück über die »große deutsche Wende« von 1933, mit der nun »aus der Kraft des Blutes« der Anteil an Schicksal und Geschick der Deutschen aus »volksbiologischer Sicht«114 auch von Geschichts- und Literaturwissenschaft neu gefasst werden könne, enthielt bereits 1937/1939 einen Angriff auf Emil Ludwig. Der Hitler-Anhänger Kindermann, seit 1933 Mitglied in Partei und SS, der als gebürtiger Wiener die »Heimkehr der Ostmark« in das Großdeutsche Reich bejubelte, zählte es nämlich zum Kern-

109 Ebd., 293; die folgenden Zitate siehe 295. 110 Ebd., 293 und 300. 111 Kindermann bezog sich auf folgende Werke: Eduard Hitschmann, Psychoanalytisches zur Persönlichkeit Goethes, Wien 1932 (Vortrag, gehalten am 11. Januar 1930 im Wiener ­Goetheverein); Felix Theilhaber, Goethe. Sexus und Eros, Berlin 1929. 112 Heinz Kindermann, Dichtung und Volkheit. Grundzüge einer neuen Literaturwissenschaft, 2.  Aufl., Berlin 1939 (zuerst Berlin 1937), VIII. In dem schmalen Buch beruft sich der Autor auf Rasseideologen und NS-Größen wie Ernst Krieg, Hans F. K. Günther, Walter Frank und Ludwig Ferdinand Clauß. 113 Ebd., X und 76. 114 Ebd., IX, 2 und 94.

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bestand der »neuen germanischen Wertelehre«, dass eine »psychologische Stilforschung« abzulehnen sei und die Biografie eines Dichters allein vom Gesichtspunkt der »fruchtbaren Spannung zwischen Persönlichkeit und Gemeinschaft« auszugehen habe.115 Biografien, die den Zusammenhang aus »Herkunftsgemeinschaft«, »Lebensgemeinschaft« und »Wirkungsgemeinschaft« der Dichter nicht zur Leitlinie ihrer Lebenserzählung machten, seien abzulehnen.116 Es gelte, so Kindermann, Literaturforscher als »Schatzwalter« der eigenen »Volkheit« zu etablieren und Literaturwissenschaft als »Lebenswissenschaft« und als »Geschichte des deutschen Volksschicksals« zu betreiben, als »Geschichte der deutschen Art«; eine der Voraussetzungen dafür sei, dass Autor und Leser »Blutsbrüderschaft« teilten.117 In der Tat: Bei der Anbahnung oder Gestaltung dieser neuen deutschen »Blutwelt«,118 die ehemalige NS-Lehrstuhlinhaber wie Kindermann auch noch mit Berufung auf Goethe zu begründen suchten,119 wirkte Emil Ludwig mit seinen Biografien nicht mit. Sein Goethebild lag diametral zu diesen Werten und seine Biografien waren gerade nicht auf die »mythenbildende Kraft«120 der deutschen Volksgeschichte ausgerichtet. Sie dokumentieren vielmehr die Ethik eines Zeitgenossen und Schriftstellers, der in allem das genaue Gegenteil wollte. Und das allein ist schon Grund genug, an ihn und seine Biografien zu erinnern.

115 Ebd., 72. 116 Ebd. 117 Ebd., 76 und 79 f. 118 Ebd., 77. 119 Ders., Goethes Menschengestaltung. Versuch einer literarhistorischen Anthropologie, Ber­ lin 1932. 120 Ders., Dichtung und Volkheit, 79.

Magnus Klaue

Das untergehende Ich: Zur Biografiekritik der Kritischen Theorie

Einführung: Synkretismus der Herkünfte In einem Gespräch mit Helmut Dubiel hat sich Leo Löwenthal 1979 mit folgenden Worten an sein Elternhaus erinnert: »Mein Vater wollte Rechtsanwalt werden. Aber mein Großvater […] erlaubte das nicht. Mein Großvater meinte, daß dann mein Vater am Samstag arbeiten und schreiben müßte. Folglich zwang er ihn, Medizin zu studieren, was mein Vater auch tat, obwohl sein Herz gar nicht dabei war. Aber er hat sich dann insofern bewußt oder unbewußt an seinem Vater gerächt, als er völlig ›frei‹ wurde  – nicht nur unreligiös, sondern dezidiert antireligiös. Er war ein überzeugter Anhänger des 19. Jahrhunderts im Sinne eines mechanisch-materialistischen, wissenschaftsgläubigen Denkens. […] Mein Vater regte mich auch zur Lektüre Schopenhauers an. Kurz, die ganze intellektuelle Atmosphäre unseres Hauses war weltlich, aufklärerisch und antireligiös. Vom Judentum wußte ich kaum etwas, […] außer daß am Versöhnungstag, einem Fasttag, bei uns besonders gut gegessen wurde, weil ein nicht ›religiös‹ lebender Vetter meines Vaters, der in einer koscher geführten Pension lebte, an diesem Tag nichts zu essen bekam.«1

Die Erinnerung ist exemplarisch für das Verhältnis der frühen Protagonisten der Kritischen Theorie zum jüdischen Bürgertum, dem sie durchweg entstammten.2 Sie führt vor Augen, dass die Herkunft, die jüdische wie die 1 2

Leo Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«. Ein autobiographisches Gespräch mit Helmut Dubiel, Frankfurt a. M. 1980, 15 f. In der ihnen gemeinsamen bürgerlichen Herkunft unterschieden sich die Exponenten früher Kritischer Theorie freilich stark. Löwenthals Vater war Arzt, der von Siegfried Kracauer Handelsreisender. Theodor W. Adorno stammte wie Kracauer aus einem eher kleinbürgerlichen Elternhaus, sein Vater war Weinhändler, die korsischstämmige Mutter Sängerin. In der Gründungsgeneration der Kritischen Theorie kamen neben Felix Weil, der das Institut für Sozialforschung gegründet hatte, Max Horkheimer und Friedrich Pollock aus dem Großbürgertum. Zu den Bedingungen der linksradikalen Orientierung von Söhnen des jüdischen Großbürgertums in den Zwanzigern siehe Jeanette Erazo Heufelder, Der argentinische Krösus. Kleine Wirtschaftsgeschichte der Frankfurter Schule, Berlin 2017. Ferner Detlev Claussen, Theodor W. Adorno. Ein letztes Genie, Frankfurt a. M. 2003; Jean-Michel Palmier, Walter Benjamin. Lumpensammler, Engel und bucklicht Männlein. Ästhetik und Politik bei Walter Benjamin, hg. und mit einem Vorwort versehen von Flo­rent Perrier, aus dem Franz. übers. von Horst Brühmann, Frankfurt a. M. 2009; Jörg Später, Siegfried Kracauer. Eine Biographie, Berlin 2016. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 333–364.

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bürgerliche, den jungen Intellektuellen aus dem Umfeld des 1923 gegründeten Instituts für Sozialforschung vor ihrer Hinwendung zum Linkssozialismus und zur Arbeiterbewegung der Weimarer Republik nicht einfach nur als ein zu Überwindendes erschien, das dann gegen das kommunistische Versprechen künftiger Befreiung ausgetauscht wurde.3 Vielmehr ist Löwen­ thals Erinnerung auch für die Lebensläufe seiner Freunde und Kollegen Max Horkheimer, Theodor W. Adorno, Walter Benjamin und Siegfried Kracauer insofern emblematisch, als der Konflikt zwischen jüdischer Tradition und bürgerlicher Säkularisierung bereits in der Generation der Eltern weitgehend zugunsten des säkularen Bürgertums entschieden worden war. Nur deshalb konnte den Intellektuellen aus dem Umfeld des Instituts für Sozialforschung vor und teilweise während ihrer Hinwendung zum Linkssozialismus auch die jüdische Erneuerungsbewegung, wie sie Löwenthal, Kracauer und Benjamin in Gestalt des von Martin Buber am Frankfurter Freien Jüdischen Lehrhaus vertretenen Kulturzionismus begegnete,4 als Protest gegen die Elterngeneration erscheinen. Dass das Judentum dennoch gerade durch die Antireligiosität – und eben nicht: Areligiosität – des Elternhauses auf verborgene Weise präsent blieb, wird an Löwenthals Schilderung deutlich. Sein Interesse an der jüdischen Erneuerungsbewegung beurteilte er retrospektiv als Gegenreaktion auf die Antireligiosität seines Vaters.5 Zugleich richtete sich jenes Interesse nicht auf die Reaktualisierung jüdischer Tradition, sondern es war durch die jüdische Aufklärung vermittelt, vor allem durch den Neukantianer Hermann Cohen,6 dem Löwenthal attestierte, als »liberaler Jude« dennoch 3 Programmatisch kommt die Intention einer Ersetzung von Herkunft durch Zukunft, die für viele aus dem deutschen Judentum kommende kommunistische Intellektuelle der Zwischenkriegszeit charakteristisch war, im Selbstverständnis des Politikwissenschaftlers Richard Löwenthal zum Ausdruck. Siehe Oliver Schmidt, »Meine Heimat ist – die deutsche Arbeiterbewegung«. Biographische Studien zu Richard Löwenthal im Übergang vom Exil zur frühen Bundesrepublik, Frankfurt a. M. u. a. 2007. 4 Zur jüdischen Lehrhausbewegung in den Zwanzigern siehe Michael Brenner, Jüdische Kultur in der Weimarer Republik, aus dem Engl. übers. von Holger Fliessbach, München 2000, 81–113. Die Beziehungen des Freien Jüdischen Lehrhauses zur Kritischen Theorie umreißt Thomas Meyer, Das Freie Jüdische Lehrhaus und die Frankfurter Schule, in: Richard Faber/Eva-Maria Ziege (Hgg.), Das Feld der Frankfurter Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften vor 1945, Würzburg 2007, 167–176. Siehe auch Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Intellektuellendämmerung. Zur Lage der Frankfurter Intelligenz in den zwanziger Jahren, Frankfurt a. M. 1982. 5 Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 16. 6 Das Interesse an Cohen war durch den Frankfurter Rabbiner Nehemias Anton Nobel geweckt worden. Siehe Alfons Söllner, Der junge Leo Löwenthal. Vom neoorthodoxen Judentum zur aufgeklärten Geschichtsphilosophie, in: Gesellschaft – Gewalt – Vertrauen. Jan Philipp Reemtsma zum 60. Geburtstag, hg. von Ulrich Bielefeld, Heinz Bude und Bernd Greiner, Hamburg 2012, 304–330. Zur Prägung der Kritischen Theorie durch den Neukantianismus siehe Philipp von Wussow, Logik der Deutung. Adorno und die Philo­ sophie, Würzburg 2007, 161–164.

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»zum Judentum und zur jüdischen Religionsphilosophie eine sehr intensive Beziehung gehabt« zu haben.7 Die aufklärerische Atmosphäre, die Löwenthal an seiner Familie hervorhebt, blieb noch in der Rückbesinnung auf jüdische Traditionen präsent. So wenig er, Löwenthal, der Orthodoxie etwas habe abgewinnen können, so sehr habe er das »Assimilantentum« von Juden »gehaßt«, die ihre Zugehörigkeit aufgegeben hätten und »gesinnungsmäßig Kapitalisten« geworden seien.8 Doch der antibürgerliche Impuls war nicht minder vermittelt durch bürgerliche Gehalte, für die in Löwenthals Äußerung Weltlichkeit, Materialismus und eine im Denken Schopenhauers präsente Selbstkritik des Bürgertums stehen.9 Der Widerspruch zwischen bürgerlichen, jüdischen und kommunistischen Gehalten blieb – anders als bei jüdischen Parteikommunisten der Weimarer Republik, die mit dem frühen Institut für Sozialforschung unter dessen erstem Direktor Carl Grünberg in Kontakt standen10 – im Denken der Kritischen Theorie gleichsam konstitutiv ungelöst. Die Koexistenz jüdischer, bürgerlicher und kommunistischer Identifikationen fasste Löwenthal im Begriff des Synkretismus zusammen. Auf Dubiels Frage, ob die Wendung zum Judentum in den Zwanzigerjahren »keine religiös motivierte«, sondern eine »politische« gewesen sei, antwortete er: »›Politisch‹ ist nicht der richtige Begriff dafür. Ich würde einfach sagen ›oppositionell‹. Ich bin ein Rebell gewesen, und alles, was damals intellektuell oppositionell war, […] zog mich magisch an. Ich war Sozialist, Anhänger der Psychoanalyse, Anhänger der Phänomenologie in neukantianischen Kreisen, ich nahm eine Stelle an, in der ich mit Ostjuden zu tun hatte […]. Es war also eine geradezu synkretistische Ansammlung in meinem Hirn und in meinem Herzen von Bestrebungen, Richtungen und Philosophien, die im Gegensatz zum Bestehenden standen.«11

Der Synkretismus reagierte auf eine konstitutive Unentschiedenheit der geistigen Identifikation mit verschiedenen Herkünften, Milieus und philosophischen Schulen, die Kracauer in einem 1922 in der Frankfurter Zeitung erschienenen Text eine Haltung des Wartens nannte.12 In Abgrenzung zum

  7 Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 17.  8 Ebd.   9 Siehe hierzu Alfred Schmidt, Drei Studien über Materialismus. Schopenhauer, Horkheimer, Glücksproblem, München/Wien 1977. 10 In diese Gruppe gehörten etwa Henryk Grossmann und Karl Korsch. Zu den Verbindungen des Instituts für Sozialforschung zum sozialistischen Intellektuellenmilieu der Weimarer Republik vor dem Rektorat Horkheimers siehe Detlef Siegfried, Das radikale Milieu. Kieler Novemberrevolution, Sozialwissenschaft und Linksradikalismus 1917–1922, Wiesbaden 2004, 74–101. 11 Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 26. 12 Siegfried Kracauer, Die Wartenden, in: ders., Das Ornament der Masse. Essays, Frankfurt a. M. 1963, 106–118. Den mentalitätsgeschichtlichen Hintergrund von Kracauers Essay

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positionslosen Skeptizismus, den er in Max Weber verkörpert sah, sowie zur Suche nach neuen religiösen oder kulturellen Gemeinschaften machte Kracauer in der Haltung des Wartens, die er als »zögerndes Geöffnetsein« beschrieb,13 eine adäquate Antwort darauf aus, dass den Individuen »[d]er Glaube, ja beinahe die Fähigkeit des Glaubens […] abhanden gekommen« sei.14 Auf die Erfahrung, dass die Erosion der »durch Tradition, Satzung, Dogma gestifteten Gemeinschaft« keine Erfüllung, sondern »Entleerung« hervorgebracht habe,15 reagiere die Haltung des Wartens weder durch Relativismus noch durch eine neue, religiös begründete Sinnsetzung. Wer sich zur wartenden Haltung entschließt, so Kracauer, »versperrt sich weder wie der trotzige Bejaher der Leere den Weg des Glaubens, noch bedrängt er diesen Glauben wie der Sehnsüchtige, den seine Sehnsucht hemmungslos macht«.16 Die Haltung des Wartens beschreibt nicht einfach ein Zögern, sondern ein Beharren: das Bestehen auf der Negativität der Wirklichkeit, das von ihr festhält, was über sie hinausweist, ohne die Distanz zu solch Hinausweisendem zu verlieren. Im beharrenden Moment, das dem Relativismus widersteht, ohne positiv Position zu beziehen, ähnelt die von Kracauer beschriebene Haltung Löwenthals Synkretismus. Beide antworteten auf das Brüchigwerden überkommener Zugehörigkeiten, ohne diese zugunsten vermeintlich stabiler neuer Identifikationen einfach aufzugeben. Der Begriff des Nichtidentischen, der durch Adorno ein Schlüsselbegriff der späteren Kritischen Theorie wurde, hat in solchen Erfahrungen sein historisches Korrelat. Dass Intellektuelle des jüdischen Bürgertums zur Beschreibung ihrer geistigen Physiognomie in den Zwanzigerjahren auf Begriffe wie den des Wartens oder des oppositionellen Synkretismus zurückgriffen, hatte auch mit der Widersprüchlichkeit ihrer lebensgeschichtlichen Situation zu tun. Die Protagonisten der Kritischen Theorie gehörten der ersten Generation des jüdischen Bürgertums in Deutschland an, die ihre Kindheit vorwiegend in der Kleinfamilie erlebte. Die Zahl ihrer Geschwister war im Vergleich zur Elterngeneration geringer – Löwenthals Großvater hatte noch neun Kinder17 –, andere Verwandte spielten zwar noch eine bedeutende Rolle, gehörten aber nicht mehr selbstverständlich zum Alltag der Familie. Die beruflich bedingten Abwesenheiten des Vaters und die allmähliche Ersetzung von Erbe und Vermögen durch die Erträge der Erwerbsarbeit hatten auch im jüdischen Bürgertum seit dem spä-

13 14 15 16 17

skizziert Manfred Bauschulte, Religionsbahnhöfe der Weimarer Republik. Studien zur Religionsforschung 1918–1933, Marburg 2007, 29–37. Kracauer, Die Wartenden, 116 (Hervorhebung im Original). Ebd., 106 f. Ebd., 106 (Hervorhebung im Original). Ebd., 116. Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 15.

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ten 19.  Jahrhundert die Kernfamilie als Sozialisationsinstanz gestärkt.18 Die aus solcher gesellschaftlichen Transformation entsprungene Erfahrung des Transitorischen ging in die Selbstbeschreibung der Kritischen Theoretiker ein. Löwenthal begriff gleichermaßen die Rückwendung zu jüdischen Erfahrungssedimenten und die Hinwendung zur Arbeiterbewegung als »oppositionell« statt »politisch«. Damit suchte er ein Selbstverständnis zu fassen, das darin zum Ausdruck kam, dass die Kritische Theorie in Absetzung zur linkssozialistischen Rhetorik anstelle des »vorwärtsstürmende[n] Proletariat[s]« die »kämpfende Menschheit« als einen Bezugspunkt wählte,19 der über klassenund kulturspezifische Zugehörigkeiten hinauswies. Bezeichnend für das Verhältnis der Kritischen Theorie zum bürgerlichen Erbe ist, dass alle ihre Protagonisten die Biografie, also das ikonische bürgerliche Genre, wegen der Tendenz zur historisch-biografischen Reduktion geistiger Gehalte ablehnten. Ihre Polemik entzündete sich an der populären historischen Biografie, die in der Weimarer Republik in einer deutschnationalen und einer dem jüdischen Bürgertum entsprungenen Variante existierte.20 Die frühesten programmatischen Äußerungen in diesem Zusammenhang waren Kracauers Essay Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform von 1930 und Löwenthals in den frühen Dreißigern entstandene, aber erst 1955 in Sociologica, der Festschrift zu Max Horkheimers 60. Geburtstag, publizierte Studie Die biographische Mode.

Biografie als Flucht und Rettung: Siegfried Kracauer und Leo Löwenthal Ausgangspunkt von Kracauers Kritik des biografischen Genres ist nicht die Frage nach der Bedeutung, die es für die deutschnationale Hagiografie einerseits, für das jüdische Bürgertum andererseits hatte  – eine Frage, die ins 19. Jahrhundert als Hochzeit der Biografie zurückverweisen würde21 –, son18 Miriam Gebhardt, Das Familiengedächtnis. Erinnerung im deutsch-jüdischen Bürgertum 1890 bis 1932, Stuttgart 1999, bes. 33–64. Zur Familie als »Verbürgerlichungsagentur« im deutschen Judentum siehe Simone Lässig, Jüdische Wege ins Bürgertum. Kulturelles Kapital und sozialer Aufstieg im 19. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2004, 155–199 und passim. 19 Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 48. 20 Beide waren mitunter schwer gegeneinander abzugrenzen. Siehe Christoph Gradmann, Historische Belletristik. Populäre historische Biographien der Weimarer Republik, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1993; Christian von Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie. Menschenbilder in lebensgeschichtlicher Darstellung (1830–1940), Berlin/New York 2006, 274–410. 21 Ebd., 54–185.

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dern eine zeitgenössische Erfahrung, die er als bereits 1889 Geborener reflektierter wahrnahm als Löwenthal oder gar Adorno: der Erste Weltkrieg, in dem er das Fortleben des Antisemitismus auch gegenüber deutschnationalen jüdischen Kriegsteilnehmern erlebt hatte und dessen Erfahrung er 1928 in seinem Roman Ginster verarbeitete. Den Weltkrieg beschreibt Kracauer als Zäsur in der Geschichte des biografischen Genres: »War in der Zeit vor dem Krieg die Biographie das seltene Werk der Gelehrsamkeit, so ist sie heute ein verbreitetes literarisches Erzeugnis. […] Man hat die Neigung zur biographischen Darstellung […] kurzerhand als eine Mode abfertigen wollen. Sie ist es so wenig, wie die Kriegsromane es waren. Vielmehr sind ihre unmodischen Gründe in den weltgeschichtlichen Ereignissen der letzten anderthalb Jahrzehnte zu suchen.«22

So einschneidend wurde der Erste Weltkrieg von Kracauer empfunden, dass er die Verwandlung jenes Genres in eine populäre Literaturform erst dieser Zäsur entsprungen sah und dabei überging, dass die Biografie bereits im Kaiserreich zu einem Kolportagegenre herabzusinken begonnen hatte, was nicht zuletzt enttäuschte Emanzipationshoffnungen des jüdischen Bürgertums zu kompensieren half.23 Der Erste Weltkrieg wirkte wie ein Transformator, der seit dem späten 19. Jahrhundert virulente Erfahrungen des Zerfalls von Individualität – infolge der Industrialisierung der Arbeit, der Beschleunigung des Alltags, nicht nur in den Großstädten, und der größeren Bedeutung der Massenmedien – ins Katastrophische umschlagen ließ.24 So trug Kracauer in seine Darstellung der Erfahrung des Ersten Weltkriegs Wandlungen ein, die lange vorher ihren Anfang genommen hatten. Es lasse sich nicht leugnen, diagnostizierte er, »daß der Weltkrieg mitsamt den politischen und gesellschaftlichen Veränderungen in seinem Gefolge, daß nicht zuletzt auch die neuen technischen Erfindungen den Alltag […] erschüttert« hätten.25 Wie durch Albert Einsteins Relativitätstheorie »unser Zeit-Raum-System zum Grenzbegriff geworden« sei, so habe der im Ersten Weltkrieg erteilte »An-

22 Siegfried Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, in: ders., Das Ornament der Masse, 75–80, hier 75. 23 Exemplarisch hierfür ist die Popularität der Goethebiografik bei bürgerlichen deutschen Juden im 19. Jahrhundert. Siehe Wilfried Barner, Jüdische Goethe-Verehrung vor 1933, in: ders., Pioniere, Schulen, Pluralismus. Studien zur Geschichte und Theorie der Literaturwissenschaft, Tübingen 1997, 129–149; Wolfgang Frühwald, Die Goethe-Rezeption in der deutschsprachigen Exilliteratur, Paderborn u. a. 2002. Zum »Enthüllungsroman« als Kolportagevariante der Biografie im späten 19. Jahrhundert siehe Günter Kosch/Manfred Nagl, Der Kolportageroman. Bibliographie 1850 bis 1960, Stuttgart/Weimar 1993, 165. 24 Die Bedeutung des Ersten Weltkriegs als Verstärker von Fragmentierungserfahrungen der Moderne erläutert anhand von Freuds Reizschutztheorie Wolfgang Schivelbusch, Geschichte der Eisenbahnreise. Zur Industrialisierung von Raum und Zeit im 19. Jahrhundert, München/Wien 1977, 134–151. 25 Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 75 f.

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schauungsunterricht der Geschichte das selbstherrliche Subjekt« zu einem solchen Grenzbegriff gemacht.26 Die Krise des bürgerlichen Ich, Movens schon der Ästhetik der Jahrhundertwende,27 war indes älter und erhielt angesichts des Ersten Weltkriegs lediglich eine neue, vollends destruktive Kontur: »Allzu nachhaltig hat in der jüngsten Vergangenheit jeder Mensch seine Nichtigkeit und die der anderen erfahren müssen, um noch an die Vollzugsgewalt des beliebigen Einzelnen zu glauben«; dieser Glaube sei, so Kracauer, »Voraussetzung der bürgerlichen Literatur in den Vorkriegsjahren« gewesen.28 Auch hier überblendete der Erste Weltkrieg in Kracauers Wahrnehmung die historische Chronologie. Die »bürgerliche Literatur« war spätestens um die Jahrhundertwende in eine Krise geraten, die bis in ihre ästhetische Konstitutionsform hineinwirkte, indem die »Geschlossenheit der alten Romanform«  – als Entsprechung der Geschlossenheit der »Persönlichkeit«29  – erodierte. Die Romane, die dieser Entwicklung in ihrer Formgestalt Rechnung trugen, vor allem Großstadtromane wie James Joyces Ulysses (1922) und Alfred Döblins Berlin Alex­ anderplatz (1929), erschienen zwar alle nach Ende des Ersten Weltkriegs, trieben jedoch Entwicklungen weiter, die lange zuvor, in der Technik des inneren Monologs in Arthur Schnitzlers Prosa oder in der Zersplitterung der Narration im literarischen Impressionismus,30 ihren Ausgang genommen hatten. Da der Erste Weltkrieg in seiner Wahrnehmung weiter zurückreichende sozial- und literaturgeschichtliche Transformationen überlagerte, deutete Kracauer die populäre Biografie als Gattung eines reaktionären Bürgertums, das seinen revolutionären Auftrag angesichts der militärischen Massenmobilisierung preisgegeben hatte. Auf den im Ersten Weltkrieg virulent gewordenen Zerfall seiner eigenen Schicht reagiere der Bürger nicht durch Solidarisierung mit Arbeiterbewegung und Kommunismus, sondern durch einen Kult historischer Heroen. Der als sinnlos und dem Individuum gegenüber feindlich erfahrene Geschichtslauf stehe in populären Biografien historischer Einzelpersönlichkeiten als sinnerfüllter wieder auf: »Jede geschichtliche Gestalt hat bereits in sich selber Gestalt.«31 Im Kult der historischen Persönlichkeit scheine trügerisch verbürgt, was sich seit der von den Massen 26 Ebd., 76. 27 Entscheidend hierfür war die massenhafte Rezeption von Ernst Machs 1886 erschienener Studie Die Analyse der Empfindungen und das Verhältnis des Physischen zum Psychi­ schen. Siehe Hermann Bahr, Das unrettbare Ich, in: Neues Wiener Tagblatt, 10.  April 1903, 1–4. 28 Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 76. 29 Ebd. 30 Christa Bürger/Peter Bürger/Jochen Schulte-Sasse, Naturalismus, Ästhetizismus, Frankfurt a. M. 1979. 31 Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 77.

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affirmierten kriegsindustriellen »Vernutzung« von Menschen als Lüge erwiesen habe. Deshalb diene die historische Biografie der Selbstillusionierung eines Bürgertums, das seinen geschichtlichen Auftrag verleugne: »Es […] merkt sehr wohl, daß das Individuum anonym geworden ist, zieht aber aus seinen Einsichten, die sich ihm mit der Gewalt physiognomischer Erfahrungen aufdrängen, keinen wie immer gearteten Schluß, der die aktuelle Situation zu erhellen vermöchte. […] Weder läßt sich die literarische Elite der neuen Bourgeoisie ernsthaft darauf ein, die materialistische Dialektik zu durchdringen, noch wagt sie sich irgendwo auch nur einen Schritt über die von ihr erreichte Grenze hinaus ins Jenseits der Klasse.«32

Zumindest die Begriffswelt des historischen Materialismus war bei Kracauer trotz der Zäsur des Ersten Weltkriegs, mit Tendenz zur Stereotypisierung (»die literarische Elite der neuen Bourgeoisie«, »die materialistische Dialektik«), in den frühen Dreißigerjahren erhalten geblieben. Die gesellschaftliche und ästhetische Krise, auf die Kracauer zufolge die populären Biografien eine reaktionäre Antwort boten, schien für ihn vorerst nur das Bürgertum und dessen Denkform, nicht die der Arbeiterbewegung, zu tangieren. Im Postulat, es sei Mission des Bürgertums, die Grenzen der eigenen Klasse hin auf ein »Jenseits der Klasse« zu transzendieren, klingt jedoch zumindest an, dass die Identifikation mit der Arbeiterklasse bei Kracauer nicht schlicht die Identifikation mit dem Bürgertum ersetzte; sie war vielmehr deren Konsequenz und gerade in der Forderung an das Bürgertum, »die materialistische Dialektik zu durchdringen«, meinte er, diesem die Treue zu halten. Dass er die Popularität neubürgerlicher Biografien im Bürgertum als »Zeichen der Flucht« deutete,33 bekräftigt, dass seine Kritik nicht darauf zielte, diese Texte schlicht als Ideologie der Klasse, sondern sie als Symptom von deren Abdankung zu verstehen.34 Wie das Bürgertum den Ersten Weltkrieg als Ausdruck der Notwendigkeit hätte begreifen müssen, die bürgerliche Gesellschaft aufzuheben, so hätte es die Krise des Individuums ästhetisch als Aufforderung verstehen müssen, neue, der historischen Erfahrung adäquate ästhetische Formen zu finden. In den populären Biografien spiegelte sich für Kracauer ästhetisch der Umschlag des fortschrittlichen Gehalts des Bürgertums in Restauration. Dass Kracauer die Erfahrung des Ersten Weltkriegs zum Ausgangspunkt seiner Reflexion der neubürgerlichen Biografie machte, mag dazu beigetra32 Ebd., 77 f. 33 Ebd., 78 (Hervorhebung im Original). 34 Der Terminus »neubürgerlich« griff polemisch die von Ökonomen aus dem Umkreis des Vereins für Socialpolitik wie Gustav Schmoller und Adolph Wagner ventilierte Vorstellung auf, Beamte, Angestellte und Freiberufler könnten »als Ersatz für das schwindende alte Kleinbürgertum« ein »Bollwerk gegen die Arbeiterbewegung« bilden. Siehe Esther Marian, Jeder Angestellte will eine Persönlichkeit sein. Zu Siegfried Kracauers Biographiekritik, in: Bernhard Fetz/Wilhelm Hemecker (Hgg.), Theorie der Biographie. Grundlagentexte und Kommentar, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2011, 125–132, hier 128.

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gen haben, dass er deren deutschnationale, hagiografische Variante in seiner Kritik zum Prototyp hypostasierte. Die Funktion des »Heroenkults« der historischen Biografien sah er in der ideologischen Überhöhung eines bürgerlichen Rückzugsgefechts: »Um sich nicht durch Erkenntnisse bloßzustellen, die das Dasein der Bourgeoisie in Frage ziehen, harren die Biographen unter den Schriftstellern wie vor einer Wand an der Schwelle, bis zu der sie von den Weltereignissen vorgetrieben worden sind. Daß sie von ihr aus wieder ins bürgerliche Hinterland fliehen, statt sie zu übertreten, beweist die Analyse des Großteils der Biographien.«35

Auch hier traten das Versagen der Sozialdemokratie, die der Bewilligung der Kriegskredite im Juli 1914 zugestimmt hatte, sowie der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung, die keine Massenbewegung gegen die Kriegsallianz zu mobilisieren vermochte, in den Hintergrund zugunsten des Vorwurfs, das Bürgertum habe diejenigen seiner »Erkenntnisse, […] die das Dasein der Bourgeoisie in Frage ziehen«, zugunsten eines sozialen Eskapismus verraten. Kracauer beschreibt diesen Eskapismus mit Metaphern, in denen die Kriegserfahrung fortlebt: als Flucht »ins bürgerliche Hinterland«, um den Bruch mit Klasse und Nation nicht wagen zu müssen. Der klassentheoretischen Argumentation entspricht der Schluss von Kracauers Artikel, in dem Leo Trotzkis 1929 publiziertes Buch Mein Leben als Beispiel einer »Lebensbeschreibung« angeführt wird, in der die Darstellung des »historischen Individuums« kein »Mittel« sei, »um der Erkenntnis unserer Situation auszuweichen«, sondern dazu diene, »sie zu enthüllen«.36 So meinte Kracauer mit dem Buch Trotzkis nicht nur einen Beleg seiner eigenen historisch-materialistischen Kritik der populären Biografie, sondern auch ein ästhetisches Exemplum dafür gefunden zu haben, dass dem politisch fortgeschrittenen Bewusstsein auch die ästhetisch adäquatere Form gelinge. Die ästhetische Form erscheint als Derivat des politischen Bewusstseins; ob ein politisch reaktionäres Bewusstsein avancierte Formen oder ein fortschrittliches epigonale hervorzubringen vermag, wird nicht gefragt. Im Schwanken zwischen einer klassentheoretischen Ideologiekritik und dem positiven Rekurs auf fortschrittliche Residuen bürgerlichen Denkens bringt Kracauers Text in sich selbst zum Ausdruck, was der Autor als Haltung des Wartens verteidigt hat. Als Konterpart zu Trotzki führte Kracauer in seinem Artikel den deutsch-jüdischen Autor Emil Ludwig an, neben Stefan Zweig, dem anderen Exponenten trivialer Historienliteratur, Hauptgegner der Biografiekritik der frühen Kritischen Theorie.37 »In Frankreich, England, Deutschland«, so Kracauer, 35 Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 78. 36 Ebd., 80. 37 Ein Grund für diese Abneigung gegen Zweigs Biografik dürfte deren populärfreudianischer Gestus gewesen sein, der freilich insofern eine demokratisierende Wirkung hatte,

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arbeiteten die neubürgerlichen Biografen daran, »das Leben der von Emil Ludwig noch übriggelassenen öffentlichen Personen zu beschreiben«.38 Dass Ludwig bei Kracauer zum Emblem historischer Populärbiografie avancierte, verstand sich nicht von selbst. Ludwigs Werke – etwa zu Goethe (1920), Bismarck (1921–1926) und Wilhelm II. (1925) – standen für einen Personenkult, der dem völkischen Chauvinismus deutschnationaler Prägung eher entgegenarbeitete.39 Ludwig, der 1922 als Reaktion auf die Ermordung Walther Rathenaus vom Christentum zum Judentum konvertiert war, das sein Vater aufgegeben hatte, war im Zuge einer Kontroverse über den Rang historischer Belletristik in der Weimarer Republik Mitte der Zwanzigerjahre überdies Zielobjekt antijüdischer Kampagnen geworden.40 Auslöser war, dass er in seinen Biografien Bismarcks und Wilhelms II. republikanische Momente von beider Selbstverständnis gegen den deutschnationalen Chauvinismus geltend gemacht hatte. Die Intention von Ludwigs Personenkult, in der sich das zurück ins 19.  Jahrhundert verweisende Bedürfnis jüdischer Leser nach Identifikationsmöglichkeiten mit einem weltbürgerlichen deutschen Republikanismus spiegelte, kann Kracauer nicht entgangen sein. Er hatte Ludwig nicht nur anlässlich des Erscheinens der Bismarckbiografie 1926 als »Republika­ ner« gepriesen und den Wunsch geäußert, dessen Buch möge »in unseren Schulbüchern den Popanz des Eisernen Kanzlers verdrängen«.41 Ein Jahr vor dem Erscheinen von Kracauers Biografiekritik hatte Ludwig mit Juli 14 eine Polemik gegen den deutschen Militarismus vorgelegt, die in der Einschätzung des Ersten Weltkriegs mit Kracauers ein Jahr später erschienener Kritik korrespondierte.42 Ludwigs Name war so nicht nur emblematisch für

38 39 40

41 42

als er die Psychoanalyse breiten Leserschichten nahebrachte. Siehe Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie, 255–261. Ein ähnlich demokratisierender Zug eignete Ludwigs »Popularisierung der Geschichte«. Siehe Joachim Jacob, Jesus für alle. Emil Ludwigs Popularisierung der Geschichte, in: Yotam Hotam/Joachim Jacob (Hgg.), Populäre Konstruktionen von Erinnerung im deutschen Judentum und nach der Emigration, Göttingen 2004, 103–122. Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 75. Siehe Christian von Zimmermanns Ausführungen zum Konnex von »Vermenschlichung und Kritik«: ders., Biographische Anthropologie, 391–411. 1928 hatte der Historiker Hans Delbrück Ludwig in einer Kritik der historischen Biografik als »Cohn« diffamiert. Hans Delbrück, E.  Ludwig, Wilhelm  II. (Rezension), in: Histo­ rische Belletristik. Ein kritischer Literaturbericht 133 (1926), H. 3, 37–43. 1930 erschien im Zuge der Debatte über historische Belletristik das antijüdische Pamphlet Der Fall Emil Ludwig von Nils Hansen. Siehe Zimmermann, Biographische Anthropologie, 391–411. Siegfried Kracauer, Der andere Bismarck. Vortrag Emil Ludwigs, in: ders., Werke, hg. von Inka Mülder-Bach und Ingrid Belke, 9 Bde., Berlin 2004–2011, hier Bd. 5, Teil 2: Essays, Feuilletons, Rezensionen 1924–1927, Berlin 2011, 481 f. (Hervorhebung im Original). Emil Ludwig, Juli 14. Den Söhnen zur Warnung, Berlin 1929. Siehe hierzu auch die Rezension von Ignaz Wrobel [Kurt Tucholsky], in: Die Weltbühne, 23. Juli 1929, 119.

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eine Verfallsform der bürgerlichen Biografie, sondern auch für eine politische Haltung des jüdischen Bürgertums, die mit Kracauers Kritik trotz unterschiedlicher ideologischer Bezugspunkte viele Gemeinsamkeiten hatte. Diese aber kamen zwar in Kracauers Verteidigung der Bismarck-Schrift, doch nicht mehr in seiner Kritik der populären Biografik vor. Eine Ausblendung der Lebensgeschichte historischer Biografen charakterisiert auch Leo Löwenthals Studie Die biographische Mode. Wie Kracauer ging Löwenthal davon aus, dass die Biografie »nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg in immer zunehmendem Maße sich […] als Artikel des gehobenen literarischen Massengeschmacks« behaupte.43 Er stellte einen Zusammenhang her zwischen der Beliebtheit des historisch-biografischen Genres und der Krise des Bürgertums infolge des Ersten Weltkriegs, insbesondere der Novemberrevolution: »Seit 1918 bereits ist die politische Biographie die klassische Emigrationsliteratur des deutschen Bürgertums.«44 Die von Kracauer als neubürgerlich gekennzeichnete Konstellation bezeichnet Löwenthal als Krise des »späten Liberalismus«.45 Was Kracauer als Verfallsform des Romans analysiert, ist Löwenthal zufolge »wie die Fortsetzung so zugleich die Umkehrung des Romans«.46 Während Kracauer aber die Namen Ludwig und Trotzki als Embleme für zwei Weisen verwendete, Historie und Lebensgeschichte in Bezug zueinander zu setzen, verarbeitete der elf Jahre jüngere Löwenthal in seiner Studie einen breiten Materialbestand, den er nach Fertigstellung der ersten Version des Textes im amerikanischen Exil bis in die späten Dreißigerjahre hinein erweiterte. Sein Blick auf die biografische Mode nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg war, obgleich er zu ähnlichen Ergebnissen wie Kracauer kam, ein stärker historischer; die Biografien, mit denen er sich beschäftigte, waren für ihn weniger als für Kracauer unmittelbarer Bestandteil des eigenen Erfahrungshintergrunds, sondern stärker Objekte kritischen Interesses. Aus diesem Objektbestand extrapolierte Löwenthal eine Reihe biografischer Mythen und Stereotype, die er als »Katalog der Superlative« ans Ende seiner Studie stellte.47 Die Frage, ob die Tendenz zum Personenkult in populären Biografien für Angehörige des jüdischen Bürgertums nicht eine andere Funktion erfüllte als für deutschnationale Lesergruppen, und ob die Beliebtheit des Genres in der Exilliteratur nicht andere Gründe habe als die biografische Mode nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg, stellte aber auch er nicht, obgleich er einen »Beitrag zur

43 Leo Löwenthal, Die biographische Mode, in: ders., Schriften, hg. von Helmut Dubiel, 5  Bde., Frankfurt a. M. 1980–1987, Bd.  1: Literatur und Massenkultur, Frankfurt a. M. 1980, 231–257, hier 231. 44 Ebd., 231 f. 45 Ebd., 232. 46 Ebd., 233. 47 Ebd., 246–275, hier 246.

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Analyse ihrer Leserschicht« leisten wollte.48 Obwohl Löwenthals Verhältnis zum Gegenstand der Kritik historisch vermittelter war als bei Kracauer, wurde das historisierende Moment durch den empirisch-quantifizierenden Zugriff wieder zurückgenommen. Auch den Widerspruch, dass fast alle von ihm als Beispiele für die restaurative und eskapistische Biografik herangezogenen Autoren lebensgeschichtlich Gegner oder Opfer des deutschen Nationalismus gewesen waren, beschwieg Löwenthals Methode. Im Quellenverzeichnis mit gleich zwölf beziehungsweise elf Bänden vertreten waren Emil Ludwig und Stefan Zweig; dazu kamen mit Hermann Kesten, Valeriu Marcu und Franz Werfel weitere prominente jüdische Autoren, die sich weit über die populäre Biografik hinaus einen Namen gemacht hatten, sowie namhafte nichtjüdische Emigranten wie Franz Blei. Die größte lebensgeschichtliche Affinität zur deutschnationalen Ideologie, die Löwenthal der biografischen Mode attestierte, zeigte Walter von Molo, von dem Löwenthal einen Band einbezog.49 Doch lebensgeschichtliche Unterschiede zwischen den untersuchten Biografen blieben durch sein Verfahren nivelliert. Als Problem trat Löwen­thal der blinde Fleck seines selbst bereits tendenziell historischen Blicks in der Zeit des Exils ins Bewusstsein, weshalb er sich entschloss, seine Studie aus Rücksicht auf das Schicksal der kritisierten Autoren nicht zu publizieren. Hierzu führte er rückblickend im Gespräch mit Dubiel aus: »Ich habe den Aufsatz schon in den dreißiger Jahren zu Ende geschrieben. Wir haben ihn damals nicht veröffentlicht aus Courtoisie; denn ein großer Teil der von mir analysierten Autoren waren deutsch-jüdische Emigranten, denen es oft sehr schlecht ging. Manche haben sich  – wie Stefan Zweig  – sogar umgebracht. Ich habe deshalb diese Arbeit erst veröffentlicht, als sich die unmittelbaren Bezüge auf zeitgenössische Autoren etwas entaktualisiert hatten.«50

Die Rede von der »Courtoisie« verweist auf ein entscheidendes Charakteristikum der Biografiekritik der Kritischen Theorie: auf das Bemühen, Textkritik und biografische Autorschaft zu trennen, sich also beim Urteil über den Gehalt geistiger Gebilde nicht durch die Lebensgeschichte des Autors, beim Urteil über dessen biografisches Wirken aber auch nicht durch den Gehalt des von ihm Geschriebenen beeinflussen zu lassen. Es war dies ein welt48 Ebd., 232. 49 Molo, der biografische Romane über Friedrich den Großen und Martin Luther herausgebracht hatte und während des Nationalsozialismus zur »Inneren Emigration« gehörte, hatte nach Kriegsende Thomas Mann in einem offenen Brief zur Rückkehr nach Deutschland aufgefordert. Manns Text Warum ich nicht nach Deutschland zurückkehre antwortete darauf. Siehe Kurt Koszyk, Das Exil und die Nachkriegspresse, in: Markus Behmer (Hg.), Deutsche Publizistik im Exil 1933 bis 1945. Personen – Positionen – Perspektiven. Festschrift für Ursula E. Koch, Münster/Hamburg/London 2000, 318–330. 50 Löwenthal, »Mitmachen wollte ich nie«, 186 f.

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bürgerlicher, liberaler Zug, der durch die Erfahrung von Nationalsozialismus und Exil an seine Grenzen stieß. Dass nicht nur »ein großer Teil«, sondern fast alle von Löwenthal untersuchten Autoren deutschsprachige Juden waren, die unabhängig von ihrer politischen Einstellung ab 1933 zu Emigranten wurden, war dem Gegenstand von Löwenthals Kritik weniger äußerlich, als der Gestus der Rücksichtnahme nahelegt. Der Grund dafür klingt im Gespräch mit Dubiel an, wo Löwenthal die Populärbiografie die »klassische Emigrationsliteratur des deutschen Bürgertums« nennt. Was ihm als Metapher für gesellschaftlichen Eskapismus dient, war nach 1933 buchstäblich wahr geworden: Das jüdische Bürgertum, das Teil des deutschen gewesen war und dessen Angehörige sich oftmals stärker mit der deutschen Nation identifiziert hatten als andere Gruppen, war unabhängig von sozialem Rang und politischer Einstellung zur Flucht gezwungen und nahm die historische Biografie als heroische Wegzehrung, als Erinnerung an das endgültig gebrochene Versprechen mit. Das war die Geburt der historischen Exilbiografik,51 die Löwenthal gemeinsam mit ihren Vorläufern – und ohne Reflexion auf die Differenz zwischen beidem – zum Gegenstand seiner ideologiekritischen Betrachtung gemacht hatte. Kracauers Biografiekritik endet, wie als bewusstloser Versuch der Wiedergutmachung an Ludwig, mit einem Gedanken, der die Problematik vorwegnimmt, die später in der Publikationsgeschichte – oder besser: Nichtpublikationsgeschichte – von Löwenthals Text manifest wurde. Unmittelbar nach seiner Kritik der populären Biografie als Flucht schränkte Kracauer ein: »Sie ist noch etwas anderes als bloße Flucht. So gewiß sich das Bürgertum heute im Übergang befindet, so gewiß wohnt jeder seiner Leistungen eine doppelte Bedeutung inne. […] Wie Auswanderer ihre Habseligkeiten zusammenraffen, so sammelt die bürgerliche Literatur den Hausrat, der bald nicht mehr die alte Stätte haben wird. Das Motiv der Flucht, dem die Unzahl der Biographien ihre Entstehung schuldet, wird von dem der Rettung überblendet.«52

Hier ist, drei Jahre vor der Machtübertragung auf die Nationalsozialisten, blind antizipiert, was wenig später geschah und die klassentheoretische Argumentation von Kracauers Text fraglich werden ließ. Mit Vertreibung und Vernichtung des jüdischen Bürgertums in Deutschland hatte die bürgerliche Gesellschaft auch sich selbst widerrufen, ihr Eigentum hatte sich als Ansammlung von »Habseligkeiten« erwiesen, über die die Volksgemeinschaft je nach Willkür zu verfügen vermochte. Im Motiv der Rettung leuchtet bei 51 Die Veränderungen der Funktion historischer Biografik von der Weimarer Republik hin zum Exil untersucht anhand von Stefan Zweig und Alfred Döblin Ulrich Kittstein, »Mit Geschichte will man etwas«. Historisches Erzählen in der Weimarer Republik und im Exil (1918–1945), Würzburg 2006, 206–328. 52 Kracauer, Die Biographie als neubürgerliche Kunstform, 79 (Hervorhebung im Original).

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Kracauer der durch die klassentheoretische Argumentation verdrängte Gedanke auf, dass angesichts solcher Selbstaufhebung der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft auch der Heroenkult der Biografien von Ludwig oder Zweig an ein vom Geschichtslauf kassiertes Versprechen erinnerte. Im nicht ausgetragenen Widerspruch zwischen der Kritik an der populären Biografie als Ausflucht und der Ahnung vom Moment der Rettung in ihr machte sich bei Kracauer die Realgeschichte geltend, in der die historische Biografie auch als eine populäre Form figurierte, um jüdische Freiheits- und Emanzipationssehnsüchte gegenwärtig zu halten. Was in Kracauers Text der immanente Widerspruch festhält, hat sich bei Löwenthals Text in der Publikationsgeschichte niedergeschlagen. Im Entschluss, auf eine Veröffentlichung während der Exilzeit zu verzichten, spiegelte sich, dass die Namen in Löwenthals Essay durch die neue zeitgeschichtliche Konstellation politisch aufgeladen waren. Aus den emblematisch für ein Genre stehenden Autorennamen waren Namen nationalsozialistisch Verfolgter geworden. Löwenthals Text hatte sich in einen über das deutsch-jüdische Bürgertum verwandelt, sein an die Oberfläche getretener historischer Gehalt konterkarierte nun die ideologiekritische Intention. Um dieser und der zeitgeschichtlichen Situation gleichermaßen gerecht zu werden, hielt Löwenthal den Text zurück und erwies damit dem historischen Impuls seines Blicks auf sein Material nachträglich Referenz. Dies aber bedeutete keine Lösung des Problems, sondern nur dessen Aufschub. Zum Zeitpunkt der Veröffentlichung 1955 war der Text nicht nur entaktualisiert, sondern fremd geworden. Obgleich seine Argumentation an Schlüssigkeit nichts verloren hatte, waren die meisten Namen und Werktitel, anhand derer sie entwickelt worden war, in Vergessenheit geraten. Die Namen- und Titelliste, mit der Löwenthal den Essay abgeschlossen hatte, glich nun einer Reihe Epitaphe, deren Geschichte von zeitgenössischen Lesern erst rekonstruiert werden musste. So ist Löwenthals urteilsscharfer Text zu einem Palimpsest geworden, das seinerseits die historische Urteilskraft herausfordert.

Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt: Theodor W. Adorno und Walter Benjamin Löwenthals Text Die biographische Mode war, bevor er 1955 in der Festschrift zu Horkheimers 60. Geburtstag erschien, als Beitrag für das erste Heft der neuen Zeitschrift für Sozialforschung vorgesehen, deren Neubegründung

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in den frühen Fünfzigern noch geplant war.53 Um Löwenthal die Notwendigkeit des Abdrucks vor Augen zu führen, schrieb Adorno am 2.  Dezember 1954 an ihn: »Betreffs der Biographienarbeit bin ich unbedingt der Ansicht, daß sie erscheinen soll. Nicht nur, weil ich es notwendig finde, daß Du im ersten Heft acte de presence machst, sondern weil ich auch die Sache nach wie vor für aktuell halte. Diese Literatur ist unausrottbar; die Liebe des deutschen Volkes zu Stefan Zweig und Emil Ludwig hat ohne alle Frage die Juden überlebt, und die biographischen Aufsätze, welche die Illustrierten Zeitschriften überschwemmen (oft immer noch solche über Nazigrößen) sind in weitem Maß Derivate dieser Literatur, Abhub des Abhubs. Was Du zu diesen Dingen zeigst, ist so schlagend, daß man nicht darauf verzichten sollte, und die Sache hat auch methodisch ihre Wichtigkeit insofern, als sie eine sehr legitime Parodie auf das offizielle Verfahren der content analysis darstellt. Sätze von der Form ›Nie hat eine Frau geliebt wie …‹ zu zählen, das ist Quantifizierung am richtigen Ort.«54

Indem er Löwenthals empirisch-quantifizierendes Vorgehen als »Parodie auf das offizielle Verfahren der content analysis« beschrieb, spielte Adorno auf statistische Verfahren der Textanalyse in den Sozialwissenschaften an, die im Zweiten Weltkrieg in den Vereinigten Staaten, unter anderem auch im Rahmen der politischen Arbeit ehemaliger Institutsmitglieder, für die »Feindanalyse« fruchtbar gemacht worden waren.55 In den Fünfzigern wurden sie in das Repertoire der empirischen Sozialwissenschaften der Bundesrepublik, vor allem der Kölner Schule um René König, integriert.56 Der »Entqualifizierung« des Begriffs von Gesellschaft durch statistische, nur dem Schein nach auf Anschauung gründende Analyseverfahren, die Adorno an der amerikanischen Soziologie der Kriegszeit ebenso kritisiert hatte wie später an der Kölner Schule,57 hatte Löwenthal in Adornos Augen eine Form der Inhaltsanalyse entgegengesetzt, die quantifizierend verfuhr, wo es dem Gegenstand angemessen war: bei der Analyse kulturindustrieller Massenprodukte, die, in sich selbst stereotyp, spezifischer Qualitäten beraubt seien. Als frühes Bei53 Siehe Stefan Müller-Doohm, Adorno. Eine Biographie, Frankfurt a. M. 2003, 515. 54 Zit. nach Leo Löwenthal, Schriften, Bd. 4: Judaica, Vorträge, Briefe, Frankfurt a. M. 1984, 175. 55 Siehe Herbert Marcuse, Feindanalysen. Über die Deutschen, mit einer Einleitung von Detlef Claussen, aus dem Amerikan. von Michael Haupt, Springe 2007. Zum politikhisto­ rischen Hintergrund siehe Tim B. Müller, Krieger und Gelehrte. Herbert Marcuse und die Denksysteme im Kalten Krieg, Hamburg 2010. 56 Stephan Moebius, René König und die »Kölner Schule«. Eine soziologiegeschichtliche Annäherung, Wiesbaden 2015. 57 König äußerte in den frühen Sechzigerjahren die Befürchtung, der Modernisierungsprozess der Soziologie in der Bundesrepublik drohe dadurch gehemmt zu werden, dass das Fach von Wiedergängern aus der Weimarer Republik beherrscht werde. Zu den rechten Revenants zählte er Arnold Gehlen, zu den linken Adorno. Siehe Monika Boll, Nachtprogramm. Intellektuelle Gründungsdebatten in der frühen Bundesrepublik, Münster 2004, 230–242.

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spiel einer solchen sinnvollen quantitativen Inhaltsanalyse war Löwenthals Text für Adorno ein Gegenentwurf zur neopositivistischen Soziologie der frühen Bundesrepublik, weshalb er die Frage überging, ob der enthistorisierende Gestus der Inhaltsanalyse nicht auch Gefahr lief, die enthistorisierende Tendenz der Trivialliteratur zu verdoppeln. Sein strategisches Argument ergänzte er um ein historisch-ästhetisches durch die Diagnose, das von Löwenthal untersuchte Genre sei »unausrottbar«. Dass dies nicht allein auf die Persistenz stereotyper ästhetischer Formen zielte, sondern durch Umkehrung nationalsozialistischen Vokabulars die Popularität historischer Biografien als Symptom postnazistischer Kultur dekuvrieren sollte, machte Adorno durch die Formulierung deutlich, die »Liebe des deutschen Volkes zu Emil Ludwig und Stefan Zweig« habe »ohne alle Frage die Juden überlebt«. Indem er unterschlug, was Löwenthal später im Gespräch mit Dubiel problematisierte: dass Ludwig und Zweig jüdischer Zugehörigkeit waren und Zweig sich im Exil das Leben genommen hatte, verschärfte Adorno noch die der Biografiekritik inhärenten Widersprüche. Dass sich in den »Illustrierten Zeitschriften« die trivialbiografische Phantasie häufig an »Nazigrößen« betätigte, erschien ihm gar als »Derivat« der biografischen Formate Ludwigs und Zweigs, wodurch beide zu Vorläufern völkischer Biografik erklärt wurden. Schon aufgrund ihrer Lebensgeschichten aber wären Zweig und Ludwig nicht auf die Idee gekommen, Biografien von »Nazigrößen« zu schreiben: Die von ihnen vertretene ästhetische Ideologie war mit der völkischen Ideologie nicht unmittelbar identisch. Diese Nichtidentität aber verweist auf den Ort des Historischen in der ästhetischen Form, der in Adornos Stellungnahme merkwürdig unterbestimmt bleibt. Adorno vervollständigte sein Plädoyer für einen Abdruck von Löwenthals Text durch eine Anmerkung zur Historizität früherer Texte der Kritischen Theorie, die die Widersprüchlichkeit seiner Stellungnahme zusätzlich verschärfte: »Schließlich möchte ich noch sagen, daß ich mich grundsätzlich nicht zu der Auffassung bekennen kann, daß unsere Arbeiten, wenn sie ein paar Jahre geschrieben sind, aus äußerlichen, thematischen Gründen veralten; denn das Gewicht dessen, was wir tun, liegt doch in der Theorie der Gesellschaft und nicht in den ephemeren Stoffen.«58

Mit der Differenzierung zwischen »Theorie der Gesellschaft« und »ephemeren Stoffen« griff Adorno auf eine Unterscheidung zurück, die an jene zwischen Wahrheitsgehalt und Sachgehalt in Walter Benjamins 1925 in den Neuen Deutschen Beiträgen erschienenem Essay Goethes Wahlverwandt­ schaften erinnert, sich von dieser aber in wesentlicher Hinsicht abhebt. Die Kontrastierung von Wahrheitsgehalt und Sachgehalt entfaltet Benjamin an58 Löwenthal, Schriften, Bd. 4, 175 f.

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hand des »Goethekults« im Umfeld des George-Kreises, vor allem an Friedrich Gundolfs 1916 erschienener Goethebiografie.59 Benjamins Kritik an der Hypostasierung der Sachgehalte in der Goethebiografik entzündete sich so am hochkulturellen Komplement zu den historischen Biografien von Zweig und Ludwig. Die Differenz zwischen Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt wird von Benjamin zu Beginn an der Unterscheidung zwischen Kunstkritik und historisch-philologischem Kommentar entwickelt: »Die Kritik sucht den Wahrheitsgehalt eines Kunstwerks, der Kommentar seinen Sachgehalt. Das Verhältnis der beiden bestimmt jenes Grundgesetz des Schrifttums, demzufolge der Wahrheitsgehalt eines Werkes, je bedeutender es ist, desto unscheinbarer und inniger an seinen Sachgehalt gebunden ist. Wenn sich demnach als die dauernden gerade jene Werke erweisen, deren Wahrheitsgehalt am tiefsten ihrem Sachgehalt eingesenkt ist, so stehen im Verlaufe dieser Dauer die Realien dem Betrachtenden im Werk desto deutlicher vor Augen, je mehr sie in der Welt absterben. Damit aber tritt der Erscheinung nach Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt, in der Frühzeit des Werkes geeint, auseinander mit seiner Dauer, weil der letzte immer gleich verborgen sich hält, wenn der erste hervordringt. Mehr und mehr wird für jeden späteren Kritiker die Deutung des Auffallenden und Befremdenden, des Sachgehaltes, demnach zur Vorbedingung.«60

Die Bestimmung des Verhältnisses von Wahrheitsgehalt und Sachgehalt scheint mit der Kritik Kracauers, Löwenthals und Adornos an historischer Biografik zu konvergieren, insofern die populäre historische Biografie sich vom Kunstwerk darin unterscheidet, dass der Wahrheitsgehalt in ihr dem Sachgehalt nicht »eingesenkt«, sondern ihm als lediglich behaupteter aufgepfropft ist. Die Sachgehalte populärer Biografik  – etwa Charakterzüge und politische Leistungen des Porträtierten – werden von deren Form nicht in ihrer Signifikanz durchdrungen, sondern als »Abhub« zu bloßen Exempeln einer in großen Individuen vermeintlich unmittelbar gegenwärtigen überhistorischen Wahrheit depotenziert. Während die »Realien«, das heißt Sedimente von Zeitgeschichte, Lebensgeschichte und sozialer Wirklichkeit, im Kunstwerk infolge von dessen »Dauer« – gerade dadurch also, dass die Werke fortbestehen, während die in ihnen sedimentierte Geschichte sich wandelt  – allmählich »absterben« und dem Kritiker, als nur noch Histori59 Philipp Redl, Dichtergermanisten der Moderne. Ernst Stadler, Friedrich Gundolf und Philipp Witkop zwischen Poesie und Wissenschaft, Köln/Weimar/Wien 2016, 217–227. Zum Verhältnis Benjamins und Adornos zu George siehe Gert Mattenklott, Walter Benjamin und Theodor W. Adorno über George, in: Bernhard Böschenstein u. a. (Hgg.), Wissenschaftler im George-Kreis. Die Welt des Dichters und der Beruf der Wissenschaft, Berlin/ Boston, Mass., 2005, 277–290. 60 Walter Benjamin, Goethes Wahlverwandtschaften, in: ders., Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Rolf Tiedemann und Hermann Schweppenhäuser, unter Mitwirkung von Theodor W. Adorno und Gershom Scholem, 7 Bde. (in 14 Teilbdn.), hier Bd. 1, Teil 1: Abhandlungen, Frankfurt a. M. 1974, 125–201, hier 125.

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sches, befremdlich gegenübertreten, sind sie in der historischen Biografik, als Illustrationsmaterial geschichtlicher Größe, gleichsam immer schon tot. Auf solche erstarrte historische Größe fixierte sich laut Benjamin auch das »gedankenloseste Dogma des Goethekults« im Umfeld des George-Kreises, das die Überzeugung gepflegt habe, »daß unter allen Goetheschen Werken das größte sein Leben sei«.61 Die Unterscheidung von »echter Biografik« und biografischem Heroenkult korrespondiert mit der von epigonalem und authentischem Kunstwerk, wenn Benjamin über Gundolfs Goethebiografie urteilt: »[N]icht mit der treuen Gesinnung des Biographen wird der Sachgehalt dieses Lebens auch, und gerade, um des darin Nichtverstandenen willen erfaßt, nicht in der großen Bescheidung echter Biographik als das Archiv selbst unentzifferbarer Dokumente dieses Daseins, sondern offenbar liegen sollen Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt und wie im Heroenleben einander entsprechen. Offenbar jedoch liegt der Sachgehalt des Lebens allein und sein Wahrheitsgehalt ist verborgen. Wohl lassen der einzelne Zug, die einzelne Beziehung sich aufhellen, nicht aber die Totalität, es sei denn auch sie werde nur in einer unendlichen Beziehung begriffen. Denn an sich ist sie unendlich. Daher gibt es im Bereich der Biographik weder Kommentar noch Kritik.«62

In der Verletzung dieses Grundsatzes sieht Benjamin die Gemeinsamkeit zwischen Gundolfs Goethebiografie und der früher erschienenen des Schweizer Jesuiten Alexander Baumgartner.63 Während Letzterer »die Ergründung des Wahrheitsgehalts« unternehme, »ohne den Ort seines Vergrabenseins auch nur zu ahnen«, und sich daher »die kritischen Ausfälle ohne Maß« häuften, versenke sich Gundolf »in die Welt der Sachgehalte des Goetheschen Lebens, in denen er doch nur vorgeblich dessen Wahrheitsgehalt darstellen« könne.64 Während Baumgartners Text sich in Kritik erschöpfe, weil es ihm nicht gelinge, die Realien so in Zusammenhang zu bringen, dass der in seiner Totalität nicht zu erfassende Wahrheitsgehalt individuellen Lebens aufscheint, sei der Gundolfs nur Kommentar, weil er dem Irrglauben folge, in den Sachgehalten sei der Wahrheitsgehalt unmittelbar gegenwärtig. Da die Realien aber durch wachsende historische Distanz des Betrachtenden zu seinem Gegenstand zu »unentzifferbare[n] Dokumenten« werden, erschließt sich ihr Wahrheitsgehalt weder unmittelbar an ihnen selbst noch durch Sprechen über sie, sondern nur durch die Konstellation, in die sie gebracht werden. Wie weit dies gelingt, bildet für Benjamin das Kriterium zur Beurteilung der biografischen Form. 61 Ebd., 160. 62 Ebd., 161. 63 Baumgartner hatte zwischen 1879 und 1886 eine Monumentalbiografie Goethes vorgelegt, in der er den Goethe-Kult im Kaiserreich aus katholischer Perspektive kritisierte. Siehe Karl Muth, Alexander Baumgartner, in: Hochland 8 (1910/11), H. 1, 237–239. 64 Benjamin, Goethes Wahlverwandtschaften, 161.

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Dass die historische Biografik eines Emil Ludwig oder Stefan Zweig diesem Kriterium nicht standhalte, weil sie Materialhäufung und Heroenhagiografie, bloßen Kommentar und bloße Kritik, nur additiv verbinde, statt sie zwecks Erkenntnis des Wahrheitsgehalts aufeinander zu beziehen, da­ rin dürften sich Benjamin, Kracauer, Löwenthal und Adorno einig gewesen sein. Dass sie solches Misslingen mit späteren Formaten der populären historischen Biografie teilte und die Kritik an ihr trotz Veraltens ihrer Gegenstände und Wechsels des historischen Dekors noch immer triftig war, darin hatte Adorno 1954 mit der Unterscheidung von »Theorie der Gesellschaft« und »ephemeren Stoffen« zweifellos recht. Benjamins Einsicht aber, dass durch Auseinandertreten von Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt und Befremdlich-Werden der Realien im Zuge des Überdauerns der Werke die wichtigste Aufgabe »für jeden späteren Kritiker die Deutung des Auffallenden und Befremdenden, des Sachgehaltes« werde, wird bei Adorno in doppelter Hinsicht ausgeblendet. Weder gesteht Adorno der Tatsache, dass die von Löwenthal und Kracauer kritisierten Autoren Angehörige des jüdischen Bürgertums und Emigranten waren, auf der Ebene des Wahrheitsgehalts eine Bedeutung zu, noch konzediert er, dass auch die Arbeiten der Kritischen Theorie durch das historisch bedingte Hervortreten solcher Sachgehalte einen neuen, anderen Wahrheitsgehalt annehmen könnten. Indes wäre Benjamins Bestimmung gelungener Werke, wonach deren »Wahrheitsgehalt am tiefsten ihrem Sachgehalt eingesenkt« sei, gerade mit Blick auf die Texte der Kritischen Theorie geltend zu machen, um sie gegen Vorwürfe des Veraltens zu verteidigen. Dafür müsste jedoch das Hervortreten zuvor nicht befremdlicher Sachgehalte, das Grund für Löwenthals Verzicht auf die Publikation seines Essays während der Emigration gewesen war, in seiner Wirkung auf dessen Wahrheitsgehalt reflektiert werden. Adornos Unterscheidung zwischen »der Theorie der Gesellschaft« und den jene illustrierenden »ephemeren Stoffen« zerschlägt diesen Zusammenhang. Es wäre zu einfach, Adornos Depotenzierung der »ephemeren Stoffe« rein taktisch als Ausdruck des Bedürfnisses zu verstehen, der Kritischen Theorie überhistorische Gültigkeit zu attestieren. Dieses Bedürfnis mag angesichts der in den späten Fünfzigerjahren wachsenden Bedeutung Adornos am neu gegründeten Institut für Sozialforschung – Horkheimer schrieb in jener Zeit nur noch wenig und besuchte eher selten die Frankfurter Seminare – durchaus eine Rolle gespielt haben. Entscheidender aber ist, dass Adorno, indem er die Populärbiografik der »Illustrierten Zeitschriften« der Fünfzigerjahre nicht nur mit der deutschnationalen Biografik aus der Zeit nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg kurzschloss, sondern auch Ludwig und Zweig als Exponenten Letzterer verstand, das 19. Jahrhundert als Hochzeit der bürgerlichen Biografie, in der sich sowohl deren deutschnationale wie deren jüdisch-bürgerliche Variante ausprägte, noch spurloser vergessen hatte als Kracauer und

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Löwenthal in ihren Texten. Den Zusammenhang von deutsch-jüdischem Bürgertum und bürgerlicher Biografik überging er vollends, indem er Zweig und Ludwig als Kultobjekte des völkischen Nationalismus darstellte und ihre ungebrochene Popularität tendenziell selbst als Symptom eines fortlebenden Antisemitismus deutete. Adornos Verdikt über die historische Biografik fiel so 1954, vor dem Hintergrund der Erfahrung von Nationalsozialismus, Exil und Remigration, noch schroffer aus als das Urteil Kracauers und Löwen­ thals aus der Zeit der Weimarer Republik. In der Entschiedenheit, mit der Adorno gegenüber Löwenthal dessen frühere Kritik der Biografie verteidigte, lebte auch die Erinnerung an das Jahr 1937 fort: Jene Kritik, in der sich die frühen Protagonisten der Kritischen Theorie einig wähnten, wurde weniger durch die im Exil entstandenen Biografien Ludwigs oder Zweigs herausgefordert als durch die Exilbiografik eines ihrer engen Mitstreiter. 1937 nämlich hatte Kracauer seine drei Jahre zuvor im Pariser Exil begonnene Studie Jacques Offenbach und das Paris seiner Zeit im Amsterdamer Exilverlag Albert de Lange herausgebracht.65 Diese populär angelegte kulturhistorische Studie, ebenso eine Biografie Offenbachs wie der französischen Hauptstadt in der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts, hatten Benjamin und Adorno als Aufkündigung von Kracauers sieben Jahre zuvor formulierter biografiekritischer Haltung und als Distanzierung gegenüber geteilten Grundannahmen der Kritischen Theorie aufgefasst. Adorno, damals noch im britischen Exil in Oxford, hatte Benjamin, der ihm ein Exemplar von Kracauers Buch geschickt hatte, am 4. Mai 1937 geantwortet: »Meine schlimmsten Erwartungen sind weit noch übertroffen. […] Die wenigen Stellen, die von Musik handeln, sind grob fehlerhaft. […] Die gesellschaftlichen Betrachtungen sind Tanten-Klatsch, dessen Albernheit und Trivialität einzig noch in der blinzelnden Kleinbürgerlichkeit ihr Äquivalent besitzt, mit der, bewundernd-neidisch, auf society und gar den demi-monde […] geschielt wird.«66

Benjamin bekräftigte Adornos Haltung in seiner Entgegnung vom 9.  Mai 1937 durch das Urteil, Kracauer habe »in diesem Buch resigniert«, das »noch vor wenigen Jahren keinen unbarmherzigeren Rezensenten gefunden hätte als eben ihn«. Mit »zehnjähriger Verspätung« habe er sich »dem Heerbann der Biographen angeschlossen, die einst unter dem heiligen Ludwig auszogen«, jedoch angesichts »einer Epoche der nackten Not«, die Kracauer gezwungen habe, sich »Anschluß an den Markt« zu verschaffen.67 In der Enttäuschung Adornos und Benjamins über Kracauers Buch war präfigu65 Später, Siegfried Kracauer, 321–332. 66 Theodor  W. Adorno/Walter Benjamin, Briefwechsel, Bd.  1: 1928–1940, hg. von Henri Lonitz, Frankfurt a. M. 1994, 240 f. 67 Ebd., 242.

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riert, was in der gut zwanzig Jahre währenden Nichtpublikationsgeschichte von Löwenthals Essay offenbar wurde. Die Neigung zum »Tanten-Klatsch«, die Adorno in Kracauers Studie wirksam sah, war Sediment eines objektiven Formzerfalls, in dem Kracauers Buch charakteristisch für die historische Exilbiografik war68 und dessen Gründe weniger in der schnöden Selbstpreisgabe des Intellektuellen an den Markt als in den Lebensbedingungen der Exilanten lagen, die solche Preisgabe förderten oder sogar erzwangen. Adorno, der Kracauer biografisch durch seine jedenfalls nicht großbürgerliche Herkunft nahe war, wehrte im Spott über den kleinbürgerlichen Neid, der Kracauers Haltung zu Offenbach präge, auch eigene soziale Früherfahrungen ab. Bei Benjamin, der in jenen Jahren schärfer als Adorno erfuhr, in welchem Maß die Verschlechterung der ökonomischen Lage auf die eigene geistige Arbeit zurückschlagen kann,69 leuchtete indessen zumindest eine Ahnung des Zusammenhangs von Realgeschichte, Biografie und Werkform auf, ohne dass er die Triftigkeit von Adornos ästhetischem Urteil bestritt. Dass ein Urteil über die ästhetische Form aber immer auch ein Urteil über die Bedingungen von deren Genese ist, diese in Benjamins Unterscheidung von Wahrheitsgehalt und Sachgehalt angelegte Einsicht, war in Adornos Verdikt über Kracauer hinter den Wunsch nach geistigem Zusammenhalt der Kritischen Theorie im Exil zurückgetreten. Indem in Kracauers Biografiekritik mit dem Bild der Bürger als »Auswanderer«, die »ihre Habseligkeiten zusammenraffen«, die Funktion imaginärer Selbstrettung anklang, die populäre Biografien für das jüdische Bürgertum in Deutschland erfüllten und die im Exil erneut virulent wurde, trat jenes Wahrheitsmoment der von populären Biografien evozierten Illusionen in den Blick, ohne das sich auch über Kracauers Werk zu Offenbach nicht urteilen lässt. Insofern war Kracauers Konversion zum Exilbiografen in seiner Kritik unbewusst vorweggenommen.70 Indem Löwenthal mit dem Gestus

68 Dass sich ästhetische Zerfallserscheinungen in der Literatur des Exils als Indizes der Schreibsituation deuten lassen, zeigt am Beispiel von Lion Feuchtwangers historischen Exilromanen Hans Mayer, Lion Feuchtwanger oder Die Folgen des Exils, in: Neue Rundschau 76 1965, H. 1, 120–129. 69 Benjamins Familie (der Vater war Antiquitätenhändler) war durch die Weltwirtschaftskrise ruiniert worden. Der damit verbundene soziale Abstieg dürfte ein Grund sein für das fetischistische Verhältnis zu Objekten großbürgerlichen Interieurs in Benjamins Werk. Siehe Liliane Weissberg, Die Wiederkehr der Gespenster, in: Heinz Brüggemann/Günter Oesterle (Hgg.), Walter Benjamin und die romantische Moderne, Würzburg 2009, 447–464. Zu Benjamins Jugend siehe Momme Brodersen, Klassenbild mit Walter Benjamin. Eine Spurensuche, München 2012, bes. 135–143. 70 Das Wahrheitsmoment im Illusionscharakter des biografischen Genres, das Versprechen eines glücklichen Zusammenklangs von entfalteter Individualität und bürgerlicher Gesellschaft, wird von der narratologisch und strukturalistisch orientierten Biografieforschung regelmäßig übergangen. Geradezu schulbildend für diese Blindheit wirkte der Essay von

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der »Courtoisie« den Spuren Rechnung zu tragen suchte, die die jüngere Zeitgeschichte in seinen Text gezeichnet hatte, vollzog er reflektierend nach, was auch Kracauer geschehen war, und betrachtete die eigene Kritik mit den Augen des später Lebenden, der darin Sachgehalte hervortreten sieht, die der damals Schreibende nicht erkennen konnte. Wenn Adorno die Sachgehalte zu »ephemeren Stoffen« erklärt, spiegeln sich darin generationelle und soziale Differenzen. Von dem 1903 geborenen Adorno unterschieden sich Kracauer und Löwenthal darin, dass sie mit ihren Kindheits- und Jugenderfahrungen stärker dem jüdischen Bürgertum des 19. Jahrhunderts verbunden waren, während sie die Liquidation von dessen Hoffnungen im 20.  Jahrhundert erlebten. Diese Friktion unterschiedlicher Schichten der Erfahrung mag Kracauers und Löwenthals Blick auf die Widersprüche ihrer Kritik der Biografik geschärft haben. In Adornos Diktum trat an die Stelle der Friktion eine neue Enthistorisierung, die ihren Grund im Zivilisationsbruch hatte. Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden, von Adorno im Halbsatz angespielt, ließ für ihn den Unterschied der Biografik Zweigs und Ludwigs zu ihren deutschnationalen Gegenspielern ebenso verschwimmen wie den zwischen der biografischen Mode des 19. Jahrhunderts und jener der Zwischenkriegszeit und des Postnazismus. Die ereignisgeschichtliche Zäsur, die Adorno seit den Fünfzigerjahren, wohl auch aufgrund seiner Erfahrung nicht nur nationalsozialistischer, sondern antisemitischer Verfolgung, vehementer als andere Protagonisten der Kritischen Theorie zum Gegenstand seines Denkens machte,71 überblendete den Blick für solche Brüche, die angesichts des Zivilisationsbruchs marginal erschienen und als dessen Vorgeschichte zurücktraten. Während im Werk Adornos aus dieser Blindheit seit den Fünfzigerjahren eine singuläre Hellsichtigkeit für den historisch-biografischen Reduktionismus zeitgenössischer Kunstinterpretation erwuchs, war Horkheimers Arbeit seit seinem Umzug in die Schweiz Anfang der Sechzigerjahre von einer Rückkehr zu ebenjenem Genre geprägt.

Pierre Bourdieu, Die biographische Illusion, in: ders., Praktische Vernunft. Zur Theorie des Handelns, aus dem Franz. von Hella Beister, Frankfurt a. M. 1998, 75–83. 71 Programmatisch formuliert in der Negativen Dialektik: »Hitler hat den Menschen im Stande ihrer Unfreiheit einen neuen kategorischen Imperativ aufgezwungen: ihr Denken und Handeln so einzurichten, daß Auschwitz nicht sich wiederhole, nichts Ähnliches geschehe.« Theodor  W. Adorno, Negative Dialektik, in: ders., Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Rolf Tiedemann, unter Mitwirkung von Gretel Adorno, 20 Bde., Frankfurt a. M. 1997, hier Bd. 6: Negative Dialektik/Jargon der Eigentlichkeit, 7–412, hier 358. Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden tritt aber schon früher ins Zentrum von Adornos Denken, wovon der 1959 gehaltene Vortrag Was bedeutet: Aufarbeitung der Vergangenheit? zeugt. Überdies bildet sie den impliziten Mittelpunkt von Adornos Ästhetischer Theorie. Siehe Marc Kleine, Ob es überhaupt noch möglich ist. Literatur nach Auschwitz in Adornos ästhetischer Theorie, Bielefeld 2012.

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Die Bedeutung dieser Rückkehr erschließt sich erst vor dem Hintergrund der frühen Biografiekritik Kritischer Theorie.

Schwinden des Einmaligen: Max Horkheimer Am 22. August 1918, in genau jener Umbruchphase, die Kracauer und Löwenthal als Auslöser der biografischen Mode nach Ende des Ersten Weltkriegs namhaft machten, ließ Max Horkheimer durch seinen Freund Pollock einen langen Brief an seine künftige Frau Rosa Riekher senden, der folgendes Selbstporträt enthält: »Goethe sagt schon, Frauen ziehen beim Lesen stets Vergleiche zwischen dem Geliebten und den Helden ihrer Bücher. Aber mich findet man in keinem Buch; noch nicht einmal in meinem eigenen.«72

Hier waren auf engstem Raum schon Motive versammelt, die in der Polemik der Kritischen Theorie gegen populäre Biografik später Bedeutung erlangten: Goethe als emblematisches Objekt des bürgerlichen Biografiekults; die Kritik am für Trivialliteratur typischen Mechanismus stereotyper Identifikation mit Heldenfiguren; schließlich die Absage an eine Hermeneutik, die den Autor unmittelbar im Werk und in dessen Figuren unmittelbare Repräsentanten historischer Wirklichkeit zu erblicken glaubt. Doch stärker und offensichtlicher als die Kritik von Kracauer und Löwenthal ist Horkheimers Selbstaussage in jeder Nuance dem Bürgertum des 19. Jahrhunderts verbunden. Goethe figuriert darin noch nicht als das Objekt eines fehlgelenkten identifikatorischen Kults, sondern als Referenz für die Warnung vor einem solchen, und der Habitus des Autors, sich gegen das Missverständnis zu verwahren, er sei in seinen Werken unmittelbar aufzufinden, ist selbst ein genuin bürgerlicher. Bürgerlich ist der Gedanke vom Werk, das sich, einmal veröffentlicht, vom Autor löst und für sich selbst steht, originäres Zeugnis der entfalteten Warengesellschaft.73 Bürgerlich ist es, das mangelnde Bewusstsein für die Vermitteltheit der sprachlichen Form, die naiv-identifikatorische oder 72 Max Horkheimer an Rosa Riekher und Friedrich Pollock, in: Max Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, 19 Bde., Frankfurt a. M. 1985–1996, hier Bd. 15: Briefwechsel 1913–1936, Frankfurt a. M. 1995, 34. Für den Hinweis auf diesen Passus danke ich Nicolas Berg (Leipzig). 73 Grundlegend hierzu siehe Gerhard Plumpe, Eigentum – Eigentümlichkeit. Über den Zusammenhang ästhetischer und juristischer Begriffe im 18.  Jahrhundert, in: Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte 23 (1979), H. 2, 175–196; Heinrich Bosse, Autorschaft ist Werkherrschaft. Über die Entstehung des Urheberrechts aus dem Geist der Goethezeit, Paderborn u. a. 1981.

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biografistische Lektüre, wie sie unter das Verdikt des Kitsches fällt, als Charakteristikum der weniger gebildeten Stände und der Frauen anzusehen.74 Bürgerlich auch ist der erzieherisch-paternalistische Kontext, in dem die Äußerung steht. Horkheimer ließ Maidon, wie er seine Geliebte nannte, durch Pollock Bücher überbringen, die auf einem von Horkheimer zu Bildungszwecken zusammengestellten Lektüreplan standen: Gustave Flauberts Madame Bovary, Voltaires Candide und Alfred Döblins Die drei Sprünge des Wang-lun, außerdem Alfred Lemms Kolportageroman Der fliehende Fe­ lician, weil »an einem schlechten Machwerk oft rascher die Höhen des guten Romans« erkannt werden könnten als an diesem selbst.75 Madame Bovary, das Maidon als Erstes lesen sollte, versah Horkheimer mit der Gebrauchsanweisung: »Ruhig dasitzen, ja keine Betrachtungen über unsere eigenen Verhältnisse! Überhaupt nie beim Lesen. Den Geist des Werkes ausschließlich wirken lassen.«76 Ergänzend fügte er eine Empfehlung hinzu, in der bereits Benjamins spätere Unterscheidung zwischen Sachgehalt und Wahrheitsgehalt anzuklingen scheint und die sich zugleich als Säkularisat einer Tradition jüdischen Schriftverständnisses liest: »Man muß nichts hinter den Worten suchen, es steht alles im Buch.«77 All das jedoch wurde nicht als Erkenntnis über den Wahrheitsgehalt ästhetischer Werke, sondern als Anweisung zum Zweck ästhetischer Erziehung formuliert, als hätte Horkheimer Maidon vor dem Schicksal Emma Bovarys bewahren wollen, die am Widerspruch zwischen der bürgerlichen Realität, in der für sie nur ein prosaisches Hausfrauendasein vorgesehen ist, und den Fluchtphantasien der Schundromane, die sie konsumiert,78 schließlich zugrunde geht. Mit Emma Bovary hatte Flaubert eine Figur geschaffen, die gleichsam prototypische Leserin jener Biografien hätte sein können, gegen die sich Kracauers, Löwenthals und Adornos Polemik später richtete: stoffhungrig und ästhetisch ungebildet, nach Idolen suchend und unfähig zur Distanzierung vom ästhetischen Objekt. Horkheimers Anweisung, Maidon möge »den Geist des Werkes ausschließlich wirken« lassen, erfüllte dennoch im Kontext seines Briefes nicht die Funktion, den Wahrheitsgehalt des Werkes gegen die 74 Dieter Kliche, Art. »Kitsch«, in: Karlheinz Barck u. a. (Hgg.), Ästhetische Grundbegriffe. Historisches Wörterbuch in sieben Bänden, Stuttgart/Weimar 2000–2005, hier Bd. 3, Stuttgart/Weimar 2001, 272–288. Siehe ferner Mirjam Storim, Ästhetik im Umbruch. Zur Funktion der »Rede über Kunst« um 1900 am Beispiel der Debatte um Schmutz und Schund, Tübingen 2002. 75 Horkheimer an Riekher und Pollock, 22. August 1918, 38. 76 Ebd., 34. 77 Ebd. 78 Eine genaue Lektüre von Madame Bovary unter dem Aspekt weiblicher Lesesozialisation enthält die Studie von Ulrike Prokop, Weiblicher Lebenszusammenhang. Von der Be­schränktheit der Strategien und der Unangemessenheit der Wünsche, Frankfurt a. M. 1976, 179–195.

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Irritation durch krude Sachgehalte zu verteidigen, sondern lenkte ab von der Wahrnehmung der Sachgehalte – von der Tatsache, dass das im Buch Beschriebene durchaus auch »unsere eigenen Verhältnisse« umfassen könnte. In Horkheimers abschließenden Anweisungen klangen denn auch die unduldsamen Lesebefehle Heinrich von Kleists an seine Verlobte nach: »Maidon soll mit allen diesen Büchern schaffen! Die ersten zu verstehen trachten und gegen das letzte in jedem Worte Stellung nehmen. Maidon, wir schließen keine Pakte mit der Mittelmäßigkeit! Maidon, unser Leben ist Arbeit! Maidon, auch meine Liebe ist unbedingt. Fanatiker bleibe ich auch darin.«79

Schaffen statt grübeln, Stellung nehmen statt genießen, Arbeit statt Muße und Unbedingtheit statt Mittelmaß: Die gesamte bürgerliche Leistungsethik wurde hier auf die Arbeit am Buch als Selbsterziehung der acht Jahre älteren, von Horkheimer aber wie ein vielversprechendes Mädchen behandelten Geliebten übertragen. So zeigt sich an der Lektüre- und Erziehungsszene, was in der Polemik gegen populäre Biografien schon im 19. Jahrhundert bei aller ästhetischen Berechtigung des Urteils immer auch abgewehrt wurde:80 die Ahnung, dass in der Identifikation mit großen Helden, im Fetischismus der Sachgehalte, im Anteil nehmenden statt distanzierten Lesen auch ein Moment der kritischen Phantasie und des Widerstands stecken könnte. Die Popularität historischer Biografien beim jüdischen Bürgertum, die im späten 19. Jahrhundert eine epigonale Produktivität eigenen Charakters nach sich zog, wie sie sich unter anderem in den unfreiwillig komischen Versen der Goethenachahmerin Friederike Kempner manifestierte,81 wäre ohne die Aufladung der Kolportage mit Phantasien verwirklichter Freiheit und Gleichheit, ohne imaginäre Verknüpfung des schalen Heroismus der Trivialliteratur mit der alles andere als schalen Sehnsucht nach Einlösung des bürgerlichen Glücksversprechens, undenkbar gewesen. Dieser Konnex der Trivialliteratur mit den nicht abgegoltenen Versprechen der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft geriet für Kracauer und Löwenthal unter dem Eindruck des Ersten Weltkriegs, für Adorno unter dem Eindruck von Exil und Holocaust gegenüber der ideologischen Funktion der Kolportage zur Nebensache. In Horkheimers abseits der eigenen Textproduktion geäußerten Leseempfehlungen lebte die Erinnerung an diesen Konnex in der Vehemenz nach, mit der die Geliebte vor einem trivialen Leseverhalten gewarnt wird. Zugleich lag in ihnen noch offen zutage, was in der Biografiekritik Kracauers, Löwenthals und Adornos weniger deutlich erkennbar war: dass die An79 Horkheimer an Riekher und Pollock, 22. August 1918, 40 f. 80 Zur Reflexion dieser Abwehr in Werken der literarischen Moderne siehe Magnus Klaue, Poetischer Enthusiasmus. Else Lasker-Schülers Ästhetik der Kolportage, Köln/Weimar/ Wien 2011, 21–150. 81 Ebd., 85–116.

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sicht, der Autor sei in seinem Werk nicht unmittelbar wiederzufinden, und wer es dennoch suggeriere, produziere oder konsumiere Kolportage, eine Prämisse der bürgerlichen Ästhetik war, inkarniert in Goethe, in dessen Erbfolge sich Horkheimer mit seiner Warnung vor identifikatorischem Konsum selber stellte. Horkheimer fällte sein Diktum, als es die Kritische Theorie geistig noch so wenig gab wie personell. Einzig die im Stil eines Bohemezirkels inszenierte Freundschaft zwischen Horkheimer, Maidon und Friedrich Pollock bestand schon, doch Adorno, über den Horkheimer später auch zu Benjamin und Kracauer Kontakt hatte, sowie Felix Weil, den späteren Gründer des Instituts für Sozialforschung, lernte er erst während des Studiums der Philosophie und Psychologie in Frankfurt kennen. Auch für eine akademische Laufbahn hatte sich Horkheimer 1918 noch nicht entschieden. Bevor er 1917/18 bis zur gesundheitlich bedingten Entlassung als Soldat am Ersten Weltkrieg teilnahm, hatte er in der Textilfabrik des Vaters Moritz in Zuffenhausen bei Stuttgart gearbeitet, wo er dessen Sekretärin kennengelernt hatte. Die illegitime Beziehung zu ihr hatte ihn dem Vater entfremdet, doch zum zeitweisen Bruch kam es erst, nachdem Horkheimer 1919 endgültig eine akademische Laufbahn einschlug und die Verbindung zu Maidon aufrechterhielt. Max und Maidon heirateten 1926, nach Horkheimers Habilitation, womit noch im Bruch der Konvention (als Sekretärin des Vaters war Riekher für Horkheimer eine Mesalliance) die Form gewahrt blieb. 1918 indes hatte Horkheimer nicht einmal das Abitur, das er wegen des Ersten Weltkriegs erst 1919 nachholen konnte, wobei er gegenüber Maidon »das rein mechanische Ochsen auf ein blödes Examen« beklagte.82 Obwohl 23 Jahre alt, führte Horkheimer das Leben eines späten Schülers oder bummelnden Studenten, in dem sich vortheoretisch verkörperte, was später Kracauer als Haltung des Wartens auf den Begriff brachte. Als »Warten« charakterisierte Horkheimer wiederum in einem Brief an Maidon vom 8. Februar 1919 deren »gegenwärtiges Dasein«,83 das er im Jahr zuvor am 21. Mai 1918 während eines Kuraufenthalts bei München mit antibürgerlichem Degout des Bohemien skizziert hatte: »Jetzt […] gehst Du wieder in das ekelhafte, schreckliche Büro unter scheußliche Menschen, schlimmer als Tiere, zu stupidem, grauenhaft verlorenem Tagwerk.«84 Während ihm selbst »eine freundliche, lachende, junge Schwester […] das zweite Frühstück« bringe, trete bei ihr »vielleicht die schuftige Fratze

82 Horkheimer an Riekher, 8. Februar 1919, in: Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 15, 51. 83 Ebd. 84 Horkheimer an Riekher und Pollock, 21. Mai 1918, in: Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 15, 22.

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eines Sklaventreibers […] ein«.85 Horkheimers Erziehungsprogramm, mit dem Maidon zur ihr vermeintlich angemessenen schöngeistigen Existenz gebildet werden sollte, war zugleich der Versuch, sie der prosaischen Sphäre weiblicher Erwerbsarbeit möglichst zu entrücken. Horkheimer, der sich in jener Zeit trotz dezidiert philosophischer und politischer Interessen sicher war, »daß ich Künstler bin«,86 kritisierte, charakteristisch für die Boheme,87 Arbeit und Alltag des Bürgertums nicht materialistisch, sondern ästhetisch. Dass die Abwehr trivialer Bildungseinflüsse und die Geschmackserziehung der Geliebten durch den Mann einem bürgerlichen Selbstverständnis folgten, blieb unter antibürgerlichem Pathos verborgen. Der Satz »Aber mich findet man in keinem Buch; noch nicht einmal in meinem eigenen« erscheint vor diesem Hintergrund weniger als Warnung vor einer an den Sachgehalten klebenden, naiv identifikatorischen Lektüre denn als Erbschaft eines vermittelt durch die Schopenhauer-Rezeption88 bei den Intellektuellen des damaligen Bohememilieus verbreiteten Geniekults. Der Heroenkult, den Kracauer, Löwenthal und Adorno an den populären historischen Biografien kritisierten, war nicht einfach nur der Gegensatz, sondern auch die Verfallsform eines solchen Schöpfungspathos. Dass dieses Pathos sich bei Horkheimer in einer Zeit ungetrübt erhalten hatte, als er bereits in vieler Hinsicht linkssozialistische Sympathien hegte – er begrüßte etwa die Münchener Räterevolution –, war im Bohememilieu, in dem er sich bewegte, eher üblich als untypisch. In der Boheme vermischten sich, der lumpenproletarischen Klientel aus Künstlern, proletarisierten Bürgern und verarmten Adeligen gemäß, sozialistische, elitär-aristokratische, anarchistische und individualistische Haltungen derart, dass sie eher als Gegenbewegung zur Arbeiterbewegung denn als deren nicht klassenfähiges Komplement gelten kann.89 Als abtrünniger Sohn aus jüdisch-großbürgerlichem Hause war Horkheimer ein prototypisches Exemplar der Boheme, in der es, in München nicht anders als in Berlin, mehr antibürgerliche Bürger und gefallene Aristokraten als Arbeiter gab. Dass in Horkheimers Entwicklung die Lektüre Schopenhauers vor der Marx-Lektüre und die Zugehörigkeit zur Boheme vor der 85 Ebd., 23. 86 Horkheimer an Riekher und Pollock, 28.  Oktober 1918, in: Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 15, 45. 87 Siehe Helmut Kreuzer, Die Boheme. Analyse und Dokumente der intellektuellen Subkultur vom 19. Jahrhundert bis zur Gegenwart, Stuttgart 2000 (textlich unveränderte Studienausgabe der Erstauflage von 1968), 253–278. 88 Vor Beginn des Studiums 1919 war Horkheimer Mitglied der Schopenhauer-Gesellschaft geworden. Siehe Alfred Schmidt, Max Horkheimer, in: Hans Jürgen Schultz (Hg.), Es ist ein Weinen in der Welt. Hommage für deutsche Juden unseres Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 1990, 331–360. 89 Ähnlich Helmut Kreuzer, der von »Intelligenzproletariat« spricht. Ders., Die Boheme, 238–253.

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Beschäftigung mit der Arbeiterbewegung stand, kann als Anhaltspunkt dafür gelten, in welchem Maße seine Kritik des Bürgertums sich aus bürgerlichen Impulsen speiste. Horkheimers Diktum, er sei in keinem Buch zu finden, erwies sich für ihn – jedoch auf andere Weise als intendiert – als biografische Prophezeiung. Während sich Adornos Werdegang nach der gemeinsamen Veröffentlichung der Dialektik der Aufklärung 1947 immer auch entlang der publizierten Werke erzählen lässt – 1949 Philosophie der neuen Musik, 1951 Minima Mora­ lia, 1964 Jargon der Eigentlichkeit, 1966 Negative Dialektik, schließlich als postumes Hauptwerk 1970 Ästhetische Theorie –, brachte Horkheimer außer der 1967 erschienenen Kritik der instrumentellen Vernunft, der späten Übersetzung der 1947 publizierten Studie Eclipse of Reason, seit seiner Remigration in die Bundesrepublik neben einzelnen Aufsätzen fast nur Neuzusammenstellungen älterer Arbeiten heraus. Und während zu Adorno mittlerweile mehrere konkurrierende Biografien vorliegen,90 existiert zu Horkheimer keine einzige. Horkheimer ist also tatsächlich in keinen Büchern, nicht einmal in seinen eigenen zu finden: weil er es zur exemplarischen Biografie und zum exemplarischen Hauptwerk, jenen bürgerlichen Insignien überhistorischer Gültigkeit, nicht gebracht hat. Das goethesche Pathos, das im Satz »Aber mich findet man in keinem Buch; nicht einmal in meinem eigenen« nachklang, blieb für Horkheimer uneingelöst, weil der Satz sich nicht emphatisch, sondern nur schnöde empirisch verwirklichte. Horkheimers seit Mitte der Sechzigerjahre zunehmend dringlich unternommene Anstrengungen, einen Biografen zu finden,91 die angesichts der Skepsis der Kritischen Theorie gegenüber der biografischen Form verblüffen und ihn von allen anderen Protagonisten aus dem Umfeld des ersten Instituts für Sozialforschung unterscheiden, werden vor diesem Hintergrund lesbar als Reaktion auf die Erfahrung, zu Lebzeiten bereits Teil der Vergangenheit zu werden. Ein Zur-Vergangenheit-Werden, das bei Horkheimer mit dem Bewusstsein einherging, weder generationell  – durch Tradierung des eigenen Denkens

90 Neben den Biografien von Detlev Claussen und Stefan Müller-Doohm ist vor allem zu nennen: Lorenz Jäger, Adorno. Eine politische Biographie, München 2003. In welchem Maße Adorno zu einer ikonischen Figur geworden ist, mag man daran ablesen, dass die letztgenannten Werke seinen bloßen Nachnamen als Titel führen. Einen beeindruckenden Versuch, diese Ikonisierung zum Ausgangspunkt einer autobiografi­schen Annäherung an Adorno zu nehmen, hat Gisela von Wysocki unternommen: dies., Wiesengrund. Roman, Berlin 2016. 91 Das Biografievorhaben, das Horkheimer die Sechzigerjahre hindurch bis zu seinem Tod beschäftigt hat, ist weitgehend unerforscht. Einen ersten Überblick bietet Bernhard Chlopek, Max Horkheimers Biographie-Projekt. Eine Spurensicherung (unveröffentlichte Diplomarbeit, Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität Frankfurt a. M., 1996).

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durch eine Gruppe Schüler – noch historisierend – durch eine exemplarische Biografie – in erinnernder Reflexion aufgehoben zu sein. Was historisch wird, ohne reflektierend erinnert zu werden, ist eben bloß historisch, in der jeweiligen Gegenwart nicht präsent, oder mit Benjamins Worten: Teil der kruden Sachgehalte, ohne dass sein Wahrheitsgehalt erschlossen und erkannt worden wäre. In diesem Sinn war Horkheimers späte Rückkehr zur Biografie weniger Korrektur früherer Anschauungen als Antwort auf eine Erfahrung: Mit der bürgerlichen Hoffnung, das glücklich an die Gesellschaft sich entäußernde Individuum bleibe seiner Vergänglichkeit zum Trotz vermittelt in seinen Werken und Handlungen aufgehoben, waren auch die Bedingungen erodiert, die seiner eigenen Biografiekritik und der der Kritischen Theorie einmal zugrunde lagen. Das Kleben an den Realien, die Fetischisierung der Sachgehalte auf Kosten der in ihnen sedimentierten Wahrheit, ließ sich der populären Biografik nur vorwerfen, solange der Glaube an die Evidenz und die Tradierbarkeit des Wahrheitsgehalts unbezweifelbar war. Weil er die Erschütterung dieses Glaubens am eigenen Leben erfuhr, besann sich Horkheimer auf die Biografie, ohne dass diese Besinnung jemals in einem Werk Gestalt annehmen konnte. Chiffre hierfür ist in Horkheimers späten Biografievorhaben das Bild des Schwindens. Der erste Abschnitt eines von dem katholischen Theologen und Publizisten Matthias Becker, dem zweiten von Horkheimers prospektiven Biografen, in Zusammenarbeit mit Horkheimer erstellten Entwurfs trägt im Manuskript die Überschrift »Anmerkungen zu dem, was schwindet«,92 und das Manuskriptfragment, das von Horkheimers erstem Auftragsbiografen Ernst von Schenck verfasst wurde, beginnt mit den Sätzen: »Eine Biographie ist auf Einmaliges, Einziges gerichtet. Aus dem unermesslichen Malstrom der zur Menschheit berufenen, aber allein durch ihre stündlich in geometrischer Progression zum Albtraum der Wissenden anwachsenden […] Zeitgenossenschaft ragt dieser Einzelne, so ist die Annahme, hinreichend hervor, um für seine Vita […] Anteilnahme und Gedächtnis beanspruchen zu dürfen.«93

Weil die Zeitgenossen, so lässt dieser Einsatz sich paraphrasieren, zur »Menschheit« zwar berufen, durch den »Malstrom«, als welcher der Geschichtslauf erscheint, aber von der Möglichkeit abgeschnitten sind, diese Berufung zu verwirklichen, müsse der Biograf dem im individuellen Leben aufscheinenden Einmaligen dessen Gedächtnis gleichsam im Widerspruch zur bloßen Zeitgenossenschaft abtrotzen. Die Rede vom Schwinden  – im Gegensatz zu der vom Verschwinden  – zielt auf solche Errettung des Re92 Deutsche Nationalbibliothek, Frankfurt a. M., Deutsches Exilarchiv 1933–1945, Nachlass Alice Maier, [ohne Signatur], 1. 93 Stadt- und Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt a. M., Max-Horkheimer-Archiv (MHA), XIII, 12 a, 1.

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sidualen in Auseinandersetzung mit dem Allgemeinen, das ihm entgegensteht und in dem es zugleich enthalten ist. Im Kontrast zu Adorno, der in den Sechzigerjahren akademische Berühmtheit erlangte, und erst recht nach Adornos plötzlichem Tod 1969 – im selben Jahr starb Maidon, ein Jahr später Friedrich Pollock – verkörperte sich in Horkheimer nach seinem Weggang aus der Bundesrepublik gleich mehrfach jene Erfahrung des Schwindens: Schwinden des Erfahrungsraums des jüdischen Bürgertums aus dem späten 19. Jahrhundert, das in der Adenauer-Republik durch personelle und geistige Verflechtungen der Fünfzigerjahre mit der Weimarer Republik noch stark gegenwärtig gewesen war;94 Schwinden des geistigen Erwartungshorizonts, der sich zunehmend verengte angesichts der Tatsache, dass Horkheimer anders als Adorno kaum Schüler hatte und seine Anhänger in der Studentenbewegung gerade solche Texte aus den Zwanziger- und Dreißigerjahren schätzten, die ihm selbst längst fremd geworden waren; Schwinden auch der Erfahrungsgehalte, an die die Kritische Theorie in der zeitgenössischen Gegenwart in Horkheimers Augen noch hätte anknüpfen können. Dass Horkheimer mit Ernst von Schenck, Matthias Becker und dem ­Literaturwissenschaftler Ludwig Rohner Autoren mit dem Vorhaben beauftragte, die mit dem Institut für Sozialforschung und der Kritischen Theorie kaum Berührung hatten,95 entsprach dieser Erfahrung des Schwindens. Die von Horkheimer vorgesehene Aufgabe des Biografen konnte weder von institutsnahen Akademikern erfüllt werden, die die individuelle Lebensgeschichte ins Exemplarische einer Gruppenbiografie übersetzt hätten, noch von Horkheimer selbst, der das Prinzip der Arbeitsteilung zu ernst nahm, um auch nur zu erwägen, zum Biografen seiner selbst zu werden. Dass er stattdessen drei Autoren in Betracht zog, die in der Schweiz lebten und mit ihm selbst gemeinsam hatten, in deutscher Sprache einen exterritorialen Blick auf Deutschland und die Bundesrepublik werfen zu können, scheint insofern kein Zufall gewesen zu sein. Ebenso emblematisch für das Vorhaben war aber dessen durch eine Mischung aus Zufall und Sachzwängen verursachtes Scheitern. Schenck brach die Arbeit an der Biografie nach dem plötz-

94 Siehe hierzu Alexander Gallus/Axel Schildt (Hgg.), Rückblickend in die Zukunft. Politische Öffentlichkeit und intellektuelle Positionen in Deutschland um 1950 und um 1930, Göttingen 2011. 95 Die früheste Vereinbarung bezüglich des Biografievorhabens, die zwischen Horkheimer und Schenck, datiert vom 14. Januar 1966; der Privatvertrag zwischen Horkheimer und Becker zum gleichen Projekt wurde am 30.  März 1971 paraphiert. Dass Rohner nach Beckers Tod das Vorhaben fortsetzen sollte, ist einem Brief des Lektors von Hoffmann und Campe an Horkheimer vom 2. November 1972 zu entnehmen. Siehe MHA, V 151, 36; MHA, V 92, 152; MHA, V 136, 123 a. Zu den Biografien der prospektiven Biografen siehe ausführlich Chlopek, Max Horkheimers Biographie-Projekt, passim.

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lichen Unfalltod seines Sohnes ab,96 Becker starb infolge einer ärztlichen Routineuntersuchung97 und Rohner sah sich durch seine Lebensumstände zur Aufgabe des Projekts gezwungen.98 Dass die Leben der Biografen entweder endeten, bevor sie das des älteren Horkheimer erzählen konnten, oder sich aufgrund der veränderten Zeitumstände den Bedingungen einer mehrere Jahre währenden Privatsekretärsexistenz nicht zu fügen vermochten, die Horkheimer für sie vorgesehen hatte, veranschaulicht, dass das Schwinden, von dem die Biografie Zeugnis ablegen sollte, die Möglichkeit ihrer Entstehung untergraben hatte. So bestätigte das Scheitern des Biografievorhabens paradox die Gründe, die Horkheimer bewogen hatten, auf seine Vollendung zu drängen.

Ausklang: Schwund oder Untergang? In produktionsästhetischen Reflexionen aus Schriften der Sechzigerjahre bedient sich Adorno, um das Verhältnis produktiver Subjektivität zum von ihr hervorgebrachten Objekt zu fassen, mitunter der Metapher des Untergehens. So heißt es exemplarisch über sprachliche Gebilde in der Negativen Dialektik: »Subjektiv hervorgebracht, sind diese gelungen allein, wo die subjektive Produktion in ihnen untergeht. Der Zusammenhang, den sie stiftet […] wird lesbar als Zeichen der Objektivität: des geistigen Gehalts. Das Schriftähnliche solcher Konstellationen ist der Umschlag des subjektiv Gedachten und Zusammengebrachten in Objektivität vermöge der Sprache.«99

Hier reformuliert Adorno den Gedanken, der schon die Biografiekritik der frühen Kritischen Theorie grundierte: Weder auf der Ebene des schreibenden noch auf der des beschriebenen Subjekts ist Subjektivität das Letzte, das, sei es in unmittelbarer Selbstaussprache, sei es verkörpert durch auf das Subjekt verweisende Sachgehalte, im Werk vermittlungslos Gestalt erhielte. Vielmehr verwandeln sich subjektive Impulse, vermittelt durch die sprachliche Kon­ stellation, in die sie gestellt werden, und damit vermittelt durch das Subjekt,

96 Am 1. Mai 1968 übersandte Schenck Horkheimer die Todesanzeige des 32-jährigen Sohnes Adrian: MHA, V 151, 32. 97 Am 31. August 1972 schrieb Beckers Frau Ursula an Horkheimer: »[G]estern starb unerwartet und plötzlich mein Mann Matthias Becker. Wegen einer Erschöpfung wollte er sich klinisch untersuchen lassen. Beim Spritzen eines diagnostischen Kontrastmittels trat der Tod ein.« MHA, V 112, 139. 98 Siehe Rohners Begründung für seinen Rückzug aus dem Vorhaben im Brief an Horkhei­ mer vom 30. Januar 1973. MHA, V 136, 120. 99 Adorno, Negative Dialektik, 167 f.

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in Objektivität. Wo »der Umschlag des subjektiv Gedachten und Zusammengebrachten« in solche Objektivität nicht gelingt, wie in den populären historischen Biografien, bleibt das Resultat schlecht subjektiv und verrät damit auch das Versprechen, Subjektivität freien Ausdruck zu verschaffen. Dass Adorno aber, um solche Transformationsleistung auf den Begriff zu bringen, die Metapher vom Untergang wählt, verleiht dem Gedanken der durch Subjektivität vermittelten Objektivität einen spezifischen Akzent. Die Rede vom Untergang enthält immer noch die hegelsche Idee der Aufhebung: der glücklichen Einlösung dessen, was im Prozess der Einlösung zugleich verschwindet. Ebenso aber trägt sie die Spur des realen Untergangs der Subjekte, auf das kein geschichtsphilosophisch abgesegnetes Fortleben mehr folgte: das historische Dementi der Geschichtsphilosophie, von der die Rede vom Untergang selber noch zehrte. So hat Adorno zur gleichen Zeit, als Horkheimer in Montagnola der Tatsache, dass den in seiner Lebensgeschichte sedimentierten Erfahrungen ein nur mehr undialektischer Untergang drohte, durch Wiederanknüpfung an die bürgerliche Biografie gerecht zu werden suchte, dem Schwinden der Bedingungen von Subjektivität eine letzte dialektische Volte entlockt. Dass Adornos Rede vom Untergang und Horkheimers Erfahrung des Schwindens dennoch nicht restlos miteinander vermittelbar sind, verweist darauf, in welchem Maße der Begriff des Nichtidentischen auf die Kritische Theorie selbst zutrifft.

Mirjam Zadoff

Shades of Red: Biografik auf den Barrikaden

Von der Rückkehr des Erzählers und der Bibliothek in seinem Gepäck Die Biografie ist ein populäres Genre der Geschichtswissenschaft und zugleich umkämpftes Terrain. Eine Benjamin Disraeli zugeschriebene Bemerkung erklärt, warum: Man solle sich intellektuell nur von der Biografik ernähren, lautete die Empfehlung des britisch-jüdischen Staatsmanns, und das nicht weniger als drei Stunden am Tag, denn Biografie sei »Leben ohne Theorie«.1 Dieses Image der Biografie als konservatives Medium der Geschichte und theoriefreier Raum dominierte nicht nur das 19., sondern auch das 20. Jahrhundert und den Diskurs über Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der lebensgeschichtlichen Forschung. Lange als positivistisch und altmodisch abgetan, wurde die Biografik erst in den 1990er Jahren unter dem Einfluss theoretischer Reflexion neu entdeckt. Ihre Rückkehr in die ehrwürdigen Hallen der Geschichtswissenschaften, die sie seitdem neben den profanen Räumen der Buchhandlungen bevölkert, war keine leise und bescheidene, sondern eine, die Spuren in der Disziplin hinterließ. Die »neue Biografik« erinnerte Historikerinnen und Historiker an die Narrativität und erzählerische Kraft der Geschichtswissenschaft, auch jenseits der Erzählung eines oder mehrerer Leben. Unter dem Einfluss der Sozialwissenschaften hatte die Geschichtswissenschaft im Lauf des 20. Jahrhunderts zwar an analytischer Tiefe und theoretischer Breite gewonnen, in diesem Prozess aber auch wertvolle Bestandteile ihres eigenen Erbes vergessen. So wandelte sich der Historiker vom Erzähler zum Analytiker, dessen Aufgabe es ist, Narrative zu hinterfragen und aufzubrechen.2 Die 1 2

Zit. nach David Ellis, Literary Lives. Biography and the Search for Understanding, Edinburgh 2000, 1. Im Text wird das maskuline Genus – unabhängig vom Sexus – auch zur Bezeichnung von Personen- und Berufsgruppen verwendet; in diesen Fällen sind weibliche Personen ausdrücklich eingeschlossen. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 365–390.

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neuerliche Hinwendung zur Biografik konnte deshalb nur mit einer gehörigen Portion Skepsis erfolgen: Skepsis gegenüber dem populären und über die Fachdisziplin hinausreichenden Charakter der Biografie und gegenüber ihrer Rolle als einer der wenigen Berührungspunkte einer theoriegeleiteten Geschichtswissenschaft mit einem breiten Lesepublikum. Diese Skepsis löste eine Explosion theoretischer Auseinandersetzungen mit der Biografie als Genre aus. In der Folge betrat eine Generation von Biografen und Biografinnen die Bühne, die in ihrem Gepäck eine ganze Bibliothek der modernen und postmodernen Reflexion über Geschichte mit sich trugen, aber zugleich, und das ist bemerkenswert, die Erbschaft des Erzählers antraten. Und sie ließen sich dabei – überraschend und doch wieder nicht – von der Literatur inspirieren, im Besonderen von der Bloomsbury-Group, allen voran Virginia Woolf und Lytton Strachey, die sich in der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts intensiv mit biografischem Schreiben auseinandergesetzt hatten. Wenn Virginia Woolf die Biografie als Mischform (»a bastard, an impure art«) bezeichnet, angesiedelt irgendwo zwischen Literatur und Wissenschaft,3 trifft sich diese Faszination des hybriden Charakters der Biografie mit der vieler Historiker, die Jahrzehnte später von der anderen Seite der Kluft zu einem ähnlichen Schluss gelangen. Eine reflektierte Biografik wollte und will die Praxis der analytischen Geschichtswissenschaft nicht aufgeben, sondern sie mit der Kunst des Erzählens versöhnen – und damit dem besonderen Wesen der Biografie in ihrer Verbindung zwischen Wissenschaft und Kunst entsprechen. Hoffnungsvolle Skepsis hinsichtlich der Möglichkeiten und Limits des biografischen Schreibens äußerte auch der deutsche Geschichtstheoretiker Wilhelm Dilthey, als er 1910 erklärte, das Individuum sei nicht mehr als »der Kreuzungspunkt für Kultursysteme, Organisationen, in die sein Dasein verwoben ist«  – wie also könnten Letztere aus individuellen Perspektiven heraus verstanden werden?4 Lange vor Virginia Woolf sprach Dilthey die Schwächen der Biografie, ihren hybriden und imperfekten Charakter an und sah doch darin eine große Chance. Für Bernhard Fetz ist Diltheys Zweifel eine Aufforderung an die »neue Biografik« knapp hundert Jahre später, die Biografie zu einem Ort der Interdisziplinarität innerhalb der Geschichtswis-

3

Virginia Woolf, Notizbucheintrag, Oktober 1934, zit. nach Hermione Lee, Virginia Woolf, London 1997, 10. 4 Wilhelm Dilthey, Der Aufbau der geschichtlichen Welt in den Geisteswissenschaften, Frankfurt a. M. 1981, 235 (zuerst in: Abhandlungen der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Jg. 1910, Berlin 1910, 1–123).

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senschaft weiterzuentwickeln, zu eben jenem »wissenschaftlichen Kunstwerk«.5 Folgen Biografen diesem Vorschlag und schreiben ein »wissenschaftliches Kunstwerk«, dann sehen sie sich vor vielfältige Herausforderungen gestellt: zuallererst den unterschiedlichen Aspekten eines Lebens nachzuspüren; zu bauen, was Hannah Arendt als »Bezugsgewebe menschlicher Angelegenheiten und die in ihm dargestellten Geschichten« beschrieb;6 Ungereimtheiten und Richtungswechsel nicht in einem (Anti-)Heldennarrativ aufzulösen; stattdessen Strukturen, Weltsichten, Widerstände und Prägungen in ein vielfältiges, multidirektionales Gespräch einzubringen; nicht zuletzt den rhetorischen und ästhetischen Anforderungen von Wissenschaft und Kunst nachzukommen. Es bedarf also eines Erzählers, der zugleich Moderator, Mediator und Übersetzer einer Vielzahl von unterschiedlichen Texten, Erinnerungen, Materialien, Notizen und so weiter ist, und der den Leser durch eine Abfolge von Erzählsträngen, Brüchen, Kontinuitäten und Sinnstiftungsprozessen des Protagonisten führt. Dabei geht es nicht nur darum, eine »menschenleere Strukturgeschichte« mit neuen Subjekten zu bevölkern und auf diese Weise die sozialhistorische Erkenntnis zu erweitern. Vielmehr werden Subjektivität und Agency des Einzelnen, das Besondere einer Person und ihrer Erfahrung der historischen Wirklichkeit bewusst erfasst und zentral behandelt. Aus diesem Grund ist es nötig, die Bühne eines Lebens in seinen komplexen historischen Strukturen zu beschreiben und die inneren Veränderungen ebenso kontinuierlich zu erfassen wie Einwirkungen von außen. Dabei gilt die Integration unterschiedlicher Perspektiven und Fragestellungen als innovative Praxis der neuen Biografik, die den Blick über die sonst üblichen Grenzen der Strukturgeschichte schweifen lässt. Die »neuen Biografen« reflektieren – im Idealfall – ihre eigene Perspektivität und verstehen ihre Erzählung als ein »rhetorisches Konstrukt«, das so, aber auch anders und wieder anders erzählt werden könnte (und sollte). Denn die Wahrnehmung des Schreibenden, seine Perspektive und eigene Lebensgeschichte fließen unausweichlich in diese Geschichte ein.7 Als wissenschaftliches Kunstwerk ähnelt die historische Biografie deshalb »einer Art von Porträtmalerei in Absenz des Modells. So muss die Vorlage, ebenso wie ihr Umfeld, in allen zur Verfügung stehenden Details (re)konstruiert werden. 5 Bernhard Fetz, Die vielen Leben der Biographie, in: ders. (Hg.), Die Biographie. Zur Grundlegung ihrer Theorie, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2009, 3–68, hier 9. 6 Hannah Arendt. Vita Activa oder vom tätigen Leben, München 2007, 222–234. 7 Hans Erich Bödeker, Biographie. Annäherung an den gegenwärtigen Forschungs- und Diskussionsstand, in: ders. (Hg.), Biographie schreiben, Göttingen 2003, 9–63, hier  5, 51–53, 57 f. und 61 f.; Christian Meier, Die Faszination des Biographischen, in: Frank Nies (Hg.), Interesse an der Geschichte, Frankfurt a. M. 1989, 100–111, hier 108.

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Das fertige Porträt ist dann nicht nur ein Ergebnis dieses Prozesses, sondern zugleich bestimmt von der Stilrichtung des Malers und seiner Zeit.«8

Der Mantel des Arbeiterführers oder: Warum jüdische Revolutionäre eine innovative Erzählung ihrer Geschichte verlangen In manchen Bereichen der Geschichte und besonders dort, wo die Heldinnen und Helden sich keinen Gruppen zuschreiben, keinen Strukturen unterordnen lassen, bietet die Biografik eine besondere Chance der Annäherung. Wie der österreichische Literaturwissenschaftler Bernhard Fetz bemerkt, zieht dieser Umstand auch eine spezifische Gruppe von Autoren an: »Weil sie ästhetische Fragen und künstlerische Gefilde streift, galt die Biographieforschung und gilt sie tendenziell immer noch als ›weiches Forschungsfeld‹, in dem sich mehr als anderswo zur Empathie begabte Individualisten finden ließen, die über ein besonderes Sensorium über die ›Anderen‹, für gesellschaftliche Randgruppen, für Künstler, Exzentriker und für Menschen in anderen Kulturen verfügen.«9

Schreibende Individualisten begeben sich demgemäß gern auf die Spurensuche von historischen Eigenbrötlern: Figuren, deren Lebensgeschichten gebrochen, unschlüssig und in sich widersprüchlich sind – Außenseiter, Intellektuelle, Revolutionäre und Dissidenten. Wer ihre Geschichten erzählt, betritt meist Neuland und sieht sich vor die Aufgabe gestellt, unkonventionellen Lebenswegen einen Sinnzusammenhang einzuschreiben, sie zu deuten und zu interpretieren. To get it right, mag der Auftrag lauten, im gleichzeitigen Bewusstsein, dass damit nur eine mögliche Perspektive auf ein eigensinniges Leben festgeschrieben wird. Unter den eigensinnigen Lebensgeschichten bilden revolutionäre Jüdinnen und Juden ein besonders heikles Kapitel – sowohl in den Annalen der sozialen Bewegungen als auch in denen der Jüdischen Studien. Die Problematik beginnt mit den Fragen, um wessen Helden es sich handelt; wer die Kompetenz besitzt, diese komplexen Lebensgeschichten zu deuten; ob und in welchem Ausmaß ihr »Jüdisch-Sein« Teil der Analyse sein soll oder darf. Darüber werden bis heute Grabenkämpfe ausgetragen, wenn etwa argumentiert wird, dass jedwede jüdische Perspektive auf das Thema eine nachträgliche Interpretation und Vereinnahmung bedeute. Vonseiten der Arbeiterbewegungsforschung werden stattdessen immer wieder »kommunistische Assimilationskonzept[e] als Bewertungsmaßstab« in die geschichtswissen8 9

Mirjam Zadoff, Der rote Hiob. Das Leben des Werner Scholem, München 2014, 30 f. Fetz, Die vielen Leben der Biographie, 8.

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schaftliche Analyse übernommen, während die Vielschichtigkeit jüdischer Erfahrung ignoriert wird.10 Dabei bezeichnet »Jüdisch-Sein« nicht zwingend eine religiöse Zugehörigkeit zu einer Gemeinde, sondern beinhaltet eine Vielzahl von kulturellen, sozialen und intellektuellen Aspekten. Diese Art der Sensibilisierung ist von kritischer Notwendigkeit, um die gesellschaftliche Situation jüdischer Revolutionäre zu erfassen, deren Leben sich häufig im »Dazwischen« ereignete, in der Spannung zwischen Realität und Utopie. Während das alltägliche Leben sich in traditionellen und deshalb weitgehend antisemitischen Gesellschaften in Europa abspielte, war das utopische Sehnen auf eine postnationale, postbürgerliche, postemanzipatorische und postantisemitische Welt gerichtet. Führende jüdische Revolutionäre sahen sich in dieser Situation gezwungen, Masken zu tragen – nicht um ihr »wahres« Jüdisch-Sein zu verbergen, sondern um zu kaschieren, was sie als öffentliche Figuren repräsentierten: Intellektuelle aus dem jüdischen Mittelstand. Ob »ein Mensch wie er wirklich als Vertreter des Proletariats« auftreten könne, fragte Gershom Scholem seinen älteren Bruder Werner zweifelnd am Beginn von dessen Karriere als deutscher Arbeiterführer.11 Damals, kurz nach der deutschen Revolution, war Werner Scholem eine der treibenden Kräfte in dem Generationenwechsel, der die Deutsche Linke radikalisierte und schließlich den Erfolg der KPD begründete. Konnten das saloppe Berlinerische, die große Schnauze des jungen Mannes, seine in den Schützengräben des Ersten Weltkrieges geübte Grobheit wirklich seine Herkunft verbergen, seine Bildung, sein Jüdisch-Sein? Würde er diese Schwächen erfolgreich kaschieren können, indem er sich den »Mantel des Arbeiterführers« anzog? In den Aufzeichnungen seiner Mutter finden sich amüsierte Beschreibungen von gemeinsamen Einkaufstouren, bei denen sie, die bürgerliche Berliner Jüdin Betty Scholem, ihren Sohn bei der Wahl dieses Mantels beriet. Und wie sie schreibt, war es ein unerhört schwieriges Unterfangen, das richtige Modell zu finden, »nicht letzter Schrei der Mode, sondern unauffällig, einem Anwalt des Volkes gemäß«.12 Damals war Werner Scholem auf dem Höhepunkt seiner Karriere angekommen und die Leitung der KPD lag in seinen und Ruth Fischers Händen. Seine langwierige Suche nach dem perfekten Mantel reflektiert die Exponiertheit, der sich jüdische Revolutionäre selbst 10 Siehe dazu exemplarisch Constantin Goschlers Rezension von Mario Keßlers Buch Die SED und die Juden  – zwischen Repression und Tolerenz. Politische Entwicklungen bis 1967, Berlin 1995, (18. Dezember 2018). 11 Gershom Scholem, Von Berlin nach Jerusalem. Jugenderinnerungen, aus dem Hebr. von Michael Brocke und Andrea Schatz, erweiterte Ausgabe, Frankfurt a. M. 1997, 180. 12 Betty an Gershom Scholem, 8. April und 2. September 1924, in: Betty Scholem/Gershom Scholem, Mutter und Sohn im Briefwechsel 1917–1946, hg. von Itta Shedletzky, München 1989, 102 und 109 f.

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im Moment des Erfolges und der Bestätigung durch die Massen ausgesetzt sahen. Seit dem Beginn seiner Karriere fand Werner Scholem einen Gesprächspartner in seinem Bruder Gerhard/Gershom, wenn es darum ging, den alltäglichen Antisemitismus im Kaiserreich, während des Weltkrieges und in Zeiten der deutschen Revolution zu diskutieren. 1915 hatte Werner seinem Bruder aus Hannover berichtet, dass dort der Antisemitismus unter der sozialdemokratischen Anhängerschaft »schlimm« sei; nicht so unter den Führern, weil unter ihnen viele Juden zu finden seien.13 Diese Diskrepanz blieb über die Jahre bestehen und änderte sich auch nicht in der Revolutionszeit der frühen Weimarer Republik, wie Gershom Scholem aufmerksam beobachtete. Damals besuchte er seinen Bruder in Halle und begleitete ihn zu dessen allabendlichen Redeauftritten im Saalkreis. »Bilde dir doch keine Schwachheiten ein«, ließ er ihn im Anschluss wissen, »sie klatschen nach deiner Rede und werden dich wohl […] bei den nächsten Wahlen auf Empfehlung der Partei zum Abgeordneten wählen, aber hinter deinem Rücken bleibst du, was du bist. ›Der Jude (nicht: der Genosse!) redet ja ganz schön‹, hörte ich einen Arbeiter zu seinen Kollegen sagen.«14 Gerhard gegenüber gab Werner Scholem vor, nichts davon wissen zu wollen, doch das Problem machte nicht in der Anhängerschaft halt. Im Sommer 1920 spaltete eine heftige Diskussion um den Beitritt zur Komintern die deutsche Sozialdemokratie. Lenin hatte beschlossen, dass alle Parteien in der Komintern straff und zentralistisch organisiert zu sein und mit unbedingter Disziplin dem Moskauer Diktum zu folgen hatten. Die etablierten deutschen Arbeiterführer sahen dem mit Skepsis entgegen, während vor allem eine revolutionsbereite jüngere Generation, allen voran Werner Scholem, laut für den Beitritt eintrat.15 In einer öffentlichen Stellungnahme warf das SPD-Urgestein Fritz Kunert dem jungen Scholem vor, er wolle »mitleidlos, ja unbarmherzig aufräumen« mit den »alten Führern des traditionellen Radikalismus«. »So fordere ich persönlich, daß von der Partei ein offizieller Shylock gestellt wird, der mit dem Messer in der Hand nach historischem Entwicklungsrecht – frei nach William Shakespeare – von den alten, traditionell radikalen Führern ein Kilogramm Fleisch ›zunächst dem Herzen‹ des Verurteilten zu verlangen hat.«16

13 National Library of Israel, Archiv Gershom Scholem, ARC. 4/1599, Werner Scholem an Gerhard Scholem, 2. Januar 1915. 14 Scholem, Von Berlin nach Jerusalem, 180. 15 Zadoff, Der rote Hiob, 134–141. 16 Volksblatt. Sozialdemokratisches Organ für Halle und den Bezirk Merseburg 31 (1920), Nr. 208, 2.

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Der Vergleich mit Shakespeares jüdischem Geldverleiher war ein zutiefst antisemitischer Vorwurf, und dass er aus den eigenen Reihen kam, beleidigte den Genossen Scholem sehr. Als berühmtester Jude in der europäischen Literatur ist Shylock eine durchaus komplexe Figur,17 aber für Kunerts Zeitgenossen war dieser Vergleich unmissverständlich klar: Dem jüdischen Genossen wurde nicht nur fehlende Solidarität mit Deutschland zur Last gelegt, sondern eine hereditäre Unfähigkeit, eine solche überhaupt zu empfinden. Der Vorwurf richtete sich sowohl gegen den Inhalt von Scholems politischer Agenda und seinen Internationalismus als auch gegen die Form: Wie Shylock agierte er selbstbewusst und nahm für sich in Anspruch, dieselben Methoden zu verwenden wie alle anderen. Und so richtete sich Kunerts Aggression auch gegen die fehlende Vorsicht und Zurückhaltung, die aufgrund seines »ethnischen Makels« eigentlich von Scholem zu erwarten war. Kurz nach dem Vorfall machten in den halleschen Kneipen und unter der Arbeiterschaft wilde Gerüchte die Runde: dass der Genosse Scholem ein politischer Neuling sei; dass er weder Erfahrung noch Loyalität mitbringe; und nicht zuletzt, dass er und seine Familie einer »Kirchengemeinde« angehörten. In einer Stellungnahme »in eigener Sache« reagierte Werner Scholem öffentlich und wies alle Vorwürfe zurück. Nur auf die Beschimpfungen wegen seiner jüdischen Abstammung reagierte er nicht. Er hielt es für unter seiner Würde, darauf überhaupt zu antworten, und die betroffenen Genossen schienen ihm für die Sache der Arbeiterbewegung nicht geeignet.18 Gershom Scholem warf seinem Bruder vor, sich dem gleichen Selbstbetrug hinzugeben wie der Vater, Arthur Scholem, und mit ihm das ganze deutsche Judentum, das seine Hoffnungen noch immer dareinsetze, von der nichtjüdischen Bevölkerung ohne Vorbehalte angenommen zu werden: Niemals würde er als Vertreter der ausgebeuteten Arbeiter akzeptiert werden, sondern immer ein Sohn des jüdischen Mittelstands bleiben.19 Gegen Ende seines Lebens erklärte Gershom Scholem in einem Interview, dass sein Bruder – und eine Zeit lang auch er selbst – an die Lösung aller Probleme, auch des nationalen, durch die Revolution geglaubt habe. »Wir wußten damals noch nicht – wir waren nicht klug genug, weder ich noch er –, daß die Re-

17 Wie David Nirenberg bemerkt, wollte Shakespeare damit weniger die Juden als den beginnenden Geldverleih unter englischen Christen kritisieren. Ders., Anti-Judaism. The Western Tradition, New York/London 2013 (dt.: Anti-Judaismus. Eine andere Geschichte des westlichen Denkens, aus dem Engl. von Martin Richter, München 2015). 18 Werner Scholem, In eigener Sache, in: Volksblatt. Sozialdemokratisches Organ für Halle und den Bezirk Merseburg 31 (1920), Nr. 215, Beilage, 1. 19 Scholem, Von Berlin nach Jerusalem, 180.

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volution als historische Realität, wie wir sie [in] unserem Leben erfuhren, überhaupt nichts gelöst hat […].«20 Wie andere warf Werner E. Mosse die Frage auf, ob die Einstellung der jüdischen Revolutionäre nichts anderes gewesen sei als »die extreme Form der jüdischen, durch die progressive liberale Ideologie möglich gewordene[-] Assimilation«.21 Für seinen Großcousin George  L. Mosse lag genau darin die Faszination, die von der revolutionären jüdischen Avantgarde ausging: dass sie durch ihre Radikalität die Traditionen des deutsch-jüdischen Bildungsbürgertums in einen politischen Universalismus verwandelt und erweitert habe. In ihrem Utopismus transzendierten die Revolutionäre ihre jüdischen und deutschen Wurzeln und fanden so zumindest zeitweise neuen Boden unter den Füßen.22 Aber weil dieser Boden ins utopische Sehnen gebaut war, lässt sich Gershom Scholems Analyse des Selbstbetrugs, in dem das deutsch-jüdische Bürgertum seiner Meinung nach lebte, überraschend nahtlos auf die jüdischen Revolutionäre anwenden: »In der Rückschau bin ich überzeugter, als ich es in meiner von Leidenschaften des Protestes erfüllten Jugend sein konnte, daß bei vielen dieser Menschen Illusionen und Utopie ineinanderflossen und das vielleicht antizipatorische Glücksgefühl weckten, zu Hause zu sein. Hierin lag auch wirklich Echtes, nämlich das Echte, das wir der Utopie zuerkennen müssen. […] Je hinreißender der Traum, desto schrecklicher war das Erwachen.«23

Denn entgegen allen utopischen Versprechen vermochte keine revolutionäre oder postrevolutionäre Gesellschaft die Hoffnungen auf eine Welt wirklich einzulösen, in der Juden und Jüdinnen konfliktfrei leben konnten. Und so lässt sich Scholems Beobachtung auch auf den revolutionären Zionismus anwenden, dem er selbst anhing und der in seiner staatlichen Umsetzung auch für ihn Ernüchterung und Enttäuschung bedeutete.24 Die Spannungen, die das Leben von jüdischen Revolutionären auf vielfältige Weise definierten, verlangen eine methodisch und analytisch reflektierte Geschichtswissenschaft. Aus der Perspektive der traditionellen Ideen-

20 Gershom Scholem, »Es gibt ein Geheimnis in der Welt«. Tradition und Säkularisation, Ein Vortrag und ein Gespräch, hg. von Itta Shedletzky, Frankfurt a. M. 2002, 52. 21 Werner E. Mosse, Die Krise der europäischen Bourgeoisie und das deutsche Judentum, in: Deutsches Judentum in Krieg und Revolution 1916 bis 1923. Ein Sammelband, hg. von Werner E. Mosse unter Mitwirkung von Arnold Paucker, Tübingen 1971, 11. 22 George  L. Mosse, German Jews beyond Judaism, Bloomington, Ind./Cincinnati, Oh., 1985, bes. das Kap. »A Left-Wing Identity«, 55–71. 23 Gershom Scholem, Zur Sozialpsychologie der Juden in Deutschland 1900–1930, in: ders., Judaica 4, hg. von Rolf Tiedemann, Frankfurt a. M. 1984, 229–261, hier 252 f. 24 Noam Zadoff, Gershom Scholem. From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back. An Intellectual Biography, Waltham/Mass. 2018 (dt.: Von Berlin nach Jerusalem und zurück. Gershom Scholem zwischen Israel und Deutschland, im Erscheinen).

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geschichte treten solche Fragen schließlich gar nicht ans Licht. Der Vorwurf vonseiten mancher Vertreter der Geschichte der Arbeiterbewegung, man würde hier einem jüdischen Essenzialismus Tür und Tor öffnen, reflektiert deshalb vor allem eines: die Weigerung, das Problem in seiner Vielschichtigkeit zu begreifen und die Komplexität dieser Lebensgeschichten wahrzunehmen. Menschen agieren auf unterschiedlichen Ebenen und in vielen Lebensbereichen  – sie sind keine körperlosen Ideologen und Soldaten im Kampf für eine gerechtere Welt. Auch Revolutionäre haben Gesichter, Namen, Herkunft und Familie; sie haben Vorlieben beim Essen und Trinken, bei der Wahl ihrer Urlaubsorte und ihrer Freizeitbeschäftigungen; sie pflegen alte und neue Freundschaften und sind nolens volens durch vielerlei Stricke und Seile an das – bürgerliche, intellektuelle und jüdische – Leben früherer Tage gebunden: wie sehr, zeigt die Diskussion um den Status der Intellektuellen in der KPD in der ersten Hälfte der 1920er Jahre. Damals äußerte sich Clara Zetkin besorgt gegenüber der Komintern, dass die Intellektuellen unter den deutschen Kommunisten den Charakter der Partei verfälschen und »Tendenzen zur Verbürgerlichung, zum Opportunismus begünstigen und stärken« würden. Die Intellektuellen, so Zetkin weiter, seien dem Proletariat »schwankende, unsichere Bundesgenossen« und müssten deshalb regelmäßig daraufhin kontrolliert werden, ob sie ihre Bürgerlichkeit auf Dauer abgelegt hätten. Als »Intellektuelle« konnten natürlich viele gelten, aber wie Werner Scholem einmal bemerkte, wurden in der KPD fast ausschließlich Juden als Intellektuelle angegriffen, während nichtjüdische Akademiker nicht mit diesem – durchweg abfällig gemeinten – Begriff bezeichnet wurden.25 Die Folge dieser Forderung war eine strenge Selbstzensur unter den Angesprochenen, die ihre zutiefst bürgerlichen Hobbys und Vorlieben nur mehr verstohlen und nicht unter dem wachsamen Auge der Öffentlichkeit pflegten: Liebte man beispielsweise klassische Musik und die Oper, schaffte man sich nun ein Grammofon an. In ihrer Hinterhauswohnung in Berlin-Moabit lebten Werner Scholem und seine Frau Emmy ein weitgehend bürgerliches Leben mit Dienstmädchen und mittelständischem Mobiliar, während man sich bescheiden kleidete und nach außen zurückhaltend gab. Wer, abgesehen von guten Freunden und Familie, kannte schon Werner Scholems Vorliebe für gutes Essen – für Fasan und gefüllte Tauben, für Krebssuppe und Ochsenschwanzsuppe, für Teewurst und gebratenen Hasen? Seine große Leidenschaft fürs Klettern hin-

25 Clara Zetkin, Die Intellektuellenfrage. Aus dem Referat auf dem V. Kongress der Kommunistischen Internationale (1924), in: dies., Ausgewählte Reden und Schriften, Bd. 3: Auswahl aus den Jahren 1924 bis 1933, Berlin 1960, 9–56, hier 45 f.; Werner Scholem hier zit. nach Hermann Weber, Die Wandlung des deutschen Kommunismus, 2 Bde., hier Bd. 1, Frankfurt a. M. 1969, 327, Anm. 40.

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gegen, die ihn, sooft der Reichstag pausierte, in die Tiroler Berge führte, ließ sich nicht ganz so leicht vor der Öffentlichkeit geheim halten.26 Als er 1925 die Partei vor dem wachsenden Einfluss Stalins warnte und deshalb schnell aus ihren Führungsgremien flog, wurde ihm seine Kletterleidenschaft umgehend zum Vorwurf gemacht. Aus gesundheitlichen Gründen blieb er damals immer öfter den Parteisitzungen fern. Seine Absenz wurde in den Gremien jedoch heftig kritisiert und es hieß, der Genosse Scholem fahre lieber nach Tirol zum Klettern, als sich den Anschuldigungen gegen ihn zu stellen. Offen legten ihm jetzt die Genossen seine Herkunft zur Last, wenn sie ihn als »Bohemien« der Partei und »Kaffeehausliterat[en]« der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung diffamierten.27 Im Bemühen um ein tiefer gehendes Verständnis der Biografien von jüdischen Revolutionären und Revolutionärinnen darf deren Exponiertheit in der politischen Öffentlichkeit nicht übersehen werden. Das Gleiche gilt für die Übersetzungsprozesse und Überbrückungsbemühungen, zu denen sie permanent gezwungen waren – sei es, um die intellektuellen, jüdischen oder bürgerlichen Aspekte ihrer Zughörigkeit zu verbergen, sei es, um ihren Standpunkt jüdischen Freunden, Gemeinden oder Interessenvertretern gegenüber zu rechtfertigen. Es geht bei dieser Zugangsweise, und das muss gesagt sein, nicht um eine nachträgliche »Judaisierung« revolutionärer Biografien, sondern darum, den Anforderungen der neuen Biografik Genüge zu tun, und das bedeutet: inhaltlich reflektiert und theoretisch fundiert der Vielfalt eines Lebens nachzuspüren, anstatt parteipolitische Heldennarrative festzuschreiben, in denen das Attribut »jüdisch« lediglich als willkommener Nebeneffekt (und damit als Garant für öffentliches Interesse) vorkommt, aber dem Biografen keine Kompetenz abverlangt. Für eine zeitgemäße Deutung dieser Geschichte hat ein Biograf mehr mitzubringen als »Stallgeruch« und ein oberflächliches Wissen um jüdische Inhalte. Juden in der Arbeiterbewegung unterscheiden sich nämlich nicht nur dadurch von anderen, dass sie sich von Synagogen – und nicht von Kirchen – ab- und der Revolution zuwandten. Ein tieferes Verständnis dessen, was Jüdisch-Sein in der Moderne bedeutet, ist hier gefragt. Diese Notwendigkeit führt uns zum nächsten, konfliktreichen Punkt dieses Themas: Revolutionäre Biografien wurden lange Zeit sowohl im kollektiven jüdischen Gedächtnis wie in privaten Familienerinnerungen vergessen. Denn die Biografien der »roten Schafe« wurden als peinliches Kapitel der jüdischen Geschichte im

26 Zadoff, Der Rote Hiob, 22, 100 f., 161–163, 182, 190 f., 197, 199 und 203. 27 Betty an Gershom Scholem, 2. Februar 1926, in: Scholem/Scholem, Mutter und Sohn im Briefwechsel 1917–1946, 136; Bundesarchiv Berlin, Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR, Parteikonferenz der KPD, 31. Oktober, Fiche 2, 115–130, und 1. November 1925, Fiche 5, 137.

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doppelten Wortsinn wahrgenommen: als unangenehm und schamvoll – und zugleich als schmerzhaft und tragisch.

Die roten Schafe der Familie: Von weltlichen Propheten und messianischen Utopisten Überall in den Ländern Mittel- und Osteuropas, wo die Politik gegenüber Juden als besonders ambivalent oder aggressiv galt, war die Gruppe der führenden jüdischen Sozialrevolutionäre überproportional groß im Verhältnis zu ihrem Bevölkerungsanteil. Doch ihre Zahl begann immer dann abzunehmen, wenn Parteien etabliert waren und Regime fest im Sattel saßen: dann, wenn der revolutionäre Moment, in dem fast alles möglich schien, vorbei war.28 Und so kommt es, dass Juden nicht selten zu den ersten Opfern gehörten, wenn es darum ging, Parteiführungen zu homogenisieren und zu säubern. Als mehrfache Außenseiter entsprachen sie nicht dem, was eine populistische Partei wie die KPD gegen Ende der Weimarer Republik als öffentliches Gesicht gebrauchen konnte. Wie die Protokolle von Sitzungen, Tagungen und Kongressen aus den Anfangsjahren der KPD belegen, wurde damals in der Partei noch eine lebendige Diskussionskultur gepflegt. Man kritisierte einander ebenso wie Vertreter der Parteiführung offen. Doch unter dem wachsenden Einfluss der Komintern auf die Alltagsgeschäfte der KPD wurden der Partei Moskauer Direktiven oktroyiert.29 Wie Gershom Scholem als aufmerksamer Beobachter bemerkte, bestimmten die Vertreter der Komintern in Deutschland zusehends den politischen Kurs – und wer sich auflehnte, wurde hinausgeworfen.30 Im letzten Drittel der 1920er Jahre war der Prozess der Stalinisierung der KPD – oder Bolschewisierung, wie der zeitgenössische Begriff lautete – erfolgreich abgeschlossen. Das Ergebnis war eine zentralisierte Partei, die der Moskauer Direktive absolut hörig und deren öffentliches Antlitz nicht nur ideologisch gesäubert, sondern auch gewissermaßen »arisiert« war. Gegen Ende der Weimarer Republik waren in der KPD keine Juden und Jüdinnen mehr an öffentlich sichtbaren Führungsstellen zu finden. In der irrigen Hoffnung, 28 André W.  M. Gerrits, Jüdischer Kommunismus. Der Mythos, die Juden, die Partei, in: Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 14 (2005), 243–264. 29 Marcel Bois, Im Kampf gegen Stalinismus und Faschismus. Die linke Opposition der KPD in der Weimarer Republik (1924–1933), in: Kora Baumbach u. a. (Hgg.), Strömungen. Politische Bilder, Texte und Bewegungen, Berlin 2007, 86–109, hier 87; Weber, Die Wandlung des deutschen Kommunismus, Bd. 1, 47, Anm. 94 und 173–175. 30 Scholem, Von Berlin nach Jerusalem, 180 f.

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nationalsozialistische Wähler zu gewinnen, präsentierte die kommunistische Zeitung Welt am Abend diese Entwicklung im August 1931 stolz der Öffentlichkeit. Obwohl der Antisemitismus keine Rolle in der kommunistischen Ideologie spielte, traf dies Ende der 1920er Jahre nicht mehr auf die Praxis der Parteiarbeit zu, in der mit der extremen Rechten um die Stimmen der proletarischen Massen gebuhlt wurde.31 Unter deutsch-jüdischen Zeitgenossen löste das Phänomen der vergleichsweise starken jüdischen Beteiligung an den russischen Revolutionen von 1905 und 1917 sowie im revolutionären Berlin und München der Jahre 1918 und 1919 vor allem eines aus: Unbehagen. Sie fürchteten, dass die prominente Rolle der jüdischen Revolutionäre überall im Land Antisemitismus auslösen und ihnen selbst schaden würde. Und tatsächlich wurde vonseiten der Rechtsparteien nicht nur die jüdische Mitwirkung an der Revolution hervorgehoben, sondern auch eine universelle Affinität zwischen jüdischen Intellektuellen und jeder Art von Radikalismus konstruiert. So betonte die rechtspopulistische Presse die Präsenz von Juden in der Spartakusgruppe und der Münchner Räterepublik, wo sie nur konnte, und machte auch aus bekannten nichtjüdischen Revolutionären nachträglich Juden – allen voran Karl Liebknecht. Dieser war durch seine offene Ablehnung des Krieges im Sommer 1914 zum liebsten Staatsfeind avanciert; nachdem er sich im November 1918 als Führer des Spartakusaufstandes neuerlich offen gegen die Regierung wandte, wurde er zur zentralen Figur der Dolchstoßlegende. Fast schon verzweifelt dementierte die Zeitung Im deutschen Reich, das Organ des Centralvereins deutscher Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens, Liebknechts angebliche jüdische Herkunft und bewies in Stammbäumen und Auszügen aus dem Geburtenregister seine gänzlich »arische Abstammung«.32

31 Welt am Abend 9 (August 1931), 179; George L. Mosse, German Socialists and the Jewish Question in the Weimar Republic, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 16 (1971), H. 1, 123–151, hier 137; Edmund Silberner, Kommunisten zur Judenfrage. Zur Geschichte von Theorie und Praxis des Kommunismus, Opladen 1983, 265; Avraham Barkai, Politische Orientierung und Krisenbewußtsein, in: Michael  A. Meyer/Michael Brenner (Hgg.), Deutsch-jüdische Geschichte in der Neuzeit, 4  Bde., hier Bd.  4: Avraham Barkai/Paul Mendes-Flohr, Aufbruch und Zerstörung 1918–1945, München 2000, 102–124, hier 106; Klaus-Michael Mallmann, Parteisoldaten oder eigensinnige Akteure? Die Weimarer Kommunisten in der Kontroverse, Eine Erwiderung, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 47 (1999), H. 3, 401–415, bes. 411. 32 S. Weißenberg, Der Anteil der Juden an der Revolutionsbewegung in Rußland, in: Zeitschrift für Demographie und Statistik der Juden 1 (1907), H. 3, 1–7; Erich Ludendorff, Kriegführung und Politik, Berlin 1923, 133. Zu Liebknecht siehe Arnold Zweig, Der heutige deutsche Antisemitismus. Vier Aufsätze, in: Der Jude 5 (1920/21), H. 8/9, 451–459, hier 456, und H. 10, 557–565; sowie zahlreiche Meldungen und Artikel in der CV-Zeitung Im deutschen Reich, so etwa in den Ausgaben 24 (1918), H. 12, 479, 25 (1919), H. 2, 75 f., und 25 (1919), H. 6, 283.

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Auch Werner Scholems selbstbewusste und provokante Auftritte im Preußischen Landtag und im Reichstag lösten im engeren und weiteren Verwandtschaftskreis leises und lautes Entsetzen aus. Sein Onkel, der Arzt Georg Scholem, beklagte sich, dass keine christlichen Patienten mehr in seine Praxis kämen und dass daran nur das öffentliche Auftreten seines Neffen schuld sein könne. Betty Scholem erklärte, sie habe daraufhin »ein Hohngelächter losgelassen u. ihn gefragt, ob er noch nie etwas vom Antisemitismus gehört habe! Nein, sagt er, seine Klienten seien nicht anti, aber das dumme Gajes [Goi, Nichtjude] wüßte nicht, ob der Kommunist Scholem sein Vater oder sein Sohn oder gar er selbst sei u. da wollten sie auch mit ihm nichts mehr zu tun haben.«33 Mit Recht kritisierte sie die weitverbreitete Praxis, den Revolutionären die Schuld zu geben – waren sie doch vor allem Projektionsflächen für den Antisemitismus, der »zu einem zentralen Bestandteil der politischen Auseinandersetzung und Sprache« der Weimarer Republik geworden war.34 Doch selbst Walter Benjamin auf Capri benutzte dieselben Erklärungsmuster, als er von dort an Gershom Scholem schrieb: »Von dem Abgeordneten Scholem ist Europa voll. Sogar die Alldeutschen neben mir im Café reden von ihm. Überall entfesselt er – mit Recht – heftige Stürme von Rischess [Antisemitismus]. Mich stimmt sein Aufstieg zu Ruhm und Ehren ziemlich traurig.«35 Bereits im Dezember 1919 unternahm deshalb der Berliner Literaturhistoriker Rudolf Kayser, Schwiegersohn Albert Einsteins und späterer Chefredakteur der Neuen Rundschau, den Versuch, das Verhältnis zwischen Revolutionären und jüdischen Interessenvertretern und Gemeinden zu befrieden. Denn, so argumentierte er, die Figur des modernen jüdischen Revolutionärs sei durchaus in der jüdischen Geschichte verankert und aus ihr zu erklären: »So maßlos er von antisemitischer Seite übertrieben, und so ängstlich er vom jüdischen Bürgertum verleugnet wird: der große jüdische Anteil an der heutigen revolutionären Bewegung steht fest; er ist immerhin so groß, daß kein Zufall, sondern eine innere Tendenz ihm gebieten muß; er ist Auswirkung des jüdischen Wesens in eine modern-politische Richtung.«36

Seiner Meinung nach waren die jüdischen Revolutionäre des 20. Jahrhunderts nichts anderes als Wiedergeburten der historischen Messiasgestalten: 33 Betty an Gershom Scholem, 3. Juni und 2. September 1924, in: Scholem/Scholem, Mutter und Sohn im Briefwechsel 1917–1946, 108–110 (Hervorhebung im Original). 34 Martin  H. Geyer, Verkehrte Welt. Revolution, Inflation und Moderne, München 1914– 1924, Göttingen 1998, 280. 35 Walter Benjamin an Gershom Scholem, 13. Juni 1924, in: Walter Benjamin, Gesammelte Briefe, 6 Bde., hier Bd. 2: 1919–1924, hg. von Christoph Gödde und Henri Lonitz, Frankfurt a. M. 1996, 468. 36 Kayser, Rudolf, Der jüdische Revolutionär, in: Neue jüdische Monatshefte 4 (1919), 96–98, hier 96.

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Märtyrer und Propheten, die unbeirrt einem vorbestimmten Weg folgten, der notwendigerweise tragisch enden musste. Kaysers Interpretation darf aber nicht als Versuch verstanden werden, eine religiöse Kontinuität herzustellen. Wie viele seiner Zeitgenossen in den intellektuellen Berliner Kreisen, bezog Kayser sein jüdisches Selbstverständnis nicht aus religiösen Inhalten, sondern aus einer spezifischen Vorstellung von jüdischer Kultur als einem Amalgam aus Geschichte, Literatur und Kunst. Jüdisches Denken stand in dieser Wahrnehmung für Unabhängigkeit und kulturelle Avantgarde. Und die Darstellung von Revolutionären als Messiasfiguren war kein Versuch, ihnen einen religiösen Charakter zu verleihen, sondern im Gegenteil der Wunsch, der jüdischen Geschichte säkulare Traditionen einzuschreiben.37 »Diese echten jüdischen Revolutionäre sind, trotzdem sie in innigster Gemeinschaft im Denken und Handeln mit ihren andersstämmigen Genossen verbunden sind, von ihnen sehr verschieden. Sie haben es zumeist in zwei Punkten schwerer: Es fehlt ihnen die natürliche Opposition der unterdrückten Klasse, des Proletariats (sie sind stets ›Intellektuelle‹), und zweitens jene weite nationale Unterstützung, die aus der Tatsache stammt, dass Führer und Gefolge von gleicher völkischer Herkunft sind. Das letztere wird mir vielleicht durch den Hinweis auf den internationalen Charakter des Sozialismus wie jeder modernen revolutionären Ideologie bestritten werden; dennoch ist es Tatsache, dass die russische wie die deutsche Revolution einen starken nationalen Einschlag haben.«38

Auf diese beiden Punkte, so Kayser, gehe auch die unvermeidbare Einsamkeit der jüdischen Revolutionäre zurück: Wegen ihrer jüdischen Herkunft gehörten sie nur selten zu den orthodoxen Anhängern eines revolutionären Katechismus, sondern viel häufiger zu den Häretikern. Ihr Vorbild war deshalb kein anderer als der große Mystiker und falsche Messias Sabbatai Zwi, der die jüdische Welt des 17.  Jahrhunderts in einen endzeitlichen Rausch versetzt hatte. Dessen Maßlosigkeit »in Hoffnung und Wirklichkeitsferne« glaubte Kayser auch im politischen Utopismus der Berufsrevolutionäre unter seinen Zeitgenossen zu erkennen.39 In einer historischen Umkehrung schrieb Rudolf Kayser dem jüdischen Häretiker nachträglich den Charakter eines Sozialrevolutionärs zu und stellte ihn an den Beginn einer Linie von jüdischen Politikern – in einer Zeit, in der Juden vom politischen Leben ausgeschlossen waren, konnte Sabbatai Zwi notgedrungen nur in einem religiösen Raum agieren. Kaysers Darstellung geriet etwas romantisierend und ahistorisch, doch Jahrzehnte später kam Gershom Scholem, als Biograf Sabbatai Zwis die Autorität auf diesem Gebiet, zu einem ganz ähnlichen Schluss. Für die 1973 erschienene englische Übersetzung seines großen Werkes über Sabbatai Zwi 37 Ebd. 38 Ebd. 39 Ebd., 97.

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schrieb Scholem eine neue Einleitung, in der er bemerkte, nicht jener Schule anzugehören, die annimmt, »daß es ein wohldefiniertes und unveränderliches ›Wesen‹ des Judentums« gebe, besonders dort nicht, »wo historische Ereignisse zu bewerten sind«. Das Wesen des Judentums, so Scholem, könne ausschließlich im historischen Kontext und deshalb immer wieder aufs Neue identifiziert werden. Damit legte er den Schwerpunkt jüdischer Erfahrung nicht auf den Kern der religiösen Tradition, sondern auf die Interaktion dieser Tradition mit der jüdischen und nichtjüdischen Welt ihrer Zeit. In dieser Sichtweise kam er – auf anderen Wegen als Kayser – zu einem ähnlichen Vergleich zwischen den Anhängern Sabbatai Zwis und den jüdischen Revolutionären des 20. Jahrhunderts: Für ihn lag die Verbindung in der Tragik des Schicksals beider Gruppen, die sich einer Utopie verschrieben und dafür einen hohen Preis bezahlt hatten. Scholems Post-Holocaust- und Post-Gulag-Perspektive auf die Geschichte der Revolutionäre ließ ihn die Ideologie, die auch ihn lange fasziniert hatte, als »säkularen Messianismus« beschreiben. Und Messianismus im politischen Kontext könne nur desaströs enden, argumentierte Scholem – aber diese Warnung habe niemand hören wollen.40 Wie der britische Historiker Colin Shindler bemerkt, spielt noch eine weitere Tradition der jüdischen Moderne eine Rolle für das Verständnis des historischen Verhältnisses von Juden zur Revolution – nämlich die Parallelität nationalistischer und universalistischer Tendenzen: »Since the French Revolution, Jews found themselves torn between the national interests of the Jews and their desire to repair the world. Both tendencies exist within Jewish tradition. Indeed, the Balfour Declaration and the Bolshevik revolution happened within days of each other in 1917.«41

Dieses zufällige Zusammentreffen zweier Ereignisse von ungeheurer Wichtigkeit für das europäische Judentum der Kriegsjahre öffnet in der Tat spannende Einblicke in zeitgenössische Fragen politisch-jüdischen Selbstverständnisses. Beispielhaft sei Gershom Scholems Reaktion auf die beiden parallelen Ereignisse angeführt: Seine Situation als die eines überzeugten Zionisten, der entschlossen war, in der nahen Zukunft nach Palästina zu emigrieren, veranschaulicht, dass ein unzweifelhaft jüdisches Selbstverständnis damals nicht zwingend mit einer nationalen Zugehörigkeit einhergehen 40 Gershom Scholem, Sabbatai Zwi. Der mystische Messias, Frankfurt a. M. 1992, 17; David Biale, The Threat of Messianism. An Interview with Gershom Scholem, in: The New York Review of Books, 14. August 1880, 13 und 22; Gershom Scholem, Zionism. Dialectic of Continuity and Rebellion (Interviews, April und Juli 1970), in: Ehud Ben-Ezer, Unease in Zion, New York 1974, 263–296, hier 295 f. 41 Colin Shindler, The Non-Jewish Jews Who Became the Scholars of an Ideological Dreamworld, in: The Jewish Chronicle, 10  May 2012, (18. Dezember 2018).

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musste. Internationalistische und ausgesprochen jüdische Überzeugungen standen nicht zwingend im Widerspruch zueinander. Im Gegenteil waren derartige »shades of red«, Schattierungen linker Ideologien, weitverbreitet. Der 19-jährige Gershom Scholem reagierte deshalb im Herbst 1917 mit Begeisterung auf die bolschewistische Revolution und ihre Absicht, Russland aus dem Kriegsgeschehen zurückzuziehen. Die Balfour-Deklaration quittierte er, als Anhänger von Achad Haams Konzept eines kulturellen Zentrums in Palästina im Gegensatz zu Theodor Herzls Staatsidee, hingegen mit Ironie.42 »Friedensangebot der Maximalisten [Bolschewisten]!«, jubelte er in seinem Tagebuch. »Das erste offizielle Schriftstück der Weltgeschichte, das jeder anständige Mensch unterschreiben kann. Man wird sich aber herumreden …«43 Ein rasches Ende des Krieges schien ihm von existenzieller Wichtigkeit für die jüdische und zionistische Sache, zugleich bekannte er sich aber auch zu den Inhalten und Zielen der Revolution. So schrieb er Ende November an Werner Kraft: »Wie sehr ich mein Herz an das Angebot der russischen Revolutionäre hänge, können Sie sich vorstellen, und welcher Segen über das Haupt dieser Männer, deren beste Freunde in Deutschland im Zuchthaus schmachten müssen, gewünscht werden wird, wenn ihr Streben Erfolg hat, ist nicht auszudenken. In meinem Leben habe ich noch keine so menschlich ergreifenden und wahren politischen Schriftstücke gesehen wie die Dokumente der maximalistischen Revolution.«44

Einige Zeit später, vermutlich im Sommer 1918, fasste er seine nun etwas ernüchterte Einschätzung des Bolschewismus zusammen. Er sprach der Bewegung eine »revolutionäre Magie« zu, die aus ihrer zentralen Idee entstand, dass »das messianische Reich […] nur durch die Diktatur der Armut« entfaltet werden könne. Trotz ihres Blutvergießens werde die Revolution »als der eigentliche Höhepunkt der Geschichte des Weltkrieges und die ihm entsprechende (und angemessene, so traurig das Wort klingen mag) messianische Reaktion gegen ihn wirken«. Die Revolution brachte die Erlösung vom Krieg, war aber zugleich ein Ergebnis des kriegerischen Blutvergießens und existierte aus diesem Grund ebenfalls nur durch Gewalt. »Wer die heutige Geschichte aber bejaht, muß dem Bolschewismus anhängen, muß in ihm 42 British Library, Add MS 41178A, Arthur James Balfour, britischer Außenminister, an Baron Lionel Walter Rothschild, 2. November 1917. Dazu Gerhard Scholem in einem Brief an Harry Heymann, 28. Dezember 1917, in: Gershom Scholem, Briefe 1. 1914–1947, hg. von Itta Shedletzky, München 1994, 132 f. 43 Friedensangebot der neuen russischen Regierung vom 6./7. November. Gerhard Scholem, Tagebucheintrag, 13. November 1917, in: Gershom Scholem, Tagebücher nebst Aufsätzen und Entwürfen bis 1923, unter Mitarbeit von Herbert Kopp-Oberstebrink hg. von Karlfried Gründer und Friedrich Niewöhner, Halbbd. 1: 1913–1917, Frankfurt a. M. 1995, 79. 44 Gerhard Scholem an Harry Heymann, 4.  Dezember 1917, in: Scholem, Briefe  1, 128; Gerhard Scholem an Werner Kraft, 30. November 1917, in: ebd., 125.

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die zukünftigste und in Blut und Untat reinste Gestalt der Gegenwart erblicken.« Damit war also jeder, der Europa in der aktuellen Situation affirmativ betrachtete, aufgefordert, auch die Revolution zu bejahen, so wie es die Freunde der Bolschewisten in deutschen Zuchthäusern taten: Karl Liebknecht, Rosa Luxemburg und sein Bruder Werner. Mochte es jüdische Revolutionäre geben, für die dieser Schluss zutraf, so jedoch nicht für den Zionismus und das Judentum und damit auch nicht für ihn, Gerhard, selbst. Revolution sei dort, »wo das messianische Reich ohne die Lehre aufgerichtet werden soll«, dem Judentum hingegen gelte »der Wiederanschluß an die Lehre« als wirkliche Revolution. Auch der Weltkrieg biete kein Argument für eine jüdisch-messianische Antwort ähnlich dem Bolschewismus, da der Zionismus sich vom Krieg abkehre und deshalb auch nicht auf ihn reagiere. Und selbst für die Revolutionäre des Bolschewismus sei der Anspruch ihrer Ideologie, zugleich historisch  – »im Angesicht der Geschichte« stehend  – und zukünftig zu agieren, unmöglich zu erfüllen. »Der Bolschewismus versucht, vielleicht großartig, sicher aber umsonst, das Gericht über sich selbst auszuschalten: durch Permanenz der singulären Gewaltpunkte, das ihm als ein Zukünftiges erscheinen muß, das er antizipiert.« In Anbetracht dieses zukünftigen Gerichtes werde der Bolschewismus ungerecht und damit verwerflich.45 War 1917 eine derartige Parallelität und Auseinandersetzung zwischen Zionismus und Bolschewismus noch möglich, kam diese ideologische Gemeinschaft von jüdischen Revolutionären bald darauf an ihr Ende. Und spätestens ab 1945 gehörte sie zu einem unliebsamen und vergessenen Aspekt der jüdischen Geschichte. Jüdische Kommunisten und Oppositionelle waren einerseits unter den ersten Opfern des Nationalsozialismus, andererseits als Trotzkisten, Renegaten und Intellektuelle unter den Feinden und Opfern Stalins. Dieses häufig höchst tragische Verhältnis zwischen Judentum und Kommunismus blieb als Ergebnis des Kalten Krieges deshalb für lange Zeit unerzählt, und die roten Schafe der Familie fielen dem Vergessen anheim.46 Einer, den dieser Umstand besonders umtrieb, war Jacob L. Talmon – aber nicht weil er sich in der Gefolgschaft der roten Schafe sah, sondern weil sie ihn auch nach ihrem Tod noch beunruhigten. Der israelische Historiker 45 Alle Zitate dieses Absatzes sind entnommen Gerhard Scholem, Der Bolschewismus, in: ders., Gershom Scholem, Tagebücher nebst Aufsätzen und Entwürfen bis 1923, Halbbd. 2: 1917–1923, hg. von Karlfried Gründer, Herbert Kopp-Oberstebrink und Friedrich Niewöhner unter Mitwirkung von Karl E. Grözinger, Frankfurt a. M. 2000, 556–558; siehe zu dieser Thematik auch Gershom Scholem/Jörg Drews, »… und alles ist Kabbala«. Gershom Scholem im Gespräch mit Jörg Drews, München 1998, 20. 46 Dan Diner/Jonathan Frankel, Introduction. Jews and Communism. The Utopian Temptation, in: dies. (Hgg.), Dark Times, Dire Decisions. Jews and Communism, Oxford/New York 2004, 3–12, hier 8.

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verfasste eine Geschichte Europas seit der Französischen Revolution als Geschichte zweier Demokratieformen: der liberalen und der totalitären Demokratie, wobei er zu Letzterer jede Form der Revolution zählte. Talmon formte diese Weltsicht unmittelbar nach dem Krieg als 21-jähriger Student an der Hebräischen Universität in Jerusalem, unter dem prägenden Eindruck der stalinistischen Schauprozesse und dem Schock des Holocaust. In Talmons Verständnis gehörten Juden zu den Nutznießern der Revolution, die ihnen einen Platz im politischen Forum einräumte. Aus diesem Grund sei es nur natürlich, dass manche in ihnen die natürlichen Träger der Revolution sähen.47 Dass in den 1960er Jahren Juden wieder an vorderster Front der Studentenbewegung aktiv waren, »nur ein Vierteljahrhundert nach der apokalyptischen Auseinandersetzung zwischen Revolution und Konterrevolution«,48 war für ihn Beunruhigung genug, um das enge Verhältnis zwischen Juden und Revolution neu zu betrachten. Und so fasste er die Problematik 1968 in seinem Buch Israel Among the Nations aus seiner Sicht zusammen: »This is not a subject that can easily be treated with lofty detachment. It is indeed like a foundling, a waif, an abandoned child. No one is willing to claim it for its own sake. Those who should be most interested, revolutionaries of Jewish extraction, or revolution­aries in general, tend to deny the very legitimacy of the juxtaposition, ‘Jews and revolution’. It is, they argue, men, classes, peoples who rise in revolt against oppression, that many revolutionaries have been of Jewish ancestry is quite irrelevant and the very desire to see it as relevant arises out of a sinister intention to discredit the cause of revolution itself. Then there are those Jews who are unable to ignore the intimate relation between Jews and revolution, but wish they had never heard of it. They too sense mischievous designs in the raising of the issue, and they respond by nervously disclaiming any connection with their distant kinsmen gone astray.«49

Für Talmon war diese Diskussion jedoch viel mehr als ein innerjüdischer Familienstreit, weshalb er sich kontinuierlich weiter mit dem Thema beschäftigte, das er als »schwerwiegend und quälend« beschrieb: Was definierte Revolutionäre als jüdisch, die weder der Religion noch einer jüdischen Umgebung treu geblieben waren? Gab es einen jüdischen Charakter, der diese disparaten, individuellen Lebenserfahrungen miteinander verband? Die Tragik der jüdischen Intellektuellen lag für ihn in deren Rolle als revolutionäres Ferment, das die Völker auf die Revolution vorbereitet und dann überflüssig wird. Besonders ausgeprägt sah er dies in der deutschen Revolutionszeit nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg:

47 Jacob L. Talmon, Die Geschichte der totalitären Demokratie, 3 Bde., hg. von Uwe Backes, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2013. 48 »[O]nly a quarter of a century after the apocalyptic confrontation between revolution and counter-revolution«. Ders., Israel among the Nations, London 1970, 1 (zuerst 1968). 49 Ebd.

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»All the characteristics of the role of Jewish intellectuals in politics stand out in the starkest relief at that historic juncture. In the first place, the astonishing phenomenon of the Jewish revolutionary who hastens from country to country to help the cause of rev­ olution: Rosa Luxemburg, [Leo] Yogiches, Karl Radek, [Alexander] Parvus-Helphand, Kurt Eisner and Gustav Landauer, and also many less well known idealists. They never stopped to ask themselves by what right a Polish Jewess, like Rosa Luxemburg, comes and plunges into an internal German quarrel, and tries to upset a national tradition of centuries, or what business had Kurt Eisner, a Prussian journalist, to proclaim a socialist revolution in Catholic Monarchical Conservative Bavaria? Their answer was that their fatherland was the Revolution which had no frontiers; their country was mankind or the proletariat.«50

Die Nationslosigkeit der Revolutionäre war, so Talmon, ihre größte Schwäche, denn ihr auf die Utopie fokussierter Blick machte sie blind für die Gefahren des Nationalismus und der Gegenrevolution: »The expectation of an imminent worldwide breakthrough cost practically all the Jewish revolutionaries their lives, and enabled Hitler, and others before him, to offer ‘proof’ of a world-wide Jewish conspiracy to subvert all existing regimes and enthrone Jewish Bolshevism.«51

Hitler griff sich, so schreibt er an anderer Stelle, den »internationalen jüdisch-marxistischen Revolutionär als Hauptziel« heraus und erklärte ihn zur »die gesamte arische Zivilisation zerstörenden Mikrobe.« Die Bestrafung, die Hitler daraufhin »dem jüdischen Volk als Ganzes zuteil werden ließ, war so furchtbar, dass es einen Schauder auslöst, nur die Frage zu stellen«.52 Mit dieser höchst misslichen Schuldzuweisung nahm Talmon die Argumentation der Weimarer Republik wieder auf, als jüdische Revolutionäre vonseiten der Rechtsparteien für ihren Antisemitismus instrumentalisiert wurden und von jüdischer Seite ängstlich auf diese Zuschreibungen reagiert wurde. Die Nationalsozialisten schließlich missbrauchten diese kausale Verbindung, wie so vieles, bis zur Perversion: etwa als sie den in Dachau inhaftierten Werner Scholem zwangen, sein Gesicht für eine Lebendmaske zur Verfügung zu stellen, um die idealtypischen Züge eines deutsch-jüdischen Revolutionärs in ihrer Hetzausstellung Der ewige Jude zu präsentieren. Die vielfältigen Gesichter und Identitäten des Revolutionärs erstarrten in dieser Gipsmaske zum Stereotyp des Feindes: des Juden, des Intellektuellen und des »Bolschewisten«.53 Auf erschreckende Weise nahmen dieses und andere zum Stereotyp verzerrte Gesichter ihren Weg in die Nachkriegsgeschichte und beeinflussten Historiker wie Talmon. Für sie war die Geschichte der jüdi50 Ders., The Jewish Intellectual in Politics. New Factors in an Ancient Tradition, in: Jewish Observer and Middle East Review, 24. September 1965, 19–26, hier 23. 51 Ebd., 23. 52 Ders., Die Geschichte der totalitären Demokratie, Bd. 3, 219. 53 Zadoff, Der rote Hiob, 278–287.

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schen Revolutionäre von diesem Moment an untrennbar verknüpft mit der nationalsozialistischen Propaganda einer bolschewistischen Weltverschwörung. »Welt-Bolschewismus ohne Maske«, war – wie passend – der Titel von Joseph Goebbels’ Rede auf dem Nürnberger Reichsparteitag 1935 gewesen: Unter der Maske fand der Propagandaminister nichts anderes als das antisemitische Lügengebilde einer »jüdischen Weltverschwörung«.54 Anders als Kayser oder Scholem war Jacob Talmon ein Spätgeborener, der nichts mehr von der Faszination der revolutionären Augenblicke nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg bewusst miterlebt hatte. Für ihn mündeten Revolutionen in antisemitischen Terror; und jüdische Revolutionäre waren nicht visionär, sondern blind, kurzsichtig und politisch unfähig. Die Verwandtschaft, durch die er sich an sie gebunden fühlte, ging ausschließlich auf ihren Tod zurück, der häufig gewaltsam und ein jüdischer Tod im KZ oder Arbeitslager war. Talmon ordnete die Revolutionäre einer tragischen, unheilbringenden Kontinuität in der jüdischen Geschichte zu und holte sie damit auf paradoxe Weise ins Familiengedächtnis zurück: nicht als jüdische Märtyrer wohlgemerkt, sondern als verstoßene Söhne und Töchter – als rote Schafe der Familie.

An der Schwelle: Neue Perspektiven auf die Geschichte der europäischen Intellektuellen In seiner Fernsehsendung Zur Person führte Günter Gaus im Oktober 1964 ein Interview mit Hannah Arendt, in dem er ihr unter anderem die Frage stellte, inwiefern philosophische Erkenntnis auf persönlicher Erfahrung beruhe. »Ich glaube nicht, dass es irgendeinen Denkvorgang gibt, der ohne persönliche Erfahrung möglich ist«, antwortete Arendt. »Alles Denken ist Nachdenken, der Sache nachdenken.«55 Historische Erfahrung, so argumentierte die politische Theoretikerin und Philosophin an anderer Stelle, sei immer eine Reflexion über das Staunen und die Irritation, die von unvorhersehbaren Ereignissen hervorgerufen würden. Geschichte war in ihren Augen ein Prozess, der vor allem von den Faktoren Diskontinuität und Kontingenz bestimmt sei. Dem Erlebten Sinn zu verleihen, es zu deuten und zu interpretieren, sei letztlich abhängig von den Perspektiven der jeweiligen Gegenwart – wobei, 54 Joseph Goebbels, Welt-Bolschewismus ohne Maske. Kernstück der Rede des Dr. Goebbels auf dem Reichsparteitag in Nürnberg 1935, in: Fichtebundblätter, Nr. 791, Hamburg o. J. [1935]. 55 Zur Person. Günter Gaus im Gespräch mit Hannah Arendt, 28. Oktober 1964, in: Rundfunk Berlin-Brandenburg, Interview-Archiv, (18. Dezember 2018).

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so Arendt, es von politischen Entscheidungen abhänge, ob Erfahrungen Eingang nehmen in die Erinnerung, in das individuelle und kollektive Gedächtnis. Im Bemühen, einen Sinn in der Geschichte auszumachen, lag ihr zufolge auch immer der Versuch, sein Leben an der Vergangenheit auszurichten, eine Zukunft zu entwerfen und die Identitäten des Selbst zu verorten.56 Derartige Weltaneignungsprozesse stellten sich als große Herausforderung dar für das 20.  Jahrhundert, das die Exilantin Arendt als »Erfahrung mit der Gegenwart von Abwesenheit« beschrieb. Zugleich war dieses Jahrhundert in besonderer Weise eine Zeit der Neuentwürfe und Revolutionen, in politischer wie in persönlicher Hinsicht. Mit dem Begriff der »Natalität« bezeichnete Hannah Arendt den Neubeginn, den jede Geburt in die Welt bringe, und der zugleich auf die Fähigkeit von Menschen in pluralistischen Gesellschaften verweise: anfangen zu können, umzudenken, sich neu zu entwerfen, unvorhersehbar zu sein.57 Der niederländische Geschichtstheoretiker Frank R. Ankersmit differenziert in seinen Ausführungen zum Thema der »historischen Erfahrung« zwei Ebenen, die für Arendt als Zeitzeugin und Historikerin parallel vorhanden waren – einerseits die subjektive und individuelle Erfahrung und andererseits die »Vorstellung ›einer sinnlichen Erfahrung‹ von Spuren der Vergangenheit (statt der Vergangenheit selbst)«. Ankersmit plädiert dafür, die letztere Erfahrung nicht eng an Sinnbildungsprozesse zu knüpfen, wie es die deutsche Hermeneutik tat, sondern sie mit Johan Huizinga als episodisch, als »Trunkenheit eines Augenblicks« zu begreifen, gewissermaßen als intimen Moment der Begegnung des Historikers mit seinem historischen Subjekt. Ein höchst subjektives Unterfangen, wie Ankersmit mit Recht bemerkt, zugleich aber ein wesentliches für die Arbeit eines jeden Historikers, dessen »historischer Tastsinn« ihn zu einer sinnlichen Annäherung an die Vergangenheit führt.58 Was zeichnet nun die jüdische Erfahrung des 20.  Jahrhunderts aus, und was die Erfahrung des Ertastens dieser Vergangenheit? Das Nachdenken über jüdische Erfahrung im vergangenen Jahrhundert kommt in besonderer Weise einem Nachdenken über das Unvorhersehbare gleich. Und für keine

56 Hannah Arendt, Vom Leben des Geistes, 2 Bde., hier Bd. 1: Das Denken, München 1979, 92 f.; dies., Diskussion mit Freunden und Kollegen in Toronto, November 1972, in: dies., Ich will verstehen. Selbstauskünfte zu Leben und Werk, hg. von Ursula Ludz, München/ Zürich 1996, 71–114, hier 79; Claudia Althaus, Erfahrung denken. Hannah Arendts Weg von der Zeitgeschichte zur politischen Theorie, Göttingen 2000, 75 f., 270 f. und 372–374. 57 »Erfahrung mit der Gegenwart von Abwesenheit«, in einem Brief an Mary McCarthy, 22./25. Januar, 1972, in: Hannah Arendt/Mary McCarthy, Im Vertrauen. Briefwechsel 1949–1975, hg. und mit einer Einführung versehen von Carol Brightman, übers. aus dem Amerikan. von Ursula Ludz und Hans Moll, München/Zürich 1995, 441; Althaus, Erfahrung denken, 120 und 271–280. 58 Frank R. Ankersmit, Die historische Erfahrung, Berlin 2012, 7–15.

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andere Epoche ist es derart schwierig, zu definieren, was eine »jüdische Erfahrung« überhaupt ausmacht, und welche Aspekte ein Leben als jüdisch bestimmen. Denn nie zuvor konnte die Divergenz zwischen Selbst- und Fremdbild eine vergleichbare Größe erreichen, eine Divergenz, mit der es jeder Versuch, Zugehörigkeit zu schaffen, nun aufnehmen musste. Besonders paradox war das Phänomen, dass in den totalitären Regimen des Nationalsozialismus und des Stalinismus einem nichtjüdisch gelebten Leben ein Tod als Jude folgen konnte. Betreffen konnte dieses Schicksal all jene, die in einer nationalen Kultur aufgegangen waren und sich gänzlich als Deutsche, Polen, Franzosen, Russen usw. gefühlt hatten, oder jene, die sich dem Internationalismus kommunistischer oder sozialistischer Ideologien verpflichtet hatten. Ihre Geschichten hinterließen lange Zeit wenige Spuren im kollektiven jüdischen Gedächtnis und in den Arbeiten von Historikern der jüdischen Geschichte. Dabei vermögen gerade diese Biografien Aufschluss über die Parallelität von Selbst- und Fremdbildern zu geben und darüber, wie diese widersprüchlichen Wahrnehmungen miteinander korrespondierten. Wie können Leben, die sich ins Außerhalb jüdischer Räume verlagert hatten und trotzdem an der Grenze zu diesen existierten, erinnert werden? Intellektuelle Diskussionen der vergangenen Jahre sind zu dem Schluss gekommen, »dass sich der Ort der Grenze in seiner Ambivalenz einer eindeutigen Bestimmung entzieht«.59 Damit ist umschrieben, wie problematisch die Deutung und Zuschreibung der Biografien jüdischer Revolutionäre sein kann. Walter Benjamin argumentierte, dass die Grenze keine Linie sei, die man überschreite, um von einem Ort zu einem anderen zu gelangen, sondern vielmehr ein Raum mit seinen eigenen Regeln: »Die Schwelle ist ganz scharf von der Grenze zu scheiden. Schwelle ist eine Zone. Wandel, Übergang, Fluten liegen im Worte ›schwellen‹, und diese Bedeutung hat die Etymologie nicht übersehen.«60 Der Charakter eines solchen dynamischen Schwellenraumes liegt deshalb nicht im Trennenden, sondern ganz im Gegenteil, »im trennenden Verbinden«. Die Grenze definiert den Raum auf ihren beiden Seiten und zugleich verbindet sie diese beiden Bereiche, die nur in wechselseitiger Abhängigkeit zueinander existieren können.61 Verortet man die Lebensgeschichten von revolutionären Juden in ebendiesem Schwellenraum, so ist eine Erzählung ihrer Biografie nur durch eine 59 Christoph Kleinschmidt, Einleitung: Formen und Funktionen von Grenzen, in: Christoph Kleinschmidt/Christine Hewel (Hgg.), Topographien der Grenze. Verortung einer kulturellen, politischen und ästhetischen Kategorie, Würzburg 2011, 9–21, hier 9. 60 Walter Benjamin, Das Passagen-Werk, Bd. 1, Frankfurt a. M. 1983, 618. 61 Christian Müller, Strukturalistische Analyse des narrativen Raumes – erprobt an Thomas Manns »Der Zauberberg«, in: Tim Lörke/Christian Müller (Hgg.), Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der Theorie für die Lektüre. Das Werk Thomas Manns im Lichte neuer Literaturtheorien, Würzburg 2005, 49–76, hier 56.

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integrierende Sicht der beiden Seiten, diesseits und jenseits der Grenze, möglich. Ein Theoretiker dieses Raumes ist Isaac Deutscher, ein Zeitgenosse Talmons, der das Thema gewissermaßen von der anderen Seite des Abgrundes beschreibt. Der aus Osteuropa stammende britische Historiker nahm sich der Problematik des Revolutionärs bereits 1958 an, als er dem World Jewish Congress sein Konzept der »nichtjüdischen Juden« vorstellte. Deutscher weigerte sich, die damals weitverbreitete Sicht der jüdischen Geschichtswissenschaft zu akzeptieren, der zufolge revolutionäre Juden sich ins Außerhalb der jüdischen Welt begeben hätten und deshalb nicht Gegenstand der Forschung sein sollten.62 Er zeigte sich fasziniert von der Bewegung in die Exponiertheit und Verletzlichkeit, die, motiviert durch eine Sehnsucht nach universeller Solidarität, »nichtjüdische Juden« aus »jüdischen Juden« machte. In seinem Essay beschreibt Deutscher seine eigene biografische Entwicklung, die ihn vom Talmudschüler zum Revolutionär machte. Und so beginnt der Text auch mit einer tief in der religiösen Tradition wurzelnden Kindheitserinnerung. Damals habe er einen Midrasch über Elischa ben Abuja gelesen, den man auch Acher, den Anderen oder den Fremden, nannte. Acher war ein Freund Rabbi Akibas und Lehrer des Rabbi Meir, eines Mitautors der Mischna. In dem Midrasch wurde beschrieben, wie Elischa ben Abuja sich mehr und mehr der Häresie zuwandte. An einem Versöhnungstag, der auf einen Sabbat fiel, begleitete Rabbi Meir seinen Lehrer auf einen Ausflug: Acher ritt auf einem Esel, während Rabbi Meir zu Fuß ging, da es am Sabbat verboten ist zu reiten. Die beiden verwickelten einander in eine hitzige Diskussion, weshalb sie beinahe den Eruv, die rituelle Sabbatgrenze, übersahen. Der Häretiker gebot seinem Schüler, umzukehren, und Rabbi Meir ging zurück zur jüdischen Gemeinde. Acher unterdessen ritt unverdrossen weiter und überquerte die Grenze des Judentums.63 Deutscher deutete sein kindliches Leseerlebnis als Initiation und Beginn vieler Fragen: Warum war ein bedeutender talmudischer Gelehrter wie Rabbi  Meir Schüler eines Häretikers? Warum blieb er ihm treu und verehrte seinen Lehrer? Warum respektierte der Häretiker die Bedürfnisse seines Schülers und warum sorgte er sich darum, dass dieser sich an das jüdische Religionsgesetz hielt? Aus dieser ihn faszinierenden Figur des Lehrers und Häretikers entwickelte Deutscher den Prototyp der großen jüdischen Revolutionäre, zu denen er von Baruch Spinoza über Heinrich Heine, Karl Marx, Rosa Luxemburg und Leo Trotzki auch Sigmund Freud zählte:

62 Isaac Deutscher, Der nichtjüdische Jude. Essays, mit einem Beitrag von Tamara Deutscher und einer Einführung von Detlev Claussen, übers. aus dem Engl. von Eike Geisel, Berlin 1988. 63 Ebd., 59; Talmud Jeruschalmi, Chagigah 2:1, 77b–c; Midrasch Ruth Raba 6; Midrasch Ecclesiastes Raba 7.

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»Sie alle haben die Grenzen des Judentums gesprengt. Sie alle hielten das Judentum für zu beschränkt, zu archaisch und einengend. Sie alle suchten jenseits von ihm nach Idealen und Zielen, und sie sind der Inbegriff für viele der bedeutendsten Leistungen des neuzeitlichen Denkens, sie verkörpern die tiefgreifendsten Umwälzungen, die in der Philosophie, der Ökonomie und in der Politik der letzten drei Jahrhunderte stattgefunden haben.«64

Was Deutschers Figur des nichtjüdischen Juden auszeichnet, so Enzo Traverso, seien dessen außerordentliche intellektuelle Kreativität, sein Kosmopolitismus und sein Antikonformismus als charakteristische Folgen des Außenseitertums. Deutschers nichtjüdische Juden zeigen Ähnlichkeiten mit Georg Simmels soziologischer Figur des »Fremden«, eines kosmopolitischen Repräsentanten der Moderne, dessen scheinbare Wurzellosigkeit von der Umgebung als bedrohlich wahrgenommen wird.65 Und so kommt auch Deutscher zum Schluss, dass ihr Schicksal ein verbindendes Element dieser unterschiedlichen Biografien von Spinoza bis Freud sei: »Als Juden waren sie in gewissem Sinne wurzellos, aber eben nur in mancher Hinsicht, waren sie doch ganz eng mit der intellektuellen Tradition und den edelsten Bestrebungen ihrer Zeit verbunden. Aber immer, wenn religiöse Intoleranz oder nationalistische Stimmungen aufkamen, immer wenn Engstirnigkeit und Fanatismus triumphierten, waren sie die ersten Opfer.«66

Aber in diesem gemeinsamen Schicksal lag mehr als die Drohung eines jüdischen Todes, wie Deutscher in einem anderen Essay mit dem Titel Wer ist Jude bemerkt. Darin verweist er auf die Erfahrung einer gemeinsamen Geschichte, die ihn mit dem Judentum verband und die auch die lose zusammenhängende Gruppe der nichtjüdischen Juden zusammenhielt: »Religion? Ich bin Atheist. Jüdischer Nationalismus  – ich bin Internationalist. Nach keiner dieser Bedeutungen bin ich daher Jude. Wohl aber bin ich Jude kraft meiner unbedingten Solidarität mit den Verfolgten und Ausgerotteten. Ich bin Jude, weil ich die jüdische Tragödie als meine eigene empfinde; weil ich den Pulsschlag der jüdischen Geschichte spüre.«67

Als Juden, erklärt Deutscher, lebten alle diese intellektuellen Außenseiter in den Grenzräumen unterschiedlicher Zivilisationen, Religionen und nationa-

64 Deutscher, Der nichtjüdische Jude, 60. 65 Enzo Traverso, Art. »Nichtjüdischer Jude«, in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig hg. von Dan Diner, Bd. 4, Stuttgart 2013, 364–368; Georg Simmel, Gesamtausgabe in 24 Bden., hg. von Otthein Rammstedt, hier Bd. 11: Soziologie. Untersuchungen über die Formen der Vergesellschaftung, Frankfurt a. M. 1992. 66 Deutscher, Der nichtjüdische Jude, 66 f. 67 Ebd., 91.

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len Kulturen. Was Talmon als Schwäche und Gefahr interpretierte, war für Deutscher ein Privileg, das jene in der Nation Beheimateten und fern der Grenze Angesiedelten niemals erlebten: die Sensibilität, die aus der Exponiertheit eines Lebens im Übergang erwächst, und der Blick auf die Welt aus dieser Perspektive des Außenseiters. Deutscher sah in den Häretikern aber nicht nur eine säkulare jüdische Tradition, sondern – und das besagt die Erzählung seiner Kindheitserinnerung – er bezog sich auch auf die Geschichte eines Dialogs: zwischen dem Schüler und dem Lehrer, zwischen der rabbinischen Autorität und dem Häretiker, zwischen dem »jüdischen Juden« und dem »nichtjüdischen Juden«. Deutschers Bemühen liegt demzufolge nicht nur in dem Versuch, jüdische Häretiker, Renegaten und Außenseiter in die jüdische Tradition einzuschreiben, sondern es betont vielmehr die inhaltliche Auseinandersetzung zwischen den beiden Gruppen: ein Dialog in Grenzregionen und Schwellenräumen. Deutschers eigenbrötlerische Intellektuelle sind uns heute vertraute Genossen – wir begegnen ihnen in vielen kreativen, unangepassten und manchmal kontroversen Biografien des 20. und 21. Jahrhunderts. Wie die amerikanische Historikerin Marci Shore betont, spielen Deutschers »nichtjüdische Juden« nicht nur eine unverhältnismäßig große Rolle in der Geschichte der marxistischen Bewegungen, sondern auch in der intellektuellen Geschichte Europas. Sie schlägt deshalb vor, Deutschers Liste um allerlei kosmopolitische Grenzgänger zu erweitern: etwa um den Philosophen und Erfinder des Esperanto Ludwik Zamenhof; um den Autor der modernen Grenzerfahrung Franz Kafka; um Hannah Arendt, die Philosophin der Flüchtlingserfahrung oder um den infolge seiner Israelkritik umstrittenen britischen Historiker Tony Judt.68 Sie alle waren Zeit ihres Lebens in Kontroversen und Freundschaften mit »jüdischen Juden« eingebunden – von Gershom Scholem über Max Brod bis Leon Wieseltier – und führten mit diesen aufregende, konfliktreiche und vielfältige Gespräche dies- und jenseits der Grenze.

Never Quite Finished: Das biografische Puzzle als utopisches Projekt Vor dem Hintergrund der Geschichte der kosmopolitischen Intellektuellen im Europa des 20.  Jahrhunderts lässt sich eine andere Erzählung der Biografien von jüdischen Revolutionären vornehmen: Eingebettet in ein Netz 68 Marci Shore, Jews and Cosmopolitanism. An Arc of European Thought, in: Historická Sociologie [Historical Sociology] 2 (2015), 61–81.

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aus Beziehungen beiderseits der Grenze, stellt sich für den Biografen nicht mehr zwingend die Frage der Zuordnung zur einen oder zur anderen Seite. »For Jews, as for others in the modern world, the construction of identities has not been a stable process generated only from within. Rather. It has entailed a constant negotiation with the shifting social and cultural circumstances in which they have found themselves. Jews have often been torn between their self-perception as ‘outsiders’ and their desire to be accepted as ‘insiders’.«69

Und so liegt ein gangbarer und vielversprechender Weg darin, Biografien als eine Abfolge situativer Entscheidungen zu begreifen, in der »Zugehörigkeit« ebenso Platz findet wie »Eigensinn«, »Einsamkeit«, »Tradition«, »Bruch«, »Kohärenz« und nicht zu vergessen die »unheilbare Unlogik eines Lebens«. Eines der schönsten und klügsten Bilder über das Schreiben einer Biografie ist, mitsamt der »unheilbaren Unlogik«, dem schottischen Schriftsteller und viel gereisten Kosmopoliten Robert Louis Stevenson zu verdanken. Lange vor der Bloomsbury Group, im Juni 1893, notierte Stevenson an einen Freund: »I like biography far better than fiction myself: fiction is too free. In biography you have your little handful of facts, little bits of a puzzle, and you sit and think and fit ’em togeth­ er this way and that, and get up and throw ’em down, and say damn, and go out for a walk. And it’s really soothing; and when done, gives an idea of finish to the writer that is very peaceful. Of course, it’s not really so finished as quite a rotten novel; it always has and always must have the incurable illogicalities of life about it. […] Still, that’s where the fun comes in.«70

Ein loser biografischer Rahmen, in dem die Puzzleteile hin- und hergeschoben werden und am Ende den bestmöglichen Platz in der rhetorischen Konstruktion einer Biografie zugewiesen bekommen? Beendet ist das Projekt damit noch lange nicht. Denn wie käme das Schreiben einer Biografie tatsächlich zu einem Ende? Stets könnte ein neues Puzzleteil auftauchen und das Bild verändern, und sei es marginal. Schlussendlich ist jede Biografie, im Gegensatz zu dem Leben, das sie erzählt, ein unvollendetes, temporäres – und damit ein utopisches Projekt.

69 Eric L. Goldstein, Contesting the Categories. Jews and Government Racial Classification in the United States, in: Jewish History 19 (2005), 79–107, hier 79 f.; Stuart Hall, Cultural Identity and Diaspora, in: Jonathan Rutherford (Hg.), Identity. Community, Culture, Difference, London 1990, 222–237. 70 Robert Louis Stevenson an Edmund Gosse, 10. Juni 1893, in: The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson, hg. von Sidney Colvin, 4 Bde., hier Bd. 4, o. O. 1911, 104.

Katrin Steffen

Transnational Parallel Biographies: The Lives of Ludwik Hirszfeld and Jan Czochralski and Their ­Contribution to Modern European Science Why Parallel Biography? Research on certain substances such as metals and blood at the beginning of the twentieth century attracted the attention of scientists worldwide. Two outstanding examples will be examined in this article, namely the bacteriologist Ludwik Hirszfeld (1884–1954) and the metallurgist Jan Czochralski (1885–1953). While Hirszfeld was born into a Warsaw Jewish family, Czochralski came from a small-town Polish Catholic milieu.1 Structurally and conceptually, they had many things in common, far beyond the fact that they shared a similar generational experience. Both came from the Polish territories annexed by the imperial powers Prussia, Austria, and Russia from 1792 to 1795: Czochralski was born in the small town 1

Various biographies have been written about each of them, mainly in Poland. See Paweł Tomaszewski, Jan Czochralski i jego metoda [Jan Czochralski and His Method], Wrocław 2003; idem, Powrót. Rzecz o Janie Czochralskim, Wrocław 2012 (Engl.: Jan Czochralski Restored, Wrocław 2013); Katrin Steffen, Wissenschaftler in Bewegung. Der Materialforscher Jan Czochralski zwischen den Weltkriegen, in: Journal of Modern European History 6 (2008), no. 2, 237–261. Additionally, the documentary film Powrót Chemika (Return of a Chemist) by Anna Laszczak was released in Poland in 2014. On Ludwik Hirszfeld, ˙ see Waldemar Kozuschek, Ludwik Hirszfeld (1884–1954). Rys Zycia i działalno s´c ´ naukowa [Ludwik Hirszfeld. Outline of His Life and Scientific Work], Wrocław 2005; Marek Jaworski, Ludwik Hirszfeld, Warsaw 1977; Jakob Wolf Gilsohn, Prof. Dr. Ludwig Hirszfeld, Munich 1965. Hirszfeld’s autobiography, published in Polish in 1947, appeared in 2010 in English with a very thoughtful introduction: Ludwik Hirszfeld, The Story of One Life, ed. by Marta A. Bali ´nska/William H. Schneider, trans. by Marta A. Bali ´nska, Rochester, N. Y., 2010. For the German version see idem, Geschichte eines Lebens. Autobiographie, aus dem Poln. von Lisa Palmer und Lothar Quinkenstein, Paderborn 2018. On this memoir, see Katrin Steffen, “Die Welt will aber davon nichts wissen.” Die Rezeption der Memoiren Ludwik Hirszfelds und die Reaktionen auf seine Sicht des Le­bens im Warschauer Ghetto, in: Ruth Leiserowitz et al. (eds.), Lesestunde/Lekcja czytania, Warsaw 2013, 351–369. See also Katrin Steffen/Maciej Górny, Böses Blut. Die Blutgruppenforschung und der Serologe Ludwik Hirszfeld in Deutschland und in Polen, in: Historie. Jahrbuch des Zentrums für Historische Forschung Berlin der Polnischen Akademie der Wissenschaften  7 (2013/14), 97–119 (Pol.: Zła krew. Polsko-niemiecki spór o histori e˛ serologii i posta c´ Ludwika Hirszfelda, in: Przegl  ad ˛ Historyczny [Historical Review] 105 (2014), no. 3, 435–452). JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 391–418.

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Kcynia in the Prussian part of Poland, while Hirszfeld grew up in Łód ´z in the Russian part. Hirszfeld’s father Stanisław came from a prominent family of the Warsaw Jewish intelligentsia, while his mother’s family were factory owners in the textile centers of Russian-ruled Poland. By contrast to many other family members, Hirszfeld’s parents did not convert to Christianity, so he was circumcised and attended Jewish religious classes for some time. Besides that, he did not live the life of a practicing Jew. In 1919, he converted to Catholicism together with his wife Hanna, who also came from a Jewish family. Nevertheless, many non-Jews and antisemites considered the Hirszfelds Jews, which did not completely correspond to their self-perception. Their self-perception was also questioned by some Jews in Poland, who considered Ludwik’s conversion in particular as an act of opportunism in order to pursue his career and who perceived him as a traitor to his roots. Thus, the experience of ascription, antisemitism, and unaccepted conversion accompanied him and his wife Hanna – also a physician, a pediatrician who frequently collaborated in research projects with her husband – throughout their entire lives. In Łód ´z, Hirszfeld attended the Russian gimnazium, where he acted as librarian of a clandestine self-learning group, thus participating in Polish underground activities.2 Far less is known about the early life of Jan Czochralski. Whether he held a similarly oppositional attitude towards the Prussian authorities in the small town of Kcynia is not known. His father ran a small carpenter’s workshop there, and Czochralski attended the German-language Royal Prussian Teacher’s College. He did not graduate from that school though, allegedly out of protest against unfair grading. Additionally, he gained some practical experience in one or two drugstores in his home town.3 Although the personal experiences of the two differed during their youth, they nevertheless shared the structural experience of growing up at the periphery of two imperial regimes. Both wanted to leave in order to search for an excellent education, since Prussian and Russian efforts to educate a local elite in those peripheries did not meet their expectations. Both chose German-speaking areas for their education and the start of their occupational lives: In 1904, Czochralski moved to Berlin, an important center for the technical sciences and the emerging industry of imperial Germany, which he left for Frankfurt am Main in 1917. Hirszfeld decided in 1902 to go to Würzburg,

2 Hirszfeld, The Story of One Life, XX f. 3 See Michał Kokowski, Komentarz do artykułu dr. Pawła  E. Tomaszewskiego: “Jan Czochralski. Historia człowieka niezwykłego” [Comment on the Article “Jan Czochralski. The History of an Unusual Man” by Dr Paweł E. Tomaszewski], in: Prace Komisji Historii Nauki PAU [Studies of the Commission for the History of Science of the Polish Academy of Arts and Sciences] 13 (2014), 131–140.

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a center for medical training, and moved to Berlin two years later. There, he wrote his dissertation before continuing his work in Heidelberg and Zurich. After World War I, during which both continued their scientific work, the Polish state came into being again. This meant the emergence of new spaces for the scientists, full of opportunities and expectations, challenges and risks. Hirszfeld chose to live in Warsaw, the new capital of Poland, from 1919 onwards. Czochralski followed in 1928. By that time, both were already part of the European elite in the natural and technical sciences. They became active not only in laboratories, universities, and research institutes, but also in public, where they acted, among others things, as counselors to politics, industry, and the military. If one follows the historian Margit Szöllösi-Janze’s analysis of the role of experts in twentieth-century history, they belonged to the central figures of their time.4 Hirszfeld and Czochralski stayed in Poland even through the German invasion in September 1939. From then on, their paths diverged, despite a further parallel in the fact that the German occupation constituted a deep rupture for both. Since Hirszfeld was treated as a Jew according to the racist definitions of the German occupiers, he was dismissed from his position in Warsaw and forced to move into the ghetto. In summer 1942, he managed to flee and was able to hide in the countryside. This way he could continue his scientific work after 1945, becoming one of the leading scientists to build up the medical faculty of the University of Wrocław, the former Breslau. Czochralski, on the other hand, continued his work after 1940 under the auspices of the German occupiers. Although he also served in the Polish resistance during the war, he was accused of collaboration by the post-war regime. He lost his position, went back to his home town, and fell into long-lasting oblivion. The parallel and therefore comparative analysis of these two lives allows for a close look at different potentials of development in twentieth-century Central Europe, and thus for insights unavailable when focusing on just one individual. Parallel biography is able to show how similar or different life stories can develop from a similar point of departure. One of the best known and oldest representatives of the genre of parallel biography, Plutarch, interpreted this biographical form as the most convenient method to get to know both the collective and the individual. This perspective also allows for the

4

Margit Szöllösi-Janze, Der Experte als Schachspieler. Thesen zum Verhältnis von Wissenschaft und Krieg, in: Forschungsberichte aus dem Duitsland Instituut Amsterdam/Universiteit van Amsterdam 5 (2009), 34–47, here 34.

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integration of new research questions,5 for instance the transnational aspect of their lives.6 The implications of transnationalism on the lives of Hirszfeld and Czochralski have to date not been sufficiently researched. I here regard both as “go betweens,” meaning a category in the history of science that eludes simple national categorization and shows the heterogeneity of identity constructions. A new constellation of transnationalism and knowledge circulation had begun to characterize the lives of many scientists in Europe and beyond by the turn of the last century, not only in the natural sciences, but also in law and other fields. The parallel biographical approach links the history of those protagonists to the data they bore, because processes of knowledge transfer or rather knowledge circulation were closely connected to their transnational lives.7 Those processes resulted in knowledge production in different national and international settings. Both acted in a frame of multiple geographies, in which they introduced, developed, and transferred those practices of science and expertise they had acquired as a result of interaction and transnational communication.8 This way they became part of both German and Polish scientific cultures.9 Since those cultures themselves were already results of global processes of knowledge circulation, interaction, and mobility,

5 Levke Harders/Hannes Schweiger, Kollektivbiographische Ansätze, in: Christian Klein (ed.), Handbuch Biographie. Methoden, Traditionen, Theorien, Stuttgart/Weimar 2009, 194–198, here 197; Hannes Schweiger, Die soziale Konstituierung von Lebensgeschich­ ten. Überlegungen zur Kollektivbiographik, in: Bernhard Fetz (ed.), Die Biographie. Zur Grundlegung ihrer Theorie, assisted by Hannes Schweiger, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2009, 317–352, here 332. 6 Patricia Clavin, Defining Transnationalism, in: Contemporary European History  14 (2005), no. 4, 421–439, here 422; see also Johannes Paulmann, Grenzüberschreitungen und Grenzräume. Überlegungen zur Geschichte transnationaler Beziehungen von der Mitte des 19.  Jahrhunderts bis in die Zeitgeschichte, in: Eckart Conze/Ulrich Lappenküper/Guido Müller (eds.), Geschichte der internationalen Beziehungen. Erneuerung und Erweiterung einer historischen Disziplin, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 2004, 169–196, here 179. See also Desley Deacon/Penny Russell/Angela Woollacott (eds.), Transnational Lives. Biographies of Global Modernity, 1700 – Present, Basingstoke/New York 2010. 7 Veronika Lipphardt/Daniel Ludwig, Wissens- und Wissenschaftstransfer, in: Europäische Geschichte Online (EGO), ed. by Institut für Europäische Geschichte (IEG), 28 September 2011, (12 December 2018). 8 On the concept of multiple geographies and global “ethnoscapes,” see Arjun Appadurai, Globale ethnische Räume, in: Ulrich Beck (ed.), Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft, Frankfurt a. M. 1998, 11–40; Michael G. Müller/Cornelius Torp, Conceptualising Transnational Spaces in History, in: European Review of History/Revue européenne d’histoire  16 (2009), no. 5, 609–617. 9 Knowledge cultures are understood as locally shared practices against the background of historical traditions, beliefs, and mechanisms of transmission. See Wolfgang Detel, Wissenskulturen und epistemische Praktiken, in: Johannes Fried/Thomas Kailer (eds.), Wissenskulturen. Beiträge zu einem forschungsstrategischen Konzept, Berlin 2003, 119–132.

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it is difficult to categorize those cultures or spaces of knowledge with clear attributions such as “German,” “Polish,” “Jewish,” “Western” or “Eastern.” In examining these transnational lives, one can grasp the influence that migration, transfer, and the circulation of knowledge could have on innovation, the emergence of knowledge, and its institutionalization. Since both scientists were part of a group of internationally oriented and publicly active experts, we can also investigate specific tensions between international network cultures and the framework of the nation state within which these experts acted as part of national institutional infrastructures. The analysis of these two lives through the regime changes of 1918, 1939, and 1945 enables us moreover to take a close look at the practices and techniques necessary for both actors to achieve a status as acknowledged scientists and publicly acting experts in a given regime and society and what kind of influence cultural capital or descent played therein. This includes the compromises they had to find, the limits they were confronted with, and the mechanisms through which science and knowledge were intertwined with politics and culture. Neither side is predominant in this relationship, constituting rather a dynamic social network: They exist as “resources for each other,” as Mitchell Ash named this constellation.10 There is no simple dichotomy between seemingly apolitical scientists and a political body. Scientists like Hirszfeld and Czochralski wanted not only to profit from state funding, they also wanted to make their knowledge available for the modernization of society, or even, as they put it themselves, mankind. For a connection between science and its application, both of them acted publicly in different associations and organizations, as reviewers, as patrons for the arts or museums, supporters of students, or as counselors for politics, industry, and the military.

Creating and Establishing Expertise Czochralski and Hirszfeld both left the peripheral parts of the imperial regimes they were born into and migrated to centers. Czochralski began his education first in a pharmacy and then a small chemical company in Berlin,

10 Mitchell G. Ash, Wissenschaft und Politik als Ressourcen für einander, in: Rüdiger vom Bruch/Brigitte Kaderas (eds.), Wissenschaften und Wissenschaftspolitik. Bestandsaufnahmen zu Formationen, Brüchen und Kontinuitäten im Deutschland des 20. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 2002, 32–51; see also Martin Kohlrausch/Katrin Steffen/Stefan Wiederkehr, Introduction, in: idem (eds.), Expert Cultures in Central Eastern Europe. The Internationalization of Knowledge and the Transformation of Nation States since World War I, Osnabrück 2010, 21–23.

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and may have attended classes at the Technical University Berlin-Charlottenburg, although there is no evidence for this and he never graduated from any university. He thus counts mainly as an autodidact. This evoked admiration throughout his life on the one hand, but on the other may have limited his opportunities for advancement in the hierarchical circles of science, although self-education was quite common during that time.11 However, due to his practical capital, Czochralski found employment in the large research laboratories of the metal industry. His first employer was the General Electricity Company (AEG) in Berlin, which he joined as a research assistant in August 1907. Around the same time, in December 1907, Ludwik Hirszfeld began his first position after his doctorate at the German Cancer Research Center (Deutsches Krebsforschungs­ zentrum) in Heidelberg. Both young scientists now met mentors who – due to their innovative research ideas, styles of thinking, and the thought collectives to which they belonged – influenced them significantly.12 The German Cancer Research Center and the metal laboratory of AEG were in their own way highly innovative and pursued new research approaches, for instance the introduction of the relatively new metal aluminum in the electrical industry or experimental cancer research. Hirszfeld and Czochralski knew how to profit effectively from their integration into those circles, creating expertise and networks and establishing themselves with fundamental research on the substances they were dealing with. Before World War I, they published articles in German journals contributing significantly to the advancement of their research fields. The AEG laboratory represented a close link between military, industry, and technological science, as well as a “scientification” of industrial production.13 Czochralski strongly promoted these connections he experienced

11 Martin Kohlrausch/Helmuth Trischler, Building Europe on Expertise. Innovators, Orga­ nizers, Networks, Basingstoke 2014, 40. 12 “Style of thinking” and “thought collective” are defined following Ludwik Fleck, Entstehung und Entwicklung einer wissenschaftlichen Tatsache. Einführung in die Lehre vom Denkstil und Denkkollektiv, Basel 1935. The terms refer to the readiness for a directed perception, with corresponding mental and objective assimilation of what has been perceived, characterized by specific problems of interest and by judgments that a collective of people who think in a similar way considers evident, and by certain methods which are applied as a means of cognition. 13 Helmut Maier, Forschung als Waffe. Rüstungsforschung in der Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gesellschaft und das Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institut für Metallforschung 1900–1945/48, 2  vols., here vol.  1, Göttingen 2007, 105–107; Margit Szöllösi-Janze, Wissensgesellschaft in Deutschland. Überlegungen zur Neubestimmung der deutschen Zeitgeschichte über Verwissenschaftlichungsprozesse, in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft 30 (2004), no. 2, 277–313, 289; Dominique Pestre, Regimes of Knowledge Production in Society. Towards a more Political and Social Reading, in: Minerva 41 (2003), no. 3, 245–261, here 249.

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in Berlin throughout his life. Together with his mentor, the engineer and laboratory director Wichard von Moellendorff (1881–1937), whom Walther Rathenau had recruited for the AEG, Czochralski conducted fundamental research on the consistence of technically important metals such as copper, tin, brass, aluminum, and zinc. They also worked on questions of crystallography.14 Their results proved to be pioneering and contradicted the established doctrines of the time.15 The so-called “Czochralski method” was developed in this laboratory more or less accidentally in 1916 and remains a popular method of crystal growing used to obtain single crystals of semiconductors today.16 The outbreak of World War I determined Czochralski’s further research: AEG became the second largest armaments factory following Krupp, and invested significant resources into the scientific problems of armament production.17 This was mainly carried out at Czochralski’s workplace at the Kabelwerk Oberspree of AEG in Berlin.18 Due to the dire lack of raw materials during the war, his research concentrated mainly on ammunition from substitute materials, for example producing cartridges from steel instead of the rare and extremely expensive copper.19 The demands the laboratory was confronted with were huge and Czochralski, due to his duties, postponed several planned publications during the war for which he had already signed

14 Wichard von Moellendorff/Jan Czochralski, Technologische Schlüsse aus der Kristallo­ graphie der Metalle, in: Zeitschrift des Vereins Deutscher Ingenieure 57 (1913), no. 24, 931–935 and no. 26, 1014–1020. 15 Jürgen Evers/Leonhard Möckl, Wichard von Moellendorff. Mit logischer Schärfe und systematischer Unbeugsamkeit, in: Chemie in unserer Zeit 49 (2015), no. 4, 236–247. 16 Jan Czochralski, Ein neues Verfahren zur Messung der Kristallisationsgeschwindigkeit der Metalle, in: Zeitschrift für Physikalische Chemie 92 (1918), no. 1, 219–221. About 95 percent of the world’s current productions of silicone single crystals, material necessary in all microelectronics, are based on the process that Jan Czochralski discovered and for which his name became famous in the world of semiconductors. See Jürgen Evers et al., Czochralskis schöpferischer Fehlgriff. Ein Meilenstein auf dem Weg in die Gigabit-Ära, in: Angewandte Chemie 115 (2003), no. 46, 5862–5877. 17 Lieselotte Kugler (ed.), Die AEG im Bild, Berlin 2001; Burghard Weiss, Rüstungsforschung am Forschungsinstitut der Allgemeinen Elektricitäts-Gesellschaft bis 1945, in: Helmut Maier (ed.), Rüstungsforschung im Nationalsozialismus. Organisation, Mobilisie­ rung und Entgrenzung der Technikwissenschaften, Göttingen 2002, 109–141, hier 115. 18 AEG (ed.), 50 Jahre AEG, Berlin 1956 (first publ. 1933), 192. 19 Betriebsarchiv des VEB Kabelwerk Oberspree, Berlin-Oberschöneweide, Archiv Nr.  899/11/9, Technischer Bericht Nr.  333, cit. in Hans Radandt, AEG. Ein typischer Konzern, Berlin 1958. See also [n. a.], AEG 1883–1923, Berlin 1924, 27; Bundesarchiv (henceforth BArch), R 8752-12, Metallmeldestelle, 56. Sparmetallsitzung, 20  March 1917.

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contracts.20 However, the experiences he gained in researching substitute materials proved to be very lucrative. In June 1917, he had an interview at the Berlin Office of the Metallgesellschaft, one of the largest trading companies for metals worldwide with its headquarters in Frankfurt.21 There he left an impression of being a “very reflected person with, so it seems, great knowledge in metallurgy.”22 He was soon appointed head of the newly established metal laboratories of the Metallgesellschaft. From then on, Czochralski headed one of the largest industrial research laboratories in the German metal industry. Following the structure introduced by Wichard von Moellendorff at AEG, he organized it according to a combination of chemical, metallographic, mechanic, and physical research linked to practical experiments.23 At first, Czochralski was mainly obliged to do fundamental research on metal alloys without the expensive tin for the German Railways (Deutsche Reichsbahn) and on aluminum, which counted as the metal of the future.24 Czochralski moreover held several influential positions within the newly formed Deutsche Gesellschaft für Metallkunde (German Society for Metallurgy, DGM), which he co-founded in 1919 with some of the leading metallurgists in Germany, and which constituted in the words of Helmut Maier a “belligerent foundation in peaceful times.”25 In his speech at the inaugural meeting of the society in front of representatives of industry, science, the military, and politics, he called for close cooperation between science and industry, bearing in mind the experience of World War  I and the difficult situation concerning raw materials in Germany: “We must focus on practical work […] and thwart foreign plans by means of forceful efforts. […] We must master metal processing to a degree that makes us independent of foreign dictate and ensure that our manufacture yields the greatest possible profit. Only then can we confront foreign powers […].”26

20 Zentral- und Landesbibliothek Berlin, Historische Sammlungen, Archiv des Julius Sprin­ ger-Verlags, Korrespondenz Czochralski; Jan Czochralski, Die Metallographie des Zinns und die Theorie der Formänderung bildsamer Metalle, in: Metall und Erz 13 (1916), 381– 393, here 388. 21 Günter Wassermann/Peter Wincierz (eds.), Das Metall-Laboratorium der Metallgesellschaft AG 1918–1981. Chronik und Bibliographie, Anlässlich des 100-jährigen Bestehens der Metallgesellschaft AG, Frankfurt a. M. 1981, 3. 22 Hessisches Wirtschaftsarchiv, Abt. 119, Metallgesellschaft, Johann Czochralski, Materia­ lien zur Lebensgeschichte (unpublished and unpaginated manuscript). 23 Ibid., Pos. 39. 24 Hessisches Wirtschaftsarchiv, Abt. 119, Metallgesellschaft, Georges Welter, Zwölf Jahre Metall-Laboratorium, Frankfurt a. M. 1930. 25 Maier, Forschung als Waffe, 188. 26 Gründungsversammlung der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Metallkunde am 27. November 1919, in: Zeitschrift für Metallkunde 11 (1919), 201–216, here 205 f.

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His words were part of the strategy for autarky of raw materials and research for substitute materials launched during the war, in the framework of which large-scale research projects were launched in the laboratories of AEG and, from 1917 on, in the Metallgesellschaft. Czochralski was part of this sweeping research project in the service of the nation, which was in turn part of a system in which scientists and engineers could gain enormous significance. In his vision of “mastering” metals, he accentuated his belief that a systematic use of technology and correspondingly the high estimation of engineers and scientists were essential for the development of society and even of mankind. The “new technical heyday”, as he conceptualized his lifetime, constituted for him “the most important means for technical, economic and cultural organization […], the primary means of preserving humanity and the liberation of mankind.”27 The DGM could thus consider Czochralski a good German patriot, and in 1926 he was elected head of the society. This was far from a fait accompli, since in 1924 Czochralski had allegedly stated in front of the society: “I am a Pole and I will not break with my fatherland, it is my duty to inform you of this.”28 However, he had by then become a well-known and respected expert for metallurgy – his practical knowledge was especially appreciated and he was even considered a candidate for the position of director of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Metal Research.29 His Polish origin was widely recognized; he counted as naturalized and held Prussian and German citizenship, so this was not seen as problematic.30 On the contrary, he published more

27 Jan Czochralski, Neues und Altes aus der Technologie und Technik, in: Hauptversamm­ lung der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Metallkunde, Berlin, 25.–26. Oktober 1927, in: Zeitschrift für angewandte Chemie 40 (1927), no. 47, 1402–1406, here 1402. 28 Aleksander Boche ´nski, W ˛edrówki po dziejach przemysłu polskiego [A Journey through the History of Polish Industry], 3 vols., Warsaw 1966–1971, here vol. 1, Warsaw 1966, 159. 29 Archives of the Max-Planck-Gesellschaft, Berlin-Dahlem, I. Abt., IA, 1879. 30 Only when he had decided to leave Germany and relinquished the presidency of the DGM in 1928, a certain resentment against him came up: In an article in the Industrie- und Handels-Zeitung, an anonymous author claimed Czochralski had always held Polish citizenship – which he had not – and praised the sudden chance for the DGM now to elect as president a “first-class personality” trusted by everyone. BArch, N 1158-9, Estate Wichard von Moellendorff; Industrie- und Handels-Zeitung 242, 16 October 1928. After 1933, the situation changed: In 1936, when Czochralski was already living in Poland, the publisher considered a reprint of Czochralski’s textbook Moderne Metallkunde in Theorie und Praxis (Modern Metallurgy in Theory and Practice) that he had published in 1924 with great success. The head of the influential Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Metal Research at the time, Werner Köster, then claimed that he did not consider it suitable that “the Pole Czochralski should be the one to write a German book on metallurgy,” Zentral- und Landesbibliothek Berlin, Historische Sammlungen, Archiv des Julius Springer-Verlags, Korrespondenz Czochralski.

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than forty articles and developed patents, among them the highly successful Bahnmetall from 1924, which did not contain the expensive and imported tin. It was bought by the German Railways and many companies from elsewhere around the world. This alloy earned Czochralski not only a fair degree of national and international fame, but also a fortune, since he received annual proceeds from those patents up to 1948.31 Like Czochralski, Ludwik Hirszfeld also advanced fast within his German speaking networks. In 1907, he moved to Heidelberg together with his wife. While Hanna Hirszfeld worked at different university hospitals, finally becoming an assistant to Emil Feer (1864–1955), director of the children’s hospital,32 her husband fulfilled the same position to Emil von Dungern (1867–1961), a known serologist and microbiologist who was in contact with leading bacteriologists of the time such as Robert Koch (1843–1910) and Paul Ehrlich (1854–1915). Hirszfeld conducted his first fundamental work together with von Dungern in 1908, which demonstrated the heritability of human blood groups and introduced the classification of the blood types A, B, AB, and 0. With the publication of these findings, Hirszfeld established himself in the field of blood group research, which developed very dynamically, especially in the 1920s.33 Like Czochralski, Ludwik Hirszfeld was convinced that his research on blood groups had a greater meaning beyond strictly medical questions and asked: “Will we not get into the creative rhythm of our era due to our research on the agglutination of blood?”34 Hirszfeld and von Dungern then suggested a strong link between “blood” and “race,” a question that became quite popular in later years especially in Germany, but also elsewhere like Poland and Hungary. According to the scientists, “Anthropology, too, will have to take into account biochemical examinations of the blood in order to further clarify the blood relations among the different human races.”35 However, they assumed that such an investiga-

31 Hessisches Wirtschaftsarchiv, Abt. 119, Metallgesellschaft, Johann Czochralski, Materia­ lien zur Lebensgeschichte, Pos. 4. 32 See Biblioteka Uniwersytetu Medycznego w Wrocławiu [Library of the Medical Uni˙ versity in Wrocław], Sygn.  30789, Jolanta Ubysz, Zycie i działalno s´c ´ Profesor Hanny Hirszfeldowej, jako organizator akademickiej na Dolnym Sl    ´ asku ˛ [Life and Work of Professor Hanna Hirszfeld as an Academic Organizer in Lower Silesia] (PhD thesis, Wrocław 2003). 33 See with particular reference to German-speaking countries: Myriam Spörri, Reines und gemischtes Blut. Zur Kulturgeschichte der Blutgruppenforschung, 1900–1933, Bielefeld 2013. 34 Ludwik Hirszfeld, Les groupes sanguins, leur application à la biologie, à la médicine et au droit, Paris 1938, 163. 35 Emil von Dungern, Ludwik Hirschfeld, Ueber eine Methode, das Blut verschiedener Menschen serologisch zu unterscheiden, in: Münchener Medizinische Wochenschrift 57 (1910), no. 14, 741 f.

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tion would be a difficult undertaking due to the large numbers involved and the travel required – Hirszfeld did not know at the time that he would have the opportunity to conduct this research shortly after the outbreak of World War I. By the time the war started, the Hirszfelds were both employed at Zurich University. They had left Heidelberg because Ludwik was not able to write a habilitation at the German Cancer Research Center and because Emil Feer, who took over a professorship in pediatrics in Zurich, wanted Hanna to continue working with him. Then, in 1915, Serbia was ravaged by a typhus epidemic, and the Hirszfelds decided to go there to offer their medical expertise.36 On 3 April, Ludwik asked his university to be placed on leave and received permission to enter “Russian military service.”37 He became chief bacteriologist of the Serbian Army Medical Corps and was assigned to the largest hospital of contagious diseases located in the vicinity of Salonica. There, the situation was quite complex: In September 1915, the Armée d’Orient, a multinational Allied force under French leadership, had arrived in Salonica too late to help the Serbians to hold their country. Nonetheless, the Allied troops remained there, around Salonica, for the next three years. Soldiers and civilians from all parts of Europe, and also from British and French colonies in Asia and Africa were drawn together in this corner of the Balkans.38 This made Salonica the “most crowded spot in the universe” and, as one observer noticed, it was here to recognize the meaning of words like “cosmopolitan”, “polyglot,” and “crowded.”39 In this setting, the Hirszfelds had the exceptional opportunity to realize the desired large-scale investigation of a possible relation between blood type and “race.” They conducted over 8,000 blood tests among sixteen different ethnic groups. Like many European scientists in East and West from the field of medicine or physical anthropology, the Hirszfelds were quite enthusiastic about the advantages the conditions of war could provide for their research. They considered it an excellent opportunity to collect hygienic, bacteriological, or anthropological data and knowledge that would be difficult to collect

˙ 36 Andrzej Kelus, Zycie i twórczo  s´c ´ Ludwika Hirszfelda [Life and Work of Ludwik ad ˛ Antropologiczny [Anthropological Review]  21 (1955), no.  4, Hirszfeld], in: Przegl   1316. 37 University of Zurich Archive, AB 1.0428. Since Hirszfeld was born in the Russian part of partitioned Poland, he formally belonged to the Russian Army. 38 Jacob Mikanowski, Dr. Hirszfeld’s War. Tropical Medicine and the Invention of Sero-Anthropology on the Macedonian Front, in: Social History of Medicine  25 (2011), no.  1, 103–121, here 106. 39 H. Collinson Owen, Salonica and After. The Sideshow that Ended the War, London 1919, 21.

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during peacetime.40 Consequently, Ludwik Hirszfeld emphasized the major importance of “comprehensive bacteriological material, which can only be found in war.”41 On the basis of this war-time material, the Hirszfelds showed that all blood groups could be found in all “races.” Then they related the blood groups to the geographical place of descent of the soldiers and postulated a dominance of blood group “A” in the western parts of the world and a prevalence of “B” in the east. Their results undermined the prevailing idea that human “­races” could be clearly, scientifically separated from each other, thus they were highly innovative. In the years following publication, their results spread fast around the world and the new research field of sero-anthropology was established.42 It became quite popular and dynamic since heredity and “racial” belonging were hotly debated questions during the 1920s and 1930s, while serology seemed to offer a new order and easy solutions to the problem of “race.” Blood groups counted as unconditioned by natural or social environment and were therefore seen as an objective marker of “race.” The Hirszfelds thereby  – just like numerous scientists of the time  – used conventional categories and terminology and took it for granted that humanity was divided into “races.” Research on “races” had developed very diversely by this time and continued to do so in the Weimar Republic, moreover becoming increasingly polarized, not exclusively but also between Jewish and non-Jewish scientists.43 Thus, the concept of “race” in its scientific application to human beings has never been clearly definable.44 Within this framework, the Hirszfeld’s findings on the relationship between blood and “race” seemed to solve the question of human diversity as well as racist myths of difference. However, Ludwik Hirszfeld, who like many of his Jewish colleagues in the field was convinced that his research on serological “races” 40 Wolfgang U. Eckart, Medizin und Krieg. Deutschland 1914–1924, Paderborn 2014, 64. 41 Ludwik Hirszfeld, Epidemiologija trbušnog tifa na solunskom frontu, novi prouzrokova cˇ paratifa. Vakcinacija srpske vojske [The Epidemiology of Abdominal Typhus on the Thessaloniki Front, a new Causative Factor in Parathyroidism. The Vaccination of the Serbian Army], in: Srpski arhiv za celokupno lekarstvo [Serbian Archives of Medicine] 21 (1919), no. 5, 320–338, here 32, cit. from Indira Durakovi c´ , Serbia as a Health Threat to Europe. The Wartime Typhus Epidemic, 1914–1915, in: Joachim Bürgschwentner/Matthias Egger/ Gunda Barth-Scalmani (eds.), Other Fronts, Other Wars? First World War Studies on the Eve of the Centennial, Leiden/Boston, Mass., 2014, 259–279, here 272. 42 Katrin Steffen, Ludwik Hirszfeld, the Great War, and Seroanthropology. Expectations and Unfulfilled Promises, in: Ab Imperio 2 (2016), 125–152. 43 Veronika Lipphardt, Das “schwarze Schaf” der Biowissenschaften. Marginalisierungen und Rehabilitierungen der Rassenbiologie im 20.  Jahrhundert, in: Dirk Rupnow et al. (eds.), Pseudowissenschaft. Konzeptionen von Nichtwissenschaftlichkeit in der Wissenschaftsgeschichte, Frankfurt a. M. 2008, 223–250. 44 Veronika Lipphardt, Biologie der Juden. Jüdische Wissenschaftler über “Rasse” und Vererbung 1900–1933, Göttingen 2008, 18.

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was obliged to scientific objectivity and not to ideology, and who strongly argued against a hierarchical order within his findings, could not prevent his research results being used by racist scientists and politicians in order to pursue their exclusionary, hierarchical, or inclusive goals.

Applying Expertise in the New Poland The circumstances of World War  I had stimulated new findings in both Hirszfeld’s and Czochralski’s research fields. Knowing that their expertise was appreciated not only in the German-speaking world, both scientists chose to move to the newly-formed Polish state. There, they were most welcome since Poland, like other newborn states, in the region felt a strong need for scientific knowledge in the construction or reorganization of its administration and institutions. These new states certainly had to prove their legitimacy and, even more importantly, their superiority over the former empires as a form of political, social, and cultural organization. Therefore, the pressure to lead this undertaking to success was quite high. For the self-conception of the modern, national successor states of the former empires, scientific knowledge played a crucial role. Representatives of the state were thus eager to convince scientists who had left partitioned Poland to settle in the newly formed state.45 It was an ambivalent situation: Some scientists such as the famous anthropologist Bronisław Malinowski (1884–1942) in fact preferred to stay abroad.46 The young Polish state was not always able to offer payment and equipment that met the requirements of the scientists. Others such as Czochralski and Hirszfeld were not discouraged by the situation, although in Hirszfeld’s workplace, the State Institute of Hygiene (Pa ´nstwowy Zakład Higieny), money and equipment were initially in short supply, even though the Rockefeller Foundation assigned quite a lot of money to the institution.47 Those who came to Poland brought considerable and very diverse knowledge into the new state. These processes of knowledge transfer and appropriation 45 This was not an easy task, as anthropologist Jan Czekanowski (1882–1965) stated in 1918. Scientists by then living in Poland “constitute[d] a more or less subordinate attachment to foreign science […].” According to him, for most scientists “a return to the country means equally to abstain from a European academic career.” Idem, W sprawie potrzeb nauk antropologicznych w Polsce [The Needs of the Science of Anthropology in Poland], in: Nauka Polska [Polish Science] 1 (1918), 201–223, here 202. 46 George W. Stocking, The Ethnographer ’s Magic and Other Essays in the History of Anthropology, Madison, Wis., 1992, 259. 47 See Paul Griminger, Casimir Funk. A Biographical Sketch, in: The Journal of Nutrition 102 (1972), no. 9, 1105–1113.

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by national elites who were mainly trained at foreign universities constituted an important factor for Polish science and its institutions after 1918. The question arises of how knowledge was transferred, circulated, and generated through migration. The transfer of knowledge is always a process that requires complex mechanisms of selection and adaptation.48 Circulating and local knowledge can merge and produce new knowledge, while existing knowledge can be stabilized.49 The State Institute of Hygiene in Warsaw, where Ludwik Hirszfeld worked in leading positions from 1919 onward, serves as a case in point.50 The aim of this institute was to collect scientific knowledge in the field of epidemic diagnosis and prevention and to coordinate anti-epidemic measures on a nationwide scale. Such an institute was quite an original idea in Poland, and was later copied elsewhere in East Central Europe. The initiative to build the institute originated with Ludwik Rajchman (1881–1965), a cousin of Ludwik Hirszfeld, who had received his medical training in Habsburg Cracow and had additionally studied in Paris at the Institut Pasteur and in London at the Royal Sanitary Institute.51 Rajchman was an internationally recognized health politician, who later became head of the Health Organization of the League of Nations. When a large typhus epidemic spread fast mainly from Russia and Ukraine after World War I, he had developed a celebrated operational plan to prevent further outbreaks of the disease in creating sanitary zones. Rajchman tried to gather the most talented researchers and medical practitioners around him. This was, as already mentioned, not an easy task, but he managed to convince, amongst others, the biochemist Kazimierz Funk (1884–1967) from the United States, who had coined the notion “vitamin,” and also Ludwik Hirszfeld. The Institute of Hygiene was largely shaped by such a returning elite who brought organizational and technological models and styles of thought from different countries to Poland and combined them successfully in the institute. Hirszfeld took over as a director of the Department of Bacteriology at the Institute of Serum Research. His institute was to correspond, albeit on a smaller scale, to the Institute of Experimental

48 Mitchell G. Ash, Wissens- und Wissenschaftstransfer. Einführende Bemerkungen, in: Be­ richte zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte 29 (2006), no. 3, 181–189. 49 See also Heiner Fangerau, Spinning the Scientific Web. Jacques Loeb (1859–1924) und sein Programm einer internationalen biomedizinischen Grundlagenforschung, Berlin 2010, 11–13. 50 For more detail, see Katrin Steffen, Experts and the Modernization of the Nation. The Arena of Public Health in Poland in the First Half of the 20th Century, in: Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 61 (2013), no. 4, 574–590. 51 Marta Aleksandra Bali nska, ´ For the Good of Humanity. Ludwik Rajchman, Medical Statesman, Budapest 1998.

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Therapy (Institut für Experimentelle Therapie) in Frankfurt, which Hirszfeld knew well.52 He went there himself to purchase the necessary equipment. However, he never tried to translate the concept one-to-one in Warsaw, instead adapting it to the necessities of the Polish situation, which meant for example emphasizing questions of social hygiene much more than in Frankfurt.53 Transferred and local knowledge this way merged and eventually created something new. A further example for knowledge circulation is Hirszfeld’s continuous research on blood groups, which made Warsaw a center for blood group research and sero-anthropology. Based on his serological research, the anthropologist Jan Mydlarski (1892–1956) together with Hirszfeld’s assistant Wanda Halber (d.  1938) conducted an anthropological serial examination of several thousand soldiers in Poland, starting in 1921. During this examination, the researchers measured noses, skulls, and the shapes of faces, and took the blood of the soldiers. The findings suggested a link between popular racial physiognomic stereotypes and the serological type East (blood group B) and West (blood group A), following Hirszfeld’s findings from the Macedonian front. This research marked the beginning of the above-mentioned trend in the early 1920s of supplementing serological studies with other traits, in the hope that this would lend some insight where blood alone could not.54 By the late 1920s, sero-anthropology was a widely recognized field. At the International Congress of Anthropology organized in conjunction with the Meeting of the International Federation of Eugenics Organizations in 1927 in Amsterdam, Hirszfeld chaired the section “Eugenics and Heredity” that dealt mainly with the introduction of blood-group research into the field of anthropology. In his opening talk, he postulated that serology was no longer merely a part of bacteriology, but was developing in “intimate contact with anthropology and genetics.”55 He based this on the fact that the ABO blood system was, as William Schneider named it, the “first genetic marker.” The application of this system to a global population during World War I by

52 Hirszfeld, The Story of One Life, 66–68. 53 Idem, Das staatliche hygienische Institut in Polen nebst Bemerkungen über die Organisation der Hygiene-Institute, in: Wilhelm von Gonzenbach (ed.), Festschrift Herrn Prof. Dr. W. Silberschmidt, Basel 1929, 41–49. 54 Jan Mydlarski, Sprawozdanie z wojskowego zdj ˛ecia antropologicznego Polski [Report on the Military-Anthropological Picture of Poland], in: Kosmos 50 (1925), 530–583; Wanda Halber/Jan Mydlarski, Untersuchungen über die Blutgruppen in Polen, in: Zeitschrift für Immunitätsforschung und experimentelle Therapie 43 (1925), 470–484. 55 Ludwik Hirszfeld, Les groups Sanguins dans la Biologie et la Médecine, in: Institut international d’anthropologie, IIIe session Amsterdam, 20–29 septembre 1927, Paris 1928, 407–419, here 407.

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the Hirszfelds then marked the beginning of the geneticization of “race.”56 At the congress, Hirszfeld wanted to ascertain the importance of serology for the developing field of genetics. The congress revealed that interest in blood group research and concerns about standardizing it were shared by many interwar scientists from Italy, Germany, France, Japan, the Netherlands, Denmark, the Soviet Union, and the United States. The section’s proceedings showed the Ludwik Hirszfeld’s high reputation within the international community of serologists. To him, this congress was the “victory of our research pursuits.”57 The scientific journal Eugenics Review confirmed this perception: “No part of the congress exceeded in volume and value the Sessions devoted to the study of Blood Groups.” The journal reported that Hirszfeld, who had “an enthralling adventure” during World War I, “must feel the greatest satisfaction in seeing his laborious early attempts now bearing fruit of so much value to science.”58 Due to the requirements of the new state, Hirszfeld and Czochralski both entered new arenas in Poland in which experts acted and performed publicly in order to establish themselves, to implement their expertise, and to make their knowledge indispensable within a broader public sphere and the political environment. In those arenas, meaning and relevance were produced for an audience for whom exactly this meaning had to be understandable and approvable.59 In Hirszfeld’s case, public health is to be understood as such an arena. After the long period of being a nation without a state, concern over national existence, also in a biological sense, played an important role in discourses about modernization – matters of health went hand-in-hand with the strive for modernization in Poland. Health turned out to be of immediate importance to the new state and its representatives tried to use it to develop political stability, a productive industry, and military manpower.60 In this arena, Ludwik and Hanna Hirszfeld appeared as teachers, Ludwik at a private university and together with his wife at the Public School of Hygiene, where they offered classes for teachers, physicians, and soldiers. Ludwik Hirszfeld was also the author of many texts and leaflets in favor of a

56 William H. Schneider, Introduction, in: History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 18 (1996), Special Issue: The First Genetic Marker. Blood Group Research, Race and Disease, 1900–1950, 273–276. 57 Hirszfeld, The Story of One Life, 123. 58 [N. a.], Annual Meeting of the Eugenics Federation, in: The Eugenics Review 19 (1927), no. 3, 261–264, here 263. 59 On the concept of arenas, see Karsten Holste/Dietlind Hüchtker/Michael G. Müller, Introduction, in: idem (eds.), Aufsteigen und Obenbleiben in europäischen Gesellschaften des 19. Jahrhunderts. Akteure – Arenen – Aushandlungsprozesse, Berlin 2009, 9–19, here 10. 60 For a similar approach in neighboring Russia, see Tricia Sparks, The Body Soviet. Propaganda, Hygiene, and the Revolutionary State, Madison, Wis., 2008.

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modernization of the state and its inhabitants, understood mainly as an active fight against bacteria and for more hygiene. He gave public talks at the meetings of the Warsaw Hygienic Society and wanted to contribute to a higher medical and sanitary culture in Poland.61 Ludwik Hirszfeld was convinced that contagious diseases eroded Poland’s strength.62 For some time he also directed the scientific section of the Polish Eugenic Society, while in 1937, Hanna Hirszfeld published a booklet on questions of heredity and eugenics. Eugenic ideas in Poland, however, differed from those in other countries, mainly from the “racial hygiene” present in Germany during this time. Eugenic ideas in Poland appeared rather amongst liberals and in circles of progressive social reformers, who called for more education and enlightenment in questions of health, hygiene, and birth control.63 The connection between “race” and eugenics could never gain a strong position in the Polish eugenic movement; some of its supporters argued this way and used antisemitic arguments, but they were not a majority. As we have seen, Hirszfeld adapted his knowledge to the context of his time and space, since the arena of public health  – as well as the arena of “scientification” of technology, in which Czochralski became active – was spawned by topics that moved the nation since the partitioning of Polish lands: fruitless uprisings, supposed backwardness, hygiene, and the self-defense of a healthy nation with “healthy soldiers.” Hirszfeld was quite successful in assigning his own expertise the status of universal and, most importantly, indispensable knowledge for nation-building in Poland. This also holds true for Czochralski, who summed this up in the first issue of a scientific journal for metallurgy that he founded: “History teaches us that nations which neglect the development of the metallurgical industry and working with metals fall behind politically and economically. Therefore, the most important precondition for industrial progress is to secure a scientific basis for metallurgy […].”

This credo convinced his supporters in Poland.64

61 Ludwik Hirszfeld, Nasi niewidzialni wrogowie i przyjaciele [Our Invisible Enemies and Friends], Warsaw 1937. 62 Ludwik Hirszfeld, W sprawie ostrych chorób zaka z´ nych w Polsce, jako najpilniejszego zagadnienia naukowego, dydatkycznego i sanitarnego [On Acute Infectious Diseases as the Most Urgent Scientific, Didactical and Sanitary problem], in: Lekarz Polski [The Polish Doctor] 5 (1938), 100–106, here 101. 63 Magdalena Gawin, Rasa i nowoczesno s´c ´ . Historia polskiego ruchu eugenicznego, 1880– 1952 [Race and Modernity. The History of the Polish Eugenics Movement, 1880–1952], Warsaw 2003, 210–240. 64 Wiadomo  s´ci instytutu metalurgii i metaloznawsto [News from the Institute for Metallurgy and Metal Knowledge] 1 (1934), Słowo Wst ˛epne [Introductory Remarks].

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State President Ignacy Mo  s´cicki (1867–1946), himself a chemist, is credited with Czochralski’s relocation to Poland, although his motivation to leave Germany is not totally clear. He could have been unsatisfied with the development of his workplace, the metal laboratory in Frankfurt, since its fundamental research lost more and more ground to contract research and Czochralski had a strong self-perception as a scientist. In Polish technical and scientific circles, his expertise was well known, since he had met colleagues from Poland frequently at international congresses. A chair for metallurgy was created for him at the Warsaw Technical University and he assumed control over several research institutes in the fields of metallurgy, chemistry, and warfare. He became head of the Military Technical Society (Towarzystwo Wojskowo-Techniczny), an organization of Polish engineers founded with the purpose of acquainting them with questions of military technology in order to enhance national defense capabilities. Czochralski began to develop similar visions for Poland as before for Germany, and was able to adapt those visions to the necessities of his time and space. He wanted to create “an atmosphere soaked with a creativity out of which could grow the glorious edifice of domestic industry and a proud Polish technology.”65 Now everyone could consider him a good Polish patriot. He acted in Poland not only as a scientist, but also as a counselor to politics and large industry in questions of armaments and the military, which seemed to be essential for a state that felt a permanent threat from its neighbors Germany and Russia: “To be able to fight a war” counted beyond that as important evidence for the modernity of a state and its society.66 As an expert, Czochralski was supposed to act as a mediator between science, the economy, and the army, as an organizer of research and, last but not least, as an innovator – all functions granting him no small amount of power. Consequently, he enjoyed significant financial benefits. In 1929, he received the highest possible sum from the state-financed Fund for National Culture for the equipment of his laboratory at the Technical University.67 Just like Hirszfeld, he equipped his laboratory mainly with materials and instru-

65 Jan Czochralski, Drogi i metody post ˛epu technicznego [Ways and Methods of Technolog˛ Techniczny [Technical Review] 68 (1929), no. 42, 947–949, ical Progress], in: Przegl  ad here 949. 66 Dieter Langewiesche, Das Jahrhundert Europas. Eine Annäherung in globalhistorischer Perspektive, in: Historische Zeitschrift 296 (2013), no. 1, 29–48, here 42. Langewiesche stated this mainly for nineteenth-century Western Europe, especially around 1900, but this constellation seems to be applicable also to early twentieth-century Poland, where many norms, values, and structures from the nineteenth century were still valid during the interwar period. 67 Bohdan Jaczewski, Polityka naukowa Pa ´nstwa Polskiego w latach 1918–1939 [The Scientific Policy of the Polish State, 1918–1939], Wrocław et al. 1978, 135.

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ments from Germany, including the replacement parts for his car, a German Adler. The orders for those materials were commissioned by the Office for War Industry (Biuro Przemysłu Wojennego) of the Polish Army.68 In May 1939, the well-known German physicist Walther Gerlach (1889–1979), who knew Czochralski from Frankfurt, visited his institute and was quite enthusiastic about the equipment in the laboratory, although he got to see only the civil part, not the military: “What I saw at this institute numbers among the most beautiful things I have seen to this day. In Germany, we find that only in industrial research laboratories. It contains every conceivable arrangement for experiments and utilities for pure metallurgy, for chemical metallurgy, physical metallurgy, and metallic engineering […].”69

However, Czochralski’s life first in Germany and then the financial and prestigious privileges he enjoyed in Poland evoked not only enthusiasm among his fellow countrymen. He was envied for his fortune, subject to suspicions since he had never earned a proper PhD and was considered a self-made man who had grabbed his chance in the new state. His international contacts and networks, especially in Germany, and the proceeds from his patents which he received up to the year 1948 and for which he permanently paid taxes in Germany, were not appreciated by everybody. What was regarded as particularly condemnable, even as treasonous, was the fact that Czochralski still held German citizenship. One of Czochralski’s colleagues, Witold Broniewski (1880–1939), was convinced that Czochralski as a “German” was not trustworthy and would harm the Polish state and economy by selling worthless metal alloys to the Poles. After his appeal to a disciplinary court of the Technical University had no consequences, he initiated a series of articles in the right-wing press against Czochralski. Czochralski subsequently and successfully sued Broniewski. However, from then on Czochralski was unable to entirely dispel the accusation of being “German-friendly.” His case was not an isolated one: Scientists with good connections to Russia faced similar problems due to the imperial legacy.70 Stefan Bryła, a professor for engineering and architecture at the Technical University, complained in 1937 in a popular journal about a general “Germanization of Polish technology.” While he was convinced that Russian, Austrian, and 68 Centralne Archiwum Wojskowe [Central Military Archives], Warsaw, I.300.56.41, Biuro Przemysłu Wojennego [Office for Wartime Economy]. 69 Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich, MK 54508, Walther Gerlach, Bericht über meine Vortrags- und Studienreise nach Polen (Warschau und Posen) vom 6.  Mai bis 12.  Mai 1939. 70 See e. g. Martin Müller-Butz, Von Russland nach Polen. Zum Potential imperialer Erfahrung nach dem Zerfall der Imperien am Beispiel der Biographie von Aleksander Lednicki, in: Tim Buchen/Malte Rolf (eds.), Eliten im Vielvölkerreich. Imperiale Biographien in Russland und Österreich-Ungarn (1850–1918), Munich 2015, 199–219, here 215.

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German science had exerted an equally strong influence on Poland, he felt German science simply to be overwhelming.71 Ludwik Hirszfeld might not have only profited from his German networks – he received less financial aid for research than his colleague in the Institute of Hygiene, Kazimierz Funk, who came to Poland from the United States.72 But not only an imperial legacy could be harmful: Ludwik Rajchman’s leftist political opinions and his opposition to the appeasement politics of the Polish foreign minister Józef Beck (1894–1944) led to the loss of his position as director of the Hygiene Institute in Poland in 1933. Hirszfeld was not allowed to take over this position, although he was de facto the scientific director of the institute. Instead, the physician and Colonel Gustaw Szulc (1884–1841) took over the institute, reflecting its growing militarization. The Jewish descent of Rajchman and Hirszfeld added to these dynamics – Selskar  M. Gunn noted “an enormous prejudice against him [Rajchman] on account of him being a Jew” as early as 1921.73 In the 1930s, the political atmosphere in Europe increasingly deteriorated. In Poland, rising antisemitism invaded almost every sphere of life. In this context, Ludwik Hirszfeld was never able to receive a nomination as full professor at a Polish state university, instead teaching at a private one. As a consequence of this atmosphere, the Hirszfelds in 1938 sent their daughter Maria to their friends to Paris who were doctors. They did so not only because the child was suffering from anorexia nervosa and nobody had been able to help her, but also because they were afraid of her suffering from the violent antisemitism present in Polish state universities by that time.74 After all, expertise was not first and foremost a technical question, but a political one, including its symbolic dimension as well as its representations. Czochralski’s role of the universal and rather apolitical scientist/expert who could adapt to different environments was no longer feasible in the 1930s. The fact that his polytechnic research laboratory was very well equipped mainly with German instruments and machines in this context eventually became not only a source of innovation, but also of conflict. There seems to be a general potential for such conflicts which emerge from transfer, exchange,

71 Stefan Bryła, Germanizowanie techniki polskiej [The Germanization of Polish Technolo˛ Techniczny 20 (1937), 660–662. gy], in: Przegl  ad 72 See Marta Aleksandra Bali nska, ´ The Rockefeller Foundation and the National Institute of Hygiene, Poland, 1918–45, in: Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Science 31 (2000), no. 3, 419–432, here 428. 73 The Rockefeller Archive Center, Rockefeller Foundation Archives, RG 1.1, 789. 74 Aniela Uziembło, Maria Hirszfeld. Wspomnienie (1920–1943) [Maria Hirszfeld. In Memoriam (1920–1943)], in: Gazeta Wyborcza, 28 February 2009.

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and the adaptation of “foreign” ideas, models, and goods.75 A technical and a cultural aspect closely interacted and depended on one another – when it comes to a transfer of technology, it does not necessarily mean that it works the same way as before in a different environment and under different circumstances – space matters since the cultural settings matter. Besides fruitful inspiration, intercultural misunderstandings and problems may also occur, as Arjun Appadurai has stressed in his analysis of global technoscapes.76

Uneven Fates: Life and Expertise during World War II and beyond During World War II, Czochralski’s attachment to Germany turned out to be disastrous. He was accused of collaborating with the German enemy since his laboratory, which the Germans allowed to be reopened shortly after the attack, was amongst others used to produce items for the Wehrmacht. Thereby, Czochralski was able to work and to provide others with a workplace. This put him in a privileged position compared to many other inhabitants of Warsaw during the occupation. On the other hand, he helped the Polish underground and provided information about German industry. He moreover managed to effect the release of some individuals from concentration camps, and it is also testified that he hid two Jewish women in his home.77 None of this saved him from being prosecuted. After 1945, a lawsuit was filed against him, and although he was ultimately not convicted of collaboration, he lost his chair at the Warsaw Technical University and had to move back to his home town, where he started to produce small pharmaceutical items. The world of science had soon forgotten about him. Ludwik Hirszfeld, by contrast, lost his position at the Institute of Hygiene in 1939 when the German occupiers took over his workplace and replaced him and others with German physicians. He was forced to move into the Warsaw Ghetto in February 1941, although the German health administration had assured him in December 1940 that he, as a world-renowned hematologist, would be allowed to stay in his house outside the ghetto walls, as 75 On the complex interaction between enmity and cultural transfer, between hostile defense on the one hand and ready adoption on the other, see Martin Aust/Daniel Schönpflug (eds.), Vom Gegner lernen. Feindschaften und Kulturtransfers im Europa des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt a. M./New York 2007. 76 Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization, Minneapolis, Minn./London 1996. 77 See Tomaszewski, Jan Czochralski Restored, 150–159.

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long as he did not practice as a physician. Hirszfeld himself was very much convinced that he would never end up in the ghetto because of his conversion, his reputation, and his contacts with German scientists.78 He was, like so many of his contemporaries, incapable of imagining what would happen to him and others under the German occupation. To him, the ghetto constituted something like a denial of his whole identity construction; he felt as a stranger. Inside the ghetto, Hirszfeld nevertheless became one of the key actors in its medical care. As many other doctors, he had a preferred status, since their medical services were of utmost importance for life in the ghetto.79 Ludwik Hirszfeld and partly also Hanna were engaged in research, teaching at the medical school, and fighting and controlling typhus.80 Like the Hirszfelds, many ghetto inmates developed a daily life routine that was grounded on their previous experiences as individuals or as a community.81 As a convert to Christianity, Hirszfeld’s position was not easy.82 The physician Chaim Einhorn (1910–1978) remembered Hirszfeld’s arrival in the ghetto as follows: “One day […] Dr. Milejkowski brought Prof. Hirszfeld to the hospital. First, we, the younger physicians, wanted to protest against Prof. Hirszfeld and we began a strike. We considered him a stranger. But later on our relations normalized and when it came to scientific research, our collaboration was excellent.”83

Parts of the hospital were organized for research and a bacteriological research lab was created with Hirszfeld as its head, where some of his former assistants also found a workplace. To Hirszfeld, this lab constituted “the main component of my life.” Without a doubt, he tried to translate patterns, habits, and daily routines from the pre-ghetto world into everyday life in his new surroundings, which his students in the medical school appreciated. They wanted to “play normal.” Many of them felt bored or desperate within the ghetto walls, as another witness testified: “We had the choice of total desperation, total demoralization, suicide (some did commit suicide), escap78 Główna Biblioteka Lekarska [Main Medical Library], Warsaw, Dział Zbiorow Specjalnych [Special Collection], Akta personalne izby lekarskiej Warszawsko-Białostocka [Personal Files of the Medical Association Warsaw-Białystok], Sygn. 2/1/1909. 79 Dalia Ofer, Another Glance through the Historians Lens. Testimonies in the Study of Health and Medicine in the Ghetto, in: Poetics Today 27 (2006), no. 2, 331–351, here 342. 80 Paul Weindling, Delousing and Resistance during the Holocaust, in: Michael A. Grodin (ed.), Jewish Medical Resistance in the Holocaust, New York/Oxford 2014, 49–56. 81 Dalia Ofer, Ghetto Inmates. Their Perspectives and the Historian’s Craft, in: Imke Hansen/ Katrin Steffen/Joachim Tauber (eds.), Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, Wiesbaden 2013, 52–70, here 52. 82 Charles G. Roland, Courage under Siege. Starvation, Disease, and Death in the Warsaw Ghetto, New York/Oxford 1992, 312. 83 Yad Vashem Testimonies, Record Group O.3, File 1836, Dr. Chaim Einhorn, 8 May 1961. Izrael Milejkowski was head of the health department of the Judenrat.

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ism (whiskey [vodka] or whatever they could find), but instead we started to study.”84 In the summer of 1942, Hirszfeld managed to flee from the ghetto – he desperately wanted to help his daughter, since she was still seriously ill.85 While hiding on the “Aryan side,” he wrote an autobiography extensively covering life in the Warsaw Ghetto – the only autobiography written by an adult Christian survivor of this ghetto. It was first published in 1947 and has been reissued several times since, most recently in 2011. Because he claimed that Polish people mainly behaved decently during the occupation, since in his eyes many of them had helped their Jewish neighbors (thereby generalizing his own experience), many non-Jewish Poles praised this autobiography. Some Jews in Poland, however, had a quite different perspective on the occupation and criticized the book and its author severely. They disapproved of the rather deep distance Hirszfeld put between himself and the Jewish ghetto inmates and his tendency to over-simplify characteristics of “the Jews” as a group. They also accused him of downplaying the strength and significance of antisemitism in Poland during the occupation and beyond.86 Hirszfeld’s attitude on this question is quite clear in a letter he wrote in 1946 to immunologist Michael Heidelberger (1888–1991) in New York. Heidelberger had asked Hirszfeld about the “violent antisemitism in Polish universities” after the war and the “impossibility for Jews” to pursue a university career.” Hirszfeld denied this vehemently and angrily. He listed 44 professors of Jewish descent at the universities of Wrocław, Warsaw, Lublin, Łód ´z, Cracow, and Gda ´nsk – including himself and his wife Hanna – and assured Heidelberger that every Jew in Poland could pursue a career in science. He did not deny the existence of antisemitism in Poland, but wanted to put it in perspective by pointing to the fact that it was to be found everywhere, including in the United States.87 Statements like Heidelberger’s were not understandable or acceptable to Hirszfeld, not even in light of post-war antisemitism in Poland, which manifested itself in many violent acts against surviving Jews who returned from 84 Cit. in Charles G. Roland, An Underground Medical School in the Warsaw Ghetto, 1941– 2, in: Medical History 33 (1989), no. 4, 399–419, here 417. 85 He tried to talk to the German health administration because he wanted to bring his daughter at least once or twice to physicians outside the ghetto. However, Wilhelm Hagen, who directed the health department of Warsaw, rejected his request. See Josef Wulf, Das Dritte Reich und seine Vollstrecker. Die Liquidation von 500 000 Juden im Ghetto Warschau, Berlin-Grunewald 1961, 335, and BArch, B162/2915, Prof. Dr. Wilhelm Hagen, Tatort: Warschau 1941. Ultimately, he was unable to save his daughter’s life. She died in hiding outside Warsaw. 86 See on this Steffen, “Die Welt will aber davon nichts wissen.” 87 Archiwum Polskiej Akademii Nauk [Archive of the Polish Academy of Sciences], Warsaw, Ludwik Hirszfeld, III-57 105, 39–41.

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the Soviet Union and in the pogrom of Kielce in 1946. He surely wanted to convince the world that his fellow countrymen in Poland were neither more nor less antisemitic than others. Moreover, due to his own experience, that of a converted doctor with good connections to the outside world who could afford materially to be brought out of the ghetto, he was convinced that the narrative of “good Poles,” the righteous who risked their lives in order to save Jews, had to be the prevailing truth. In any case, the reality of being of Jewish descent as indicated here continued to be present in the Hirszfelds’ lives in post-war Poland. However, since the atmosphere under Stalinism was not encouraging for anyone to show their Jewish descent, Hanna Hirszfeld received permission from the Polish Council of Ministers in 1952 to change the names of her parents from Saul und Sara to the less Jewish-sounding Paweł and Sabina respectively.88 Professionally, Ludwik Hirszfeld continued working successfully as a scientist and professor in Wrocław, at the former German university of Bres­ lau. He set up the medical school of the university, while Hanna became a professor of pediatrics. Ludwik tried to maintain his international networks, which was no doubt aided by a visit from Johannes Bauer of the International Health Division of the Rockefeller Foundation to Wrocław in 1945, where he met the Hirszfelds and showed himself “most favorably impressed with what he and his wife were doing in reorganisation [sic] of the former German medical school.”89 He recommended asking the Hirszfelds to come to the United States for a research grant, which they did for three months in 1946. Although Hirszfeld also tried in the following years to travel to attend conferences and to meet with former colleagues, it became increasingly difficult as Stalinism began to spread across Poland from 1948 onwards. It did not leave science and scientific life unaffected. From 1949 through 1954, a vigorous Lysenkoist campaign was waged in Poland.90 Named after the Soviet agrobiologist Trofim Lysenko (1898–1976), this campaign was directed against genetics and Mendelian inheritance and accentuated the heritability of acquired characteristics instead. This also affected Hirszfeld, since one of his major discoveries, the Mendelian inheritance of the ABO blood groups, now certainly did not conform to party ideology. Mendelian inheritance was officially rejected and the heredity of blood groups had become a controversial topic. Hirszfeld, however, continued to lecture at the Medical School in ˙ 88 Ubysz, Zycie i działalno s´c ´ Profesor Hanny Hirszfeldowej, jako organizator akademickiej na Dolnym s ´l  asku, ˛ 12. The names of one’s parents are frequently asked in official documents in Poland. 89 The Rockefeller Archive Center, Rockefeller Foundation Archives, RG 1.1, 789 A, Box 3, Folder 25. 90 Wacław Gajewski, Lysenkoism in Poland, in: The Quarterly Review of Biology 65 (1990), no. 4, 423–434, here 428.

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Wrocław on the genetics of blood groups and more or less ignored Lysenko, although he accommodated the regime to some extent in order to be able to pursue his research.91 But at the peak of Stalinism he faced severe obstructions. In 1952, the local security apparatus in Wrocław characterized him, unsurprisingly, as a scientist who “does not accept teamwork” and who had a “negative attitude to People’s Poland and especially to the USSR.”92 Nevertheless, he remained one of the most recognized scientists in the People’s Republic of Poland.

Conclusion While Jan Czochralski was soon forgotten after his death in 1953, the method named after him of growing large single crystals on an industrial scale began to spread all over the world in the 1950s, when a laboratory in the United States rediscovered and began applying it due to increased demand for semiconductors in industry. Czochralski himself was officially rehabilitated only in 2011, a time when in Poland began some serious efforts to make his name more popular, for example naming 2013 Jan Czochralski Year. Today he counts as one of the most important Polish scientists alongside Copernicus and Marie Curie-Skłodowska, who can incidentally also be characterized as European “go betweens.” Just like Czochralski, they were at home in more than one region and language, be it Latin, German, Polish, or French.93 Ludwik Hirszfeld, by contrast, never fell into oblivion: On the contrary, his funeral in 1954 was attended by many inhabitants of Wrocław. He owed his popularity not only to the above-mentioned autobiography, but also to the fact that he and his wife had been very engaged in building up medical services in Wrocław after World War II. Today, both scientists are emblematic figures in Poland, almost “national symbols.”94 They count as great “Poles in the World,” to whom the Polish Postal Office dedicated commemorative stamps with their portraits on

91 Felix Milgrom, My Association with Ludwik Hirszfeld, Wrocław 1945–1954, in: Archiwum Immunologiae et Therapiae Experimentalis 46 (1998), no. 4, 201–212, here 208. 92 Archiwum Instytutu Pami eci ˛ Narodowej [Archive of the Institute of National Remembrance], Wrocław, Sygn. IPN Wr 053/3431. 93 See the webpage of the Polish Ministry of Science and Higher Education: (12 December 2018), which states: “Czochralski […] is mentioned in line with Maria Skłodowska-Curie and Nicolaus Copernicus.” 94 On this function of experts, see Kohlrausch/Trischler, Building Europe, 27.

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a common envelope in August 2009.95 The parallel biographical approach to Jan Czochralski and Ludwik Hirszfeld though reveals that their lives do not fit very well into national narratives alone. Both scientists represent a specific experience of space and time, of migration, border crossing, and of a circulation of knowledge that can be interpreted as being quite typical for the region of East Central Europe in the first half of the twentieth century. At the same time, their lives constitute, as individual lives, exceptions – and this constellation of being typical and exceptional at the same time can be used in a productive way to explore the different possibilities, rooms for negotiations, and also the limits that were characteristic of the time and place they lived in. It shows how similar but also how different life stories can proceed that start from a similar point of origin. The similarities without a doubt include the fact that from 1918 onwards the newly established Polish state created new possibilities for both scientists: for Czochralski the chance to become a professor, which he could not have achieved in Germany without a PhD or a habilitation. He was even able to advance to the highest positions of a counselor for the state, a position that Hirszfeld also held. The transferred and already stabilized knowledge they brought with them merged with local knowledge in Poland; it was often a productive mixture, and the knowledge previously stabilized in international networks also changed in the new space. With this mixture of knowledge and the ability to adjust, both individuals succeeded in the new order and were able to produce credibility for their knowledge and their institutions. The international linkages and connections that had crossed boundaries and produced considerable dynamics contoured the lives of both scientists substantially. Their status as experts was also due to the growth of international contacts and exchange, not only between Poland and Germany, but also in a wider European if not transatlantic context. Both relied on a complex relationship between national and international affiliations which they were well aware of and often intentionally employed. They adjusted their knowledge to the specific constellation of time and space and knew which role to play, whether in Heidelberg, Berlin, Zurich, Frankfurt, or Warsaw. Both of them entered new arenas in Poland, where they acted and performed in order to establish themselves and to implement their expertise and knowledge and to make these indispensable within a broader public

95 This status of “Poles in the World” resembles the potential biographies have for the creation of cultural meaning, for ways of seeing and interpreting. They are often caught between processes intended to create identity and historical knowledge. Not for nothing do biographical works to this day concentrate mainly on national or disciplinary contexts, see Volker Depkat, Autobiografie und Biografie im Zeichen des Cultural Turn, in: Jahrbuch für Politik und Geschichte 5 (2014), 247–265, here 247.

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sphere and the political environment. Being a successful expert in the newly emerged Poland and within the framework of overlapping international and national spaces also implied filling a certain space. In this space, the mentioned topics that moved the nation were overcome in favor of a discussion on technological progress and technocratic visions for Poland, which both individuals sought to promote in their respective institutes where they institutionalized their expertise. The biographical access in this case allows for an understanding of how experts and their expertise were formed by perfor­ ma­tive actions and cultural ascriptions and as a result of a close link between the scientific, technical, and epistemological, but also cultural, religious, political, and institutional factors in different national settings. The post-imperial space of transition, the circulation of knowledge and international dynamics could also release a significant potential for conflict. Those conflicts in the region resulted from the fact that the states which came into being after 1918 did not emerge out of nothing, on the contrary: They were composed of a significant personal and cognitive legacy from the empires. Regulations and ideas from the empires continued to persist in laws, in local administrations, in infrastructure such as the railways, and last but not least also in the minds of the people. The legacies of the empires included state institutions, knowledge, certainly also elites, but also social, economic, and cognitive structures and a specific understanding of political and scientific culture.96 But since the overall atmosphere in Poland and many other states in the region was molded by a sense of triumph based on the belief in a teleological path to an independent nation state, many members of the elites preferred to deny the imperial legacy. They wished their nations to be perceived as nations in their own right, as younger and poorer but nevertheless equal members of the European family. So, in Poland and elsewhere, they preferred to look to Paris and to London and carefully avoided using their perfect German or eventually also Russian.97 In this constellation, transnational biographies were not acceptable for everybody, since they seemed to harm the construction of the nation, they challenged prevailing images of the interwar years, which were often centered on national antagonisms. In response, states (and following them also historians) tried to suppress or to ignore transnational lives. This functioned via legal regulations of migration, re-emigration, or citizenship, which sometimes evoked the problem of

96 Karen Barkey, Thinking about Consequences of Empire, in: idem/Mark von Hagen (eds.), After Empire. Multiethnic Societies and Nation-Building. The Soviet Union and the Russian, Ottoman, and Habsburg Empires, Boulder, Col., 1997, 99–114, here 101. 97 See also Adam Ko  z˙ uchowski, The Afterlife of Austria-Hungary. The Image of the Habsburg Monarchy in Interwar Europe, Pittsburgh, Pa., 2013, 70.

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statelessness – a most relevant topic for the transition period from empires to nation states. Not only statelessness, however, but also a “wrong” citizenship could be experienced as a grave defect, as Czochralski’s example shows. The same holds true for the “wrong” descent, as Ludwik Hirszfeld had to experience personally. Being of Jewish descent or being seen as a Jew could be equally dangerous under the conditions of the new nation states because they were also often seen as harmful to the construction of the nation, even if they declared full loyalty to the nation as did Ludwik Hirszfeld and many others.98 In historiography, life stories like those of Hirszfeld and Czochralski, who both challenged the principle of territoriality since they and their expertise crossed borders and made them ever more permeable, were frequently overlooked. In Germany, for example, both actors are still quite unknown. Or they were subjects of a one-dimensional approach, since the telling of life stories was often placed at the service of the nation. The flexibility and the fractures transnational life stories contain did not fit very well into this service. And although we shouldn’t neglect the importance of the nation also for the daily lives of those transnational actors, it seems to be much more interesting to decenter their history and ask about aspects of mobility, of networks, of local knowledge production and its global circulation, in order to find out more about both the potential for innovation and the conflicts that the circulation of ideas and models can produce.99 It then becomes clear that fragments of identity concepts, of loyalties and life stories, are produced at various points in a lifetime and in different spaces and that they do not always correspond to patterns one would expect.

98 See Katrin Steffen, Jüdische Polonität. Ethnizität und Nation im Spiegel der polnischsprachigen jüdischen Presse 1918–1939, Göttingen 2004. 99 See Natalie Zemon Davis, Decentering History. Local Stories and Cultural Crossings in a Global World, in: History and Theory 50 (2011), no. 2, 188–202; Andreas Wimmer/Nina Glick Schiller, Methodological Nationalism and beyond. Nation-State Building, Migration and the Social Sciences, in: Global Networks. A Journal of Transnational Affairs 2 (2002), no. 4, 301–334.

René Schlott

Raul Hilberg (1926–2007): Eine jüdische Biografie im 20. Jahrhundert

Prolog 236 Prospect Parkway, Burlington/Vermont. Zwei Männer sitzen an einem Tisch in einem Wohnzimmer. Im Hintergrund erscheint ein Fenster, durch das Bäume und Schnee zu sehen sind. Vor den beiden sind Stapel von Papieren ausgebreitet. Daneben steht ein Aschenbecher. Einer raucht, während der andere ein Blatt in den Händen hält und redet. Der Mann, der hier in die Kamera spricht, ist Raul Hilberg, in dessen Haus in Burlington das Gespräch mit dem französischen Regisseur Claude Lanzmann (1925–2018) im Januar 1979 stattfindet. Es sollten noch sechs Jahre vergehen, ehe die Szene als Teil des Films Shoah zum ersten Mal gezeigt wurde.1 Zur Vorbereitung auf die Arbeit an seiner monumentalen, fast zehnstündigen Dokumentation hatte Lanzmann 1974 Hilbergs Buch The Destruction of the European Jews eingehend studiert.2 Die bis dahin bedeutendste Gesamtdarstellung des nationalsozialistischen Judenmordes3 war 1961 bei dem kleinen Chicagoer Verlag Quadrangle Books erschienen.4 Lanzmann begegnete Hilberg 1975 zum ersten Mal auf einer Holocaustkonferenz in New York und zeigte sich sofort von dessen physischer Präsenz und seinen rhetorischen Fähigkeiten beeindruckt:

1 Siehe die deutsche Fassung des Begleitbandes: Claude Lanzmann, Shoah, Düsseldorf 1986. 2 Zum Verhältnis von Hilberg und Lanzmann siehe Claude Lanzmann, Der patagonische Hase. Erinnerungen, Reinbek bei Hamburg 2012, 531 f. (zuerst franz. 2009). 3 Nachfolgend werden die Begriffe Shoah, Holocaust und Judenmord trotz ihrer unterschiedlichen Konnotation synonym verwandt. Zur Begriffsgeschichte siehe das Kapitel »Die Namen des Holocaust: Bedeutung und Folgen«, in: James Edward Young, Beschreiben des Holocaust. Darstellung und Folgen der Interpretation, Frankfurt a. M. 1997, 139– 163 (zuerst engl. 1988). 4 Raul Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews. A Documented Narrative History, Chicago, Ill., 1961. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 419–439.

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»Hilberg took the floor in the evening of the third day, and I knew immediately that he would figure in the film I wanted to make. He stood out against the others: by what he said; by his voice; metallic and warm; by the way he carried his body. His body itself spoke.«5

Hilberg blieb letztlich der einzige Experte, der neben Tätern, Opfern und Mitläufern in Lanzmanns Film Shoah zu sehen ist. In der eingangs geschilderten Szene interpretiert er eine »Fahrplananordnung« von Deportationszügen, die aus Ghettos im besetzten Polen wieder und wieder in das Vernichtungslager Treblinka fuhren. Fachkundig löst Hilberg die kryptischen Abkürzungen in dem Dokument der Deutschen Reichsbahn auf. Er zählt die Unterschriften der Bahnbeamten, die das Papier trägt, und schätzt die Zahl der Deportierten. Virtuos und eloquent führt Hilberg seine Forschungsmethode vor: aus dem einzelnen dokumentierten Vorgang mit Akribie und Sachverstand das ganze Geschehen herauszulesen. Der sachlich-nüchterne Politikwissenschaftler tritt dabei ganz hinter das Dokument zurück. Von Hilberg selbst und seiner Lebensgeschichte erfährt der Zuschauer nichts: Er wird nicht über dessen Geburt in Wien 1926, nicht über seine Flucht in die Vereinigten Staaten 1939 und auch nicht über die Ermordung fast aller seiner nahen Angehörigen im Holocaust informiert. Hilberg taucht im Verlauf der Dokumentation noch in fünf weiteren Szenen auf, bleibt jedoch in der Rolle des Experten und erzählt nicht von den eigenen Ausgrenzungs- und Entrechtungserlebnissen. Für den Zuschauer ist nicht erkennbar, dass Hilberg selbst jüdischer Herkunft ist. Ausgehend von dieser kurzen Analyse der Auftritte Hilbergs in Lanzmanns Shoah sollen im Folgenden drei Fragen an Biografie und Werk des Holocaustforschers gestellt werden: Wie ging er mit seiner jüdischen Herkunft um? Inwiefern verhandelte er diese Zugehörigkeit öffentlich? Welche Bedeutung hatten Herkunft und Zugehörigkeit für sein Werk? Wie das Beispiel Shoah illustriert, hat Hilberg zeit seines Lebens nur wenig Wert auf die öffentliche Präsenz seiner jüdischen Zugehörigkeit gelegt, auf Nachfragen dazu reagierte er eher zurückhaltend. Der Buchmensch und »Kulturträger« pflegte kein ostentatives Judentum. Doch gerade in der Nichtäußerung zu seiner jüdischen Zugehörigkeit bestätigte er diese, so die These dieses Aufsatzes. Bei der Beschäftigung mit Hilbergs jüdischer Zugehörigkeit bestehen zwei besondere Schwierigkeiten beziehungsweise Gefahren. Zum einen lassen sich nicht alle seine hier nicht systematisch, sondern nur eklektisch zusammengetragenen Äußerungen widerspruchsfrei deuten und interpretieren, da sie selbst an einigen Stellen antagonistisch sind. Zum anderen ist es  – 5

Claude Lanzmann, Raul Hilberg. Actor in »Shoah«, in: James S. Pacy/Alan P. Wertheimer (Hgg.), Perspectives on the Holocaust. Essays in Honor of Raul Hilberg, Boulder, Col./ San Francisco, Calif./Oxford 1995, 185–187, hier 187.

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Pierre Bourdieus Diktum von der biografischen Illusion vor Augen – nicht ohne Risiko, vorschnell aus Hilbergs Herkunft auf sein wissenschaftliches Interesse abzuleiten.6

Jüdische Wissenschaftler und der Holocaust Vor allem Wissenschaftler mit jüdischen Wurzeln begannen nach 1945 mit der wissenschaftlichen Aufarbeitung des Judenmordes. Diese frühe Holocaustforschung erfuhr in der Bundesrepublik kaum Resonanz, sie stieß sogar auf Ablehnung. Innerhalb der bundesdeutschen Geschichtswissenschaft blieben jüdische Historiker mit einer eigenen Verfolgungserfahrung wie H. G. Adler (1910–1988) oder Joseph Wulf (1912–1974) stets akademische Außenseiter. Ihre Arbeiten wurden kaum rezipiert, ihre Debattenbeiträge nicht ernst genommen. »Im Gegenteil, als Juden und damit als Angehörige der Opfergruppe wurde ihnen die notwendige Distanz abgesprochen, der es zur Analyse des Geschehens sine ira et studio bedürfe«, urteilte der Freiburger Historiker Ulrich Herbert, der sich intensiv mit der bundesdeutschen Historiografie des Nationalsozialismus beschäftigt.7 Mitarbeiter des Münchner Instituts für Zeitgeschichte etwa standen den in den 1950er Jahren erschienenen Quelleneditionen, herausgegeben von den jüdischen Exilanten Joseph Wulf und Léon Poliakov (1910–1997), ablehnend gegenüber.8 Dem folgte im Jahrzehnt darauf die sogenannte Hagen-Kontroverse,9 bei der im Kern subjektive (jüdische) Erinnerung mit

6 Pierre Bourdieu, Die biographische Illusion, in: ders., Praktische Vernunft. Zur Theorie des Handelns, aus dem Franz. von Hella Beister, Frankfurt a. M. 1998, 75–82. 7 Ulrich Herbert, Der Historikerstreit. Politische, wissenschaftliche, biographische Aspekte, in: Martin Sabrow/Ralph Jessen/Klaus Große Kracht (Hgg.), Zeitgeschichte als Streitgeschichte. Große Kontroversen seit 1945, München 2003, 94–113, hier 103 (Hervorhebung im Original). 8 Siehe Nicolas Berg, Der Holocaust und die westdeutschen Historiker. Erforschung und Erinnerung, Göttingen 2003, 337–342, hier 394. 9 Wilhelm Hagen (1893–1982), Mediziner, 1941–1943 Leiter des Gesundheitsamtes im Distrikt Warschau, 1956–1958 Präsident des Bundesgesundheitsamtes. Als der Holocaust­ historiker Joseph Wulf in einer Veröffentlichung 1961 Wilhelm Hagens frühere Funktion in Warschau offenbarte, strengte Hagen eine Unterlassungsklage an, da er sich ungerechtfertigt als Mittäter im Holocaust klassifiziert sah, obwohl er nach eigener Aussage »das furchtbare Los der Juden […] günstig [zu] beeinflussen« versuchte. Um die Rolle Hagens entspann sich eine öffentliche Kontroverse, in der führende bundesdeutsche Historiker Partei für ihn ergriffen. Siehe ausführlich Klaus Kempter, Joseph Wulf. Ein Historikerschicksal in Deutschland, Göttingen 2013, 249–267.

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objektiver (deutscher) Geschichtsforschung kontrastierte.10 Mit dieser Pointierung lässt sich auch die »Historisierungsdebatte« zwischen dem Direktor des Münchner Instituts für Zeitgeschichte Martin Broszat (1926–1989) und dem jüdischen Historiker und Holocaustüberlebenden Saul Friedländer (geb. 1932) in den 1980er Jahren konturieren.11 Die im Rahmen des sogenannten Historikerstreits12 geführte Auseinandersetzung um eine adäquate historiografische Behandlung des Nationalsozialismus und des Judenmords fand ihren Höhepunkt in einem Briefwechsel zwischen den beiden Antagonisten, in dessen Verlauf Broszat am 28. September 1987 an Friedländer schrieb: »Zur Besonderheit auch der wissenschaftlichen Erkundung dieser Vergangenheit gehört das Wissen darum, daß sie noch besetzt ist mit vielerlei Monumenten trauernder und auch anklagender Erinnerung, besetzt von den schmerzlichen Empfindungen vieler vor allem auch jüdischer Menschen, die auf einer mythischen Form dieses Erinnerns beharren.«13

Hilberg scheint den Verdacht der »trauernden, anklagenden oder mythischen Erinnerung« ein Leben lang antizipiert zu haben: Er nahm für sich immer ausdrücklich eine nüchtern-sachliche, technizistische Analyse des Mordgeschehens in Anspruch und verschwieg seine eigenen jüdischen Wurzeln zwar nicht, aber betonte sie auch nicht besonders.14 Broszats Mutmaßungen über die Spezifika jüdischer Holocaustforschung gingen noch weiter und wurden problematischer. Er vermutete, dass »vielen Juden das ritualisierte, mit anderen Beständen jüdischer weltgeschichtlicher Grunderfahrung verwobene quasi-geschichtstheologische Eingedenk-Sein neben der bloßen dürren historischen Faktenrekonstruktion wahrscheinlich unverzichtbar« sei, angesichts der »Unermeßlichkeit von Auschwitz«.15

10 Berg, Der Holocaust und die westdeutschen Historiker, 394. 11 Zur Debatte um die Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus siehe ausführlich Ian Kershaw, Der NS-Staat. Geschichtsinterpretationen und Kontroversen im Überblick, aus dem Engl. von Jürgen Peter Krause, vollständig überarbeitete und erweiterte Neuausg., Reinbek bei Hamburg 1994, 316–342. 12 Klaus Große Kracht, Die zankende Zunft. Historische Kontroversen in Deutschland nach 1945, Göttingen 2005, 91–114. Siehe zuletzt Gerrit Dworok, »Historikerstreit« und Nationswerdung. Ursprünge und Deutung eines bundesrepublikanischen Konflikts, Köln/ Weimar/Wien 2015. 13 Martin Broszat/Saul Friedländer, Um die »Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus«. Ein Briefwechsel, in: Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 36 (1988), H. 2, 339–372, hier 342 f. 14 Zum Begriff siehe Dieter Heger, Was heißt »mythische Erinnerung« in Erzählungen von Überlebenden der Shoah?, in: Cathy S. Gelbin u. a. (Hgg.), Archiv der Erinnerung. Interviews mit Überlebenden der Shoah, 2 Bde., hier Bd. 1: Videographierte Lebenserzählungen und ihre Interpretation, hg. im Auftrag des Moses-Mendelssohn-Zentrums für europäisch-jüdische Studien, Potsdam 1998, 157–191. 15 Broszat/Friedländer, Um die »Historisierung des Nationalsozialismus«, 352.

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Zentrales Argument war dabei, dass »Juden« keine rationale Holocaustforschung betreiben könnten. Der Streit »etablierte« eine scheinbare »Opposition zwischen jüdisch-mythischer Erinnerung und deutsch-wissenschaftlicher Erforschung«.16 Den Vorwurf einer möglichen Befangenheit als Jude scheint Hilberg schon früh gefürchtet zu haben. Möglicherweise beeinflusste dies seine Forschungsperspektive und sein Berufsleben. Nachfolgend werden chronologisch die Momente in Hilbergs Leben genauer betrachtet, in denen er seine jüdische Herkunft verhandelt hat – sowohl affirmativ wie negativ.

Kindheit in Wien Am 2. Juni 1926 kam Raul Hilberg als Sohn von Michael (1889–1970) und Gisela Hilberg (1896–1984) in Wien zur Welt. Da Hilberg eine jüdische Mutter hatte, ist er nach dem jüdischen Religionsgesetz Jude. Hilberg wurde in späteren Interviews oft gefragt, was es für ihn bedeute, als Jude in der Donaumetropole geboren worden zu sein. Er antwortete darauf einmal sehr knapp mit »nicht sehr viel«.17 Dabei war Wien eines der lebendigsten jüdischen Zentren in Mitteleuropa, wie es etwa der dort lebende Journalist und Emigrant Egon Schwarz in seinen bekannten Essays beschrieb.18 Doch auch der Blick in Hilbergs 1994 zuerst auf Deutsch erschienene Autobiografie Unerbetene Erinnerung offenbart nur wenige Stellen zu seinem Wiener Judentum. Im Register der englischen Ausgabe tauchen lediglich die abstrakten Stichwörter »Jewish councils«, »Jewish resistance« und »Jews (as victims)« auf, die im Zusammenhang mit seinen Forschungen, nicht aber mit seinem persönlichen Leben stehen.19 Nur in einer kurzen Passage schildert Hilberg den Stellenwert der jüdischen Religion in seiner Erziehung: »Er [Hilbergs Vater] schleppte mich in die Synagoge, um meinen Charakter zu prägen. Er wollte, daß ich die Worte der Bibel auf Hebräisch verstehen lernte.«20 16 Torben Fischer, Art. »Historisierung der NS-Zeit«, in: ders./Matthias N. Lorenz (Hgg.), Lexikon der »Vergangenheitsbewältigung« in Deutschland. Debatten- und Diskursgeschichte des Nationalsozialismus nach 1945, 3., überarbeitete und erweiterte Aufl., Bielefeld 2015, 256–258, hier 258. 17 Holocaust-Geschichte und Moral. Gespräch mit Raul Hilberg, Interview im Deutschlandfunk mit Walter Rossum, 2. September 1991. 18 Egon Schwarz, Wien und die Juden. Essays zum Fin de Siècle, München 2014. 19 Raul Hilberg, The Politics of Memory. The Journey of a Holocaust Historian, Chicago, Ill., 1996, 206. Die zuerst veröffentlichte deutsche Ausgabe enthält kein Register. 20 Ders., Unerbetene Erinnerung. Der Weg eines Holocaust-Forschers, Frankfurt a. M. 1994, 32.

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Die Schilderung seines vier Monate dauernden Aufenthalts auf Kuba, das den wegen der NS-Verfolgung aus Wien emigrierten Hilbergs 1939 als Transitstation auf dem Weg nach New York diente, nimmt in der Autobiografie einen viel breiteren Raum ein als die dreizehn vorangegangenen Lebensjahre in Österreich. Auch im karibischen Exil unterrichtete ihn der Vater weiter im Hebräischen. Der Sohn erinnert sich, dass der väterliche Sprachunterricht im Auswendiglernen der Genesis bestand.21 In einem Radiointerview aus dem Jahr 1993 bezeichnete Hilberg das Wiener Familienleben als im orthodoxen Sinne nicht sehr religiös; gleichwohl habe man die Synagoge besucht, die Feiertage begangen und eine koschere Küche geführt.22 Dennoch verweigerte Hilberg sich der eigenen Bar Mitzwa und löste sich früh vom religiösen Judentum.23 Er bezeichnete seinen Vater als persönliches »Vorbild« für »Ideen, Einstellungen und Lebensstil«, was das Judentum sicher einschließt,24 und Baruch Spinoza als dessen »großes Idol«.25 Dass Hilberg zum »Atheisten«26 wurde, erklärte er mit dieser pantheistischen Erziehung, die für ihn eine Tautologie darstellte.27 Wenn er das Kennenlernen seiner Eltern und deren Heirat schildert, erscheint es selbstverständlich, dass diese eine innerjüdische Ehe führten. Denn nach Hilbergs Beschreibung der Zeitverhältnisse sollte eine jüdische Frau auch nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg in jedem Fall einen jüdischen Mann heiraten, auch wenn dies durchaus schwierig war: »Zehntausende von jüdischen Soldaten hatten in der Österreichisch-Ungarischen Armee ihr Leben gelassen, womit eine junge jüdische Frau zum Alleinleben verdammt war.«28 Die Eltern von Raul Hilberg waren beide aus Galizien im östlichen Teil des Habsburgerreichs am Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts nach Wien eingewandert. Sie waren Teil einer Migrationsbewegung vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg, der Joseph Roth (1894–1939) mit seinem Werk Juden auf  Wanderschaft ein literarisches Denkmal gesetzt hat.29 Wien als Zielort hat Roth dabei neben Berlin und Paris ein eigenes Zwischenkapitel gewidmet.30 »Der Neue wird ein Ratenhändler«,31 heißt es darin, und tatsächlich verdingte sich Hilbergs 21 Ebd., 40. 22 Raul Hilberg im Gespräch mit Jochanan Shelliem in der Sendung »Zeitzeugen« vom Südwestrundfunk 3, 7. November 1993. 23 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 32. 24 Ebd., 17. 25 Ebd., 32. 26 Ebd., 34. 27 Ebd., 32. 28 Ebd., 27. 29 Joseph Roth, Juden auf Wanderschaft, Köln 1985 (zuerst 1927). Ich danke dem Kollegen Thomas Werneke für den Hinweis auf dieses Buch. 30 Ebd., 39–47. 31 Ebd., 41.

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Vater Michael als Zwischenhändler, der ärmeren Kunden Kleinkredite für die Anschaffung größerer Haushaltsgegenstände gewährte. Die Geschäfte liefen erfolgreich, sodass Hilbergs Mutter Gisela nicht arbeiten gehen musste. Die Familie war zu Wohlstand gelangt, gehörte zur Mittelschicht und lebte im 20. Bezirk, in der Wallensteinstraße 9 nahe der Donau, in unmittelbarer Nachbarschaft zum Augarten und zum Nordwestbahnhof. In seiner Autobiografie von 1994 erinnert sich Hilberg an eine Vierzimmerwohnung mit Radio, Eisschrank und Telefon sowie Bibliothek, die mit den Werken Goethes, Dostojewskis und der jüdischen Geschichte von Heinrich Graetz bestückt war.32 Hilbergs Aufzählung gerade dieser Autoren und die Erwähnung der Verehrung seines Vaters für Heine33 wirken, als lege er Wert darauf, die Familie als bildungsbürgerlich darzustellen – als Teil einer Mittelklasse, in der Wissenschaft, Kunst und Kultur als Ausdrucksform eines hohen Assimilationsgrads geschätzt wurden. Wenn er in seinen Erinnerungen von seinem Vater spricht, nennt er ihn nie bei seinem jiddischen Vornamen Mechel, sondern stets eingedeutscht Michael. Zur kulturellen Assimilation kann auch Hilbergs Wertschätzung für die klassische Musik gezählt werden, deren Behandlung in seinen Erinnerungen einen vergleichsweise breiten Raum einnimmt. Die Kompositionsprinzipien seiner Hauptwerke hat er nach eigener Aussage aus der Kunst gezogen. Sein erstes Buch The Destruction of the European Jews sei wie eine klassische viersätzige Sinfonie Beethovens komponiert, der spätere Band Perpetrators, Victims, Bystanders sei an ein christliches Triptychon angelehnt.34 Als ein Element jüdischer Tradition, das sein Werk geprägt habe, erwähnt er einzig die Genesis. Aus deren Lektüre habe er eine klare und genaue Sprache sowie eine Tendenz zu kurzen Sätzen übernommen.35 Hilberg besuchte zunächst keine jüdische Schule, sondern eine Volksschule in Wien, wo er auch mit dem Neuen Testament in Berührung kam, gegen das er jedoch eine »tiefere Abneigung« hegte.36 Später schickten ihn seine Eltern auf ein jüdisches Gymnasium, um ihn vor dem zunehmenden Antisemitismus zu schützen.37 Er besuchte nun das Chajes-Gymnasium in

32 Siehe Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 31. 33 Ebd., 30. 34 Ders., Perpetrators, Victims, Bystanders. The Jewish Catastrophe 1933–1945, New York 1992. 35 Ders., Unerbetene Erinnerung, 33 und 40. 36 Ebd., 33. 37 Harald Welzer (Hg.), Aus den Trümmern der Geschichte. Gespräche mit Raul Hilberg, Hans Mommsen und Zygmunt Baumann, Tübingen 1999, 32.

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der Staudingergasse, das unweit der elterlichen Wohnung lag und als »säkular-zionistisch«38 galt. In einem Kapitel der Autobiografie, das die Familiengeschichte der Hilbergs, seine Kindheit in Wien und den Verlauf der Flucht in die Vereinigten Staaten erzählt, erwähnt er zwei berühmte Vorfahren, von denen einer Rektor der Universität Czernowitz gewesen war,39 der andere den Text der späteren israelischen Nationalhymne Ha-Tikwah verfasst hatte, wofür er einen Eintrag in der Encyclopaedia Judaica bekam.40 Die beiden prominenten Verwandten Hilbergs waren aus Osteuropa zunächst westwärts nach Wien und dann weiter nach New York ausgewandert. Auch andere Familienmitglieder waren in den Jahrzehnten um die Wende vom 19. zum 20. Jahrhundert vor allem nach Amerika übergesiedelt. Sie sollten Raul Hilberg und seinen Eltern nach dem »Anschluss« Österreichs im März 1938 und dem Novemberpogrom zu Visa verhelfen. Der Einmarsch der deutschen Truppen in die österreichische Hauptstadt im März 1938 stellte in Hilbergs Leben einen wichtigen Wendepunkt dar. Für den damals elfjährigen Jungen war die Kindheit schlagartig zu Ende. Zugleich begann damit eine Verfolgungsgeschichte, an deren Ende die jüdische Gemeinde Wiens nahezu vollständig vernichtet war.41 Im März 1938 lebten dort 190 000 Juden, von denen viele bereits in den ersten Tagen nach dem »Anschluss« zahlreichen Demütigungen ausgesetzt waren.42 In einem frühen Interview aus dem Jahr 1973 deutet Hilberg einmal an, dass seine Erlebnisse nach dem Anschluss seine wissenschaftliche Arbeit motiviert haben. Auf die Frage, wie er zu seinem Forschungsthema gekommen sei, antwortete Hilberg: »It’s a bit hard to say, because probably no other effort in my life combined so many aspects of my interests and capabilities. I am really a limited man, and unlike most people, I cannot do X number of things. But I was born in Vienna and live in that city for a little more than a year after it was taken over by Hitler, so that I saw then what Nazism looked like.«43

38 Dieter J. Hecht, Ausschluss und gesellschaftliche Ächtung, in: ders./Eleonore Lappin-Eppel/Michaela Raggam-Blesch (Hgg.), Topographie der Shoah. Gedächtnisorte des zerstörten jüdischen Wien, Wien [2015], 82–121, hier 109. 39 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 18. Es handelt sich um den Altphilologen Isidor Hilberg (1852–1919), der zunächst in Prag, ab 1882 dann in Czernowitz lehrte. 40 Ebd., 24. Der jüdische Dichter Naphtali Herz Imber (1856–1909) war ein Verwandter von Hilbergs Großmutter mütterlicherseits. 41 Hecht/Lappin-Eppel/Raggam-Blesch (Hgg.), Topographie der Shoah. 42 Götz Aly, Europa gegen die Juden 1880–1945, Frankfurt a. M. 2017, 29. 43 Harold Flender, »I Am Trying To Understand It«. An Interview with Raul Hilberg on the Holocaust, in: Present Tense. The Magazine of World Jewish Affairs Committee 1 (1973), H. 1, 45–49, hier 45.

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Später beschrieb er sich selbst nicht als Betroffenen, sondern als Zuschauer des Geschehens: »In diesem Jahr zwischen März 1938 und April 1939 war ich Beobachter.«44 Auch Hilbergs unmittelbare Wohngegend in der Wallensteinstraße war Schauplatz etwa von Boykottaktionen und sogenannten Reibpartien, als man Juden zwang, die Straßen zu reinigen.45 »Als Juden wussten wir, jetzt ist das Schicksal ganz geändert«, erinnerte sich Hilberg an den Einmarsch der Deutschen. Zur Demütigung seien alle Juden plötzlich geduzt worden.46 Von nun an beschäftigte die Familie vor allem eine Frage: Sollte sie nach Palästina oder besser in die Vereinigten Staaten auswandern? Beim Novemberpogrom war Hilbergs Vater verhaftet und nur mit der Auflage wieder freigelassen worden, dass er das Land verlassen werde. Die Wohnung der Familie wurde gewaltsam »arisiert«, indem ein SA-Mann Hilberg und dessen Mutter mit vorgehaltener Waffe zum Verlassen der eigenen vier Wände zwang. In unmittelbarer Nähe zur Wohnung der Hilbergs wurden zwei Synagogen zerstört, darunter der Brigittenauer Tempel in der Kluckygasse 11, den Hilberg oft mit seinem Vater besucht und in dem seit 1931 Benjamin Murmelstein (1905–1989) als Rabbiner gewirkt hatte.47 In seiner Autobiografie erwähnt Hilberg nur ein einziges Mal die durch jene Erfahrungen ausgelösten Ängste und Traumata. Von einem Aufenthalt in West-Berlin 1982 berichtet er: »[Ich] fühlte ich mich dieses Mal unwohl. Deshalb vielleicht, weil die Pension in der oberen Etage eines Mietshauses lag, oder wegen der Steintreppen, der Geräusche, des zellenartigen Zimmers mit seinem Mobiliar aus den dreißiger Jahren malte ich mir aus, wie sich unten die Braunhemden der SA versammelten und Männer in Schaftstiefeln die Treppen hinaufstürmten und gegen alle Türen hämmerten.«48

Als Raul Hilberg im November 1992 seinen ersten öffentlichen Vortrag in seiner Heimatstadt Wien hielt, um sein Buch Täter, Opfer, Zuschauer49 vorzustellen, gab er der österreichischen Journalistin Evelyn Adunka ein Interview, das nie veröffentlicht worden ist, aber dessen Transkription sich in

44 Welzer (Hg.), Aus den Trümmern der Geschichte, 33. 45 Dieter J. Hecht/Eleonore Lappin-Eppel/Michaela Raggam-Blesch, »Anschluss-Pogrom« in Wien, in: dies. (Hgg.), Topographie der Shoah, 16–41. 46 Interview im WDR 5, Der Chronist des Holocaust, 28. Mai 2006. 47 Dieter  J. Hecht/Eleonore Lappin-Eppel/Michaela Raggam-Blesch, Das Novemberpogrom. Wien, Stadt der Verfolgung, in: dies. (Hgg.), Topographie der Shoah, 139–162, hier 148. 48 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 149. 49 Ders., Täter, Opfer, Zuschauer. Die Vernichtung der Juden 1933–1945, Frankfurt a. M. 1992.

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seinem Nachlass befindet.50 Nach Eingangsfragen zu Hilbergs akademischen Lehrern fuhr Adunka mit der Frage »Was bedeutet Ihnen Ihr Judentum?« fort, worauf Hilberg antwortete: »Ich weiß überhaupt nicht, wie das zu beantworten ist. Das Judentum ist ja auch eine Schicksalsgemeinschaft und das bedeutet es für mich. Es ist eine Gemeinschaft, die so beschaffen ist, weil sie eben wiederholt betroffen wurde.« Ganz ähnlich hat Saul Friedländer seine eigene Zugehörigkeit beschrieben: »Ich bin ein Jude, der nicht religiös ist und der sich nur identifiziert über die Shoah. Das sage ich nicht pathetisch oder anklagend, das ist einfach eine Tatsache.«51 Hilberg und Friedländer definieren das Judentum damit vor allem über die Katastrophen seiner Geschichte. Das verwundert in ihren individuellen Biografien nicht, wenn man sich vor Augen führt, dass Friedländer die eigenen Eltern, Hilberg mehr als zwei Dutzend Familienmitglieder im Holocaust verloren hat. Darüber gesprochen oder geschrieben hat Letzterer allerdings fast nie. Über die eigenen Erfahrungen nur selten zu sprechen, den Verlust naher Angehöriger lange Zeit nicht zu erwähnen, dies hat Hilberg auch mit anderen Holocaustforschern, wie Henry Friedlander (1930–2012) und Gerhard Weinberg (geb. 1928), gemein.52

Jugend in New York City In Joseph Roths Juden auf Wanderschaft heißt es im Kapitel »Ein Jude geht nach Amerika«: »Amerika ist Ferne. Amerika heißt die Freiheit. In Amerika lebt immer irgendein Verwandter.«53 So war es auch im Fall von Hilbergs Familie, die von Geschwistern der Mutter finanziell bei der Ausreise unterstützt wurde und zuerst bei einer Tante in New York unterkam, bevor sie sich im zu Brooklyn gehörenden Stadtteil Kensington ansiedelte, einem typischen Wohnviertel für jüdische Emigranten aus Europa. Für Raul Hilberg bedeutete die Emigration in die Vereinigten Staaten im Herbst 1939 eine völlige Entwurzelung. Dort traf Hilberg auf einen gleichaltrigen jüdischen Jungen 50 The University of Vermont Archives, Raul Hilberg Papers, Box 6: General Correspondence, Folder 13: September–December 1992, Anlage zum Brief von Raul Hilberg an Evelyn Adunka, Wien, 14. Dezember 1992. 51 »Meine Heimat ist meine Geschichte«, Interview mit Saul Friedländer, in: Der Spiegel 20 (2017), 116–119, hier 118. 52 Doris Bergen, Out of the Limelight or In. Raul Hilberg, Gerhard Weinberg, Henry Friedlander, and the Historical Study of the Holocaust, in: Andreas  W. Daum/Hartmut Lehmann/James J. Sheehan (Hgg.), The Second Generation. Émigrés from Nazi Germany as Historians, New York/Oxford 2016, 229–243, hier 229. 53 Roth, Juden auf Wanderschaft, 61.

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aus Wien, der ihm zum besten Freund wurde und später die Veröffentlichung der Werke Hilbergs finanziell unterstützte: Erich (Eric) Marder (geb. 1925). Mit ihm pflegte Hilberg eine lebenslange Freundschaft, die auf ihre erste Begegnung auf der Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn zurückging. Auf dem gemeinsamen Nachhauseweg diskutierten die Jungen oft über »jüdische Politik«, wie Hilberg sich erinnerte.54 Beide engagierten sich in der zionistischen Jugendbewegung.55 Mit dem Ausdruck »Generation Exodus« beschrieb ein anderer Emigrant, Walter Laqueur (geb. 1921), die Alterskohorte jüdischer deutschsprachiger Flüchtlinge, die alt genug waren, um den Aufstieg des Nationalsozialismus mitzuerleben, und jung genug, um ein neues Leben in Amerika, Großbritannien oder Palästina zu beginnen.56 Doch Hilberg gehörte auch zur »second generation« jüdischer Historikerinnen und Historiker, die als Kinder aus Kontinentaleuropa flüchten mussten und ihren Schul- und Universitätsabschluss in den Vereinigten Staaten erwarben.57 Wie ambivalent die jüdische Zugehörigkeit für die Angehörigen dieser »zweiten Generation« war, fasste Andreas Daum in einer knappen Charakterisierung zusammen: »Being Jewish […] could be a distinct religious identity or, more broadly, a set of cultural values and traditions. Jewishness could be a category imposed by the National Socialists, which might then have been strengthened by the experience of the Third Reich.«58

Natürlich liegt die Versuchung nahe, einen Zusammenhang zwischen Hilbergs extremer Lebenserfahrung, seiner persönlichen Verfolgungs- und Emigrationsgeschichte und dem Verlust naher Angehöriger sowie seiner Beschäftigung mit dem Judenmord zu sehen. Dagegen spricht, dass zwar viele Angehörige der »second generation« ähnliche Erfahrungen machen mussten, sich aber nur wenige dem Holocaust als Forschungsthema zuwandten. Viele beschäftigten sich dagegen mit der Vorgeschichte des Nationalsozialismus, mit Themen der jüdischen Geschichte vor 1933 sowie der deutschen und europäischen Geschichte im Allgemeinen.59 Alle diese jungen Flüchtlinge hatten in Europa Erfahrungen des Antisemitismus gemacht, die sie mit in ihre neue Heimat brachten und an der sie das Land maßen, wie es etwa Hilberg bei seiner Ankunft in den Vereinigten Staaten im September 1939

54 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 43. 55 Interview im WDR 5, Der Chronist des Holocaust, 28. Mai 2006. 56 Walter Laqueur, Geboren in Deutschland. Der Exodus der jüdischen Jugend nach 1933, aus dem Engl. von Hans-Ulrich Seebohm, Berlin/München 2000. 57 Daum/Lehmann/Sheehan (Hgg.), The Second Generation. 58 Andreas W. Daum, Refugees from Nazi Germany as Historians. Origins and Migrations, Interests and Identities, in: ders./Lehmann/Sheehan (Hgg.), The Second Generation, 1–52, hier 9. 59 Ebd., 20 f.

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tat: »Als wir den Süden durchquerten, sah ich dort Bänke mit der Aufschrift Für Farbige. So dachte ich darüber nach, daß ich, dem Wiener Parkbänke mit dem Hinweis Nur für Arier verboten waren, mit einem Schlag besser dastand als viele gebürtige Amerikaner.«60 Schon Joseph Roth hatte sarkastisch über die gesellschaftlichen Verhältnisse in den Vereinigten Staaten geurteilt: »Einigermaßen entspricht die Wirklichkeit dem Symbol. Aber nicht etwa deshalb, weil man es drüben mit der Freiheit aller Menschen so ernst nimmt, sondern weil es drüben noch jüdischere Juden gibt, nämlich Neger.«61 Fünf Jahre nach seiner Einwanderung ging Hilberg in die US-Armee und erhielt im Gegenzug die amerikanische Staatsbürgerschaft. Als »Europäer in amerikanischer Uniform«62 kehrte er in den letzten Kriegsmonaten auf seinen Heimatkontinent zurück. Angehörige seiner Einheit befreiten das Konzentrationslager Dachau, während Hilberg selbst in München einrückte. In der Zentrale der NSDAP stieß er auf Transportkisten, die die Privatbibliothek Adolf Hitlers enthielten. Von den darin enthaltenen Buchtiteln erwähnte er 1994 in seinen Erinnerungen Martin Luthers Traktat Von den Juden und ihren Lügen.63 Zitate aus dieser Schrift nutzte Hilberg später am Beginn des Einleitungskapitels seines Opus magnum, in dem er die Geschichte der europäischen Judenfeindschaft nachzeichnet.64 Nach Kriegsende kehrte Hilberg in die USA zurück und nahm sein Studium wieder auf. Auch hier war der Student Hilberg mit Judenfeindlichkeit konfrontiert, denn der Antisemitismus hatte seine eigene »Tradition« im akademischen Amerika65  – wobei sein Grad von College zu College, von Universität zu Universität variierte.66 Hilbergs erste akademische Stationen in der Nachkriegszeit, das Brooklyn College und die Columbia University, galten als offen für jüdische Studenten. Universitäten der sogenannten Ivy League, wie etwa Princeton, wiesen dagegen einen geringen jüdischen Studierendenanteil auf. Als junger Dozent an der Universität von Puerto Rico, einer Dependance der Columbia University, wo Hilberg Mitte der 1950er Jahre für einige Monate Politikwissenschaften lehrte, wurde er von seinem Dekan gewarnt, dass: »die Puertorikaner […] schlimmer als die New Yorker

60 61 62 63 64

Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 42. Roth, Juden auf Wanderschaft, 66. Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 47. Ebd., 48. Ders., Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden. Die Gesamtgeschichte des Holocaust, Berlin 1982, 12. 65 Daum, Refugees from Nazi Germany as Historians, 20. 66 Marcia Graham Synnott, Anti-Semitism and American Universities. Did Quotas Follow the Jews?, in: Jeffrey S. Gurock (Hg.), Anti-Semitism in America, 2 parts., here part 2, New York 1998, 473–511.

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Juden« seien.67 Im Vorfeld seines Bewerbungsgespräches an der University of Vermont zweifelte der junge Wissenschaftler aufgrund der »weitverbreiteten Judendiskriminierung«68 an seinen Erfolgsaussichten. Hilberg begann nach eigener Aussage 1948 mit 22 Jahren mit der Arbeit an seinem Werk zum Holocaust. Nach dem persönlichen Hintergrund zur Beschäftigung mit diesem Thema gefragt, antwortete Hilberg einmal: »Das war gewissermaßen eine Revolte, das sehe ich schon. Das hängt mit meiner Person zusammen, und das war Protest, gegen Deutschland, aber auch gegen das Judentum.«69 Denn aus seiner Sicht hatten sich die jüdischen Organisationen in den Vereinigten Staaten während des Holocaust zu passiv verhalten und nicht energisch genug protestiert und nicht bei den politisch Verantwortlichen interveniert, obwohl das mörderische Vorgehen der Deutschen im Osten Europas schon während des Krieges bekannt geworden war. Zu Hilbergs wichtigsten akademischen Lehrern gehörten jüdische Emigranten aus Europa, wie Hans Rosenberg (1904–1988) und Franz Neumann (1900–1954), und jüdische Historiker wie Salo W. Baron (1895–1989), die sein Denken nachhaltig beeinflussten.70 Nachdem sich bereits seine 1950 an der Columbia University eingereichte Masterarbeit mit der Bürokratie des Judenmords beschäftigte, wurde er Anfang 1955 an derselben Universität im Fach Politikwissenschaften mit einer Arbeit zum gleichen Thema promoviert. Hilberg hat sich nie als Opfer der nationalsozialistischen Judenverfolgung oder gar als Überlebenden des Holocaust bezeichnet oder selbst gesehen – mit einer Ausnahme: Während der jahrelangen Arbeit an seiner Dissertation wurde er Stipendiat einer jüdischen Organisation, die mit deutschen Geldern Forschungsprojekte unterstützte.71 Für die Mittelvergabe mussten drei Voraussetzungen erfüllt werden: Erstens musste es sich bei dem Stipendiaten um ein Opfer der nationalsozialistischen Judenverfolgung handeln, zweitens musste eine finanzielle Bedürftigkeit vorliegen und drittens sollten die Forschungen einen Beitrag zur Förderung der jüdischen Kultur liefern. Aufgrund seines Flüchtlingsstatus galt Hilberg als »NS-Opfer« und wegen seines geringen Gehalts als befristet angestellter Universitätsdozent als bedürftig, womit er zwei der drei Bedingungen erfüllte. In selbstironischer Distanzierung räumte er in seiner Autobiografie später jedoch ein: »Was indes meinen Beitrag zur Förderung der jüdischen Kultur angeht, so bin ich mir

67 68 69 70

Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 88. Ebd., 89. Welzer (Hg.), Aus den Trümmern der Geschichte, 36. René Schlott, Ein Exilant unter Exilanten. Raul Hilbergs frühe Jahre in den USA 1939–1961, in: Jahrbuch für Exilforschung 34 (2016), 93–107. 71 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 91.

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der Kriterien meiner Förderer nicht sicher. Jedenfalls bewies der Titel des Projekts eindeutig, daß ich etwas erforschte, was den Juden passiert war.«72 Frappierend ist, dass mögliche Verleger der Dissertation (und auch der Autor selbst) wie selbstverständlich davon ausgingen, dass es sich um ein »jüdisches Thema« handle, für dessen Veröffentlichung Hilberg auch »jüdisches Geld«73 einwerben solle. Schließlich wurde der jüdische Exilant Frank Petschek (1894–1963), ein ehemaliger Industrieller aus der Tschechoslowakei, zum wichtigsten Finanzier der Publikation.74

Professor in Burlington/Vermont Erst 1961 kam es zur Veröffentlichung seiner Dissertationsschrift. Hilberg war inzwischen 35 Jahre alt und Professor für Politikwissenschaften an der Universität von Vermont in Burlington, nahe der Grenze zu Kanada. Insgesamt dreizehn Jahre lang hat er beharrlich an seinem Gegenstand geforscht und um seine Publikation gerungen; ein Zeitraum, der nahelegt, dass seine Forschung für ihn mehr als nur Wissenschaft war, vielmehr eine mit seiner Person und seinem Leben verbundene Angelegenheit darstellte und einen Teil seiner Persönlichkeit ausmachte. Akademische Kritik an seinem Werk nahm er persönlich und nicht etwa kühl distanziert als Teil des Wissenschaftsbetriebes auf, wie seine teils emotionalen Konflikte mit Hannah Arendt oder mit anderen Fachkolleginnen und Fachkollegen zeigen.75 So beginnen Hilbergs Memoiren mit der Schilderung seiner völligen Verzweiflung nach einer kritischen Rezension seines Buches Perpetrators, Victims, Bystanders.76 Auch im Zusammenhang mit The Destruction of the European Jews bemühte er wieder die Rolle des Beobachters, die er bereits für die Geschehnisse in Wien für sich reklamiert hatte: »Ich war Beobachter, der vor allem seiner Rolle gemäß schreiben mußte.« Seine Sorge, aufgrund seiner persön72 Ebd. 73 Ebd., 96. 74 René Schlott, Der lange Weg zum Buch. Zur Publikationsgeschichte von Raul Hilbergs opus magnum »The Destruction of the European Jews«, in: Frank Bösch/Martin Sabrow (Hgg.), ZeitRäume. Potsdamer Almanach des Zentrums für Zeithistorische Forschung 2015, Göttingen 2015, 143–152, hier 145 f. 75 Ursula Ludz, In den Untiefen des Allzumenschlichen. Hilberg vs. Arendt, in: Hannah­ Arendt.net. Zeitschrift für politisches Denken/Journal for Political Thinking  6 (2011), H. 1/2, 1–8, (31. Januar 2019). 76 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 11–14.

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lichen Erfahrungen als Angehöriger einer verfolgten und großteils ermordeten osteuropäischen jüdischen Familie als befangen zu gelten, ließ Hilberg über weitere »Vorsichtsmaßnahmen« nachdenken: »[S]ofern mein Manuskript jemals als Buch herauskäme, dürfte der Klappentext nichts über den persönlichen Hintergrund des Autors verraten.«77 Auf dem Umschlag der Originalausgabe von 1961 findet sich denn auch zu seiner Herkunft lediglich die knappe Angabe: »Born in 1926 in Europe, he was educated in the United States.« In der deutschen Erstausgabe von 1982 heißt es an gleicher Stelle etwas präziser: »1926 in Wien geboren, ging 1939 über Kuba ins Exil in die USA.« Implizit ließ sich hier eine Verfolgungsgeschichte als »Jude« erahnen. Ein expliziter Hinweis aber auf Hilbergs jüdische Herkunft fehlt in beiden Ausgaben. Zum Zeitpunkt des Erscheinens von Hilbergs Werk wurde der Holocaust ausschließlich als Teil der jüdischen Geschichte gesehen, wie erst jüngst die amerikanische Holocausthistorikerin Deborah Lipstadt festhielt.78 Doch auch heute noch kann The Destruction of the European Jews als jüdische Geschichte gelesen werden.79 »Täter wie Opfer [griffen] beim Umgang miteinander auf ihre jeweils spezifische jahrhundertealte Erfahrung zurück«, so Hilberg. »Die Deutschen taten es mit Erfolg; die Juden erlebten ein Desaster.«80 Der kanadische Holocausthistoriker Michael Marrus zählt in seinen 2016 herausgegebenen Erinnerungen, die zugleich den Versuch einer Historiografiegeschichte des Judenmords darstellen, Raul Hilbergs Werk dezidiert zu den »Jewish Lessons of the Holocaust«.81 Denn die Publikation von Hilbergs Dissertation löste eine innerjüdische Kontroverse um die Rolle der Judenräte in den Ghettos und die Bedeutung des jüdischen Widerstandes aus, in der sich Hilberg, der beiden Aspekten sehr kritisch gegenüberstand, nach eigener Aussage »gegen den Hauptstrom des jüdischen Denkens«82 stellte. Er selbst sah sein eigenes Buch 1994 in einer Reihe mit anderen »Großprojekten jüdischen Forschens und Erinnerns«,83 wobei sich sein Werk von den anderen unterscheide, da es sich nicht »auf die Juden selbst«, sondern auf die deutschen Täter beziehe. Es habe sich zudem einem »herrschende[n] Opferkult«84 entzogen, die jüdischen Opfer aber auch nicht als »Helden« dar-

77 Ebd., 77. 78 Deborah E. Lipstadt, Holocaust. An American Understanding, New Brunswick, N. J./London 2016, 19. 79 Dan Michman, Die Historiographie der Shoah aus jüdischer Sicht. Konzeptualisierungen, Terminologie, Anschauungen, Grundfragen, Hamburg 2002, 20–23. 80 Hilberg, Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden, 27. 81 Michael R. Marrus, Lessons of the Holocaust, Toronto/Buffalo, N. Y./London 2016, 84–87. 82 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 112. 83 Ebd. 84 Ebd., 114.

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gestellt.85 Er nannte diese drei Gründe für die scharfe Kritik, die sein Buch hervorgerufen hatte. In Darstellungen zu Hilbergs Werk wird oft behauptet, der sich auf deutsche Täterakten stützende und jüdischen Überlebendenberichten gegenüber kritisch eingestellte Hilberg habe ganz auf deren Verwendung verzichtet. In der deutschen Erstausgabe von Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden aber zitiert Hilberg etwa aus Primo Levis Survival in Auschwitz und Rudolf Vrbas I Cannot Forgive.86 In der englischen Originalausgabe von 1961 griff er an der gleichen Stelle stattdessen auf die Erinnerungen des niederländischen Holocaustüberlebenden Elia A. Cohen zurück.87 In einer von ihm zehn Jahre später herausgegebenen Quellensammlung sind auch zeitgenössische Dokumente jüdischer Autoren enthalten.88 In seinem letzten Buch zu den »Quellen des Holocaust« diskutiert er ausführlich Material jüdischer Provenienz.89 Mit der Edition des Tagebuches von Adam Czerniaków,90 »Judenältester« des Warschauer Ghettos, wandte er sich sogar einer einzigen jüdischen Quelle zu, mit der er sich mehr und mehr identifizierte: »Ich verbrachte etwa sechs Jahre mit Czerniaków. Je tiefer ich mich in das Tagebuch versenkte, desto mehr entdeckte ich darin. Weshalb fühlte ich mich zu dem Mann hingezogen? Sein Ehrgefühl verbot, den Posten zu verlassen.«91 Aus diesem Tagebuch hat Hilberg in Claude Lanzmanns Shoah mehrere Auszüge gelesen. Für die Dokumentation ist Hilberg also in die Rolle Czerniakóws geschlüpft, so überzeugend, dass Lanzmann zu Hilberg sagte: »Du warst Czerniakow.«92

85 Ebd., 116. 86 Ders., Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden, 659, Anm. 439 f. (Primo Levi, Survival in Auschwitz. The Nazi Assault on Humanity, New York 1961; Rudolf Vrba/Alan Bestic, I Cannot Forgive, New York 1964). 87 Hilberg, The Destruction of the European Jews, 625, Anm. 22 (Elia A. Cohen, Human Behavior in the Concentration Camp, London 1954, 119). 88 Raul Hilberg (Hg.), Documents of Destruction. Germany and Jewry, 1933–1945, Chicago, Ill., 1971. 89 Ders., Sources of Holocaust Research. An Analysis, Chicago, Ill., 2001 (dt.: Die Quellen des Holocaust. Entschlüsselt und interpretiert, aus dem Amerik. von Udo Rennert, Frankfurt a. M. 2002). 90 Ders./Stanislaw Staron/Josef Kermisz (Hgg.), The Warsaw Diary of Adam Czerniakow. Prelude to Doom, New York 1979. 91 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 162. 92 Ebd.

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Hilberg und Israel In dem bereits oben erwähnten Interview mit Evelyn Adunka wird Hilberg gefragt, ob er eine nähere Beziehung zu Israel habe. Er verneint die Frage, auch wenn er dem Land mehrmals kurze Besuche abgestattet hatte.93 Die mehr als fünf Lebensjahrzehnte Hilbergs in Burlington, von 1955 bis 2007, wurden lediglich von einem längeren Aufenthalt in Israel unterbrochen. Im Frühjahr 1968 erhielt Hilberg ein Freisemester und zog mit seiner Ehefrau Christine und seinem Sohn David für sechs Monate nach Tel Aviv.94 Die Hilbergs kamen in ein nach dem Sieg im Sechstagekrieg euphorisiertes Land, doch für den früheren Zionisten Hilberg95 wurde der Aufenthalt eine ernüchternde Erfahrung, als er vor Ort auf unerwartete Schwierigkeiten bei seinen geplanten Forschungsarbeiten stieß. Denn er beabsichtigte vor allem im Archiv von Yad Vashem zu arbeiten, wurde dort jedoch abgewiesen und vertröstet.96 Doch dies war nur eine Episode einer lebenslangen, spannungsreichen Beziehung zwischen der Holocaustgedenkstätte und Raul Hilberg. Die Wissenschaftler in Jerusalem gehörten nämlich zu den ersten Kollegen Hilbergs, die sein Manuskript in den 1950er Jahren noch vor dessen Publikation lasen. Hilberg hatte es dort zur Veröffentlichung angeboten, war jedoch auf Ablehnung gestoßen. Die Antwort aus Jerusalem überraschte Hilberg nicht nur als Holocaustforscher, sondern auch als Zionisten, denn er hielt seine Sicht auf den langfristigen Einfluss der Diaspora-Existenz des europäischen Judentums für kompatibel mit den Ideen des Zionismus.97 In der Retrospektive des Jahres 1994 hielt er seine damalige Enttäuschung fest: »Hier war das erste negative Urteil über mein Manuskript, und diese Kugeln kamen aus Jerusalem. Zehn Jahre lang hatte ich gehofft, daß Juden und gerade Juden meinen Text lesen würden. Für sie arbeitete ich.«98 Diese sehr persönliche Aussage, die in den Memoiren nur beiläufig fällt, darf sicherlich als ein Schlüsselsatz für das Verständnis des hilbergschen Werkes gelten und offenbart dessen Grundmotivation.

93 The University of Vermont Archives, Raul Hilberg Papers, Box 6: General Correspondence, Folder 13: September–December 1992, Anlage zum Brief von Raul Hilberg an Evelyn Adunka, Wien, 14. Dezember 1992. 94 In einem Interview aus dem Jahr 1973 gibt Hilberg an, im Jahr 1968 vier Monate in Israel gelebt zu haben: Harold Flender, »I Am Trying To Understand It«, 46. 95 René Schlott, Lost in Alexandria. Zur Genese des Holocaustmodells von Raul Hilberg, in: Frank Bösch/Martin Sabrow (Hgg.), ZeitRäume. Potsdamer Almanach des Zentrums für Zeithistorische Forschung 2016, Göttingen 2016, 153–162, hier 159. 96 Hilberg, Unerbetene Erinnerung, 142–144. 97 Lipstadt, Holocaust, 22. 98 Ebd., 97.

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Umso mehr musste es Hilberg befremden, als 1967 ausgerechnet in den Yad Vashem Studies eine vernichtende Rezension seines Buches erschien, die am Ende polemisch fragt, ob dessen Urteile über den jüdischen Widerstand und die Judenräte von »pain [or] hate (of himself)« motiviert gewesen seien.99 Zehn Jahre später stellte sich Hilberg persönlich seinen israelischen Kritikern, als er die Einladung zu einer Konferenz in Yad Vashem annahm. Er diskutierte mit Gideon Hausner (1915–1990), ehemaliger Chefankläger im Prozess gegen Adolf Eichmann und damaliger Direktor der Gedenkstätte, über seine Thesen. In der Entgegnung auf Hausners Kritik, abgedruckt im Anhang des Tagungsbandes, erwähnte Hilberg seinen Vater, der die gleichen Einwände wie Hausner vorgebracht habe, als er damals, als erste Person überhaupt, sein Manuskript gelesen habe. Dennoch habe er es so veröffentlicht: »[A]nd I did so knowing […] that I would hurt the feelings of my fath­ er, and that mattered to me.«100 Am Ende seines Statements in Yad Vashem stellte er dem Publikum die rhetorische Frage, in der wiederum das Grundmotiv für seine wissenschaftliche Arbeit anklingt: »Ladies and gentleman, is it no true; are we not all agreed, that one of the very reasons we study the Holocaust is that we want to understand ourselves, and want to prevent even the slightest recurrence?«101 Hilberg ging es also nicht nur um das »Nie wieder!«, sondern auch um eine Selbstbefragung und Selbstreflektion »seines Volkes«, um damit zu einer besseren Selbsterkenntnis zu gelangen. Hilbergs Opus magnum erschien mehr als fünfzig Jahre nach der englischen Originalpublikation im Jahr 2012 in hebräischer Übersetzung, verlegt von Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. Seine in der Stadt lebende Tochter Deborah, die in den späten 1980er Jahren nach Israel ausgewandert war und sich zeitweise zum orthodoxen Judentum bekannte, hielt auf dem zu diesem Anlass organisierten wissenschaftlichen Symposium in der Holocaustgedenkstätte eine Ansprache über das Verhältnis zu ihrem fünf Jahre zuvor verstorbenen Vater.102 Darin spricht sie auch darüber, wie sehr er sich freute, als sich seine Tochter entschied, den zunächst nur temporären Aufenthalt in einen dauerhaften umzuwandeln und neben der amerikanischen auch die israelische Staatsbürgerschaft anzunehmen.

 99 Nathan Eck, Historical Research or Slander?, in: Yad Vashem Studies 6 (1967), 385–430, hier 430. 100 Yisrael Gutman/Cynthia  J. Haft (Hgg.), Patterns of Jewish Leadership in Nazi Europe, 1933–1945. Proceedings of the Third Yad Vashem International Historical Conference, Jerusalem, April 4–7, 1977, Jerusalem 1979, 61. 101 Ebd., 63. 102 Veröffentlicht in englischer Sprache als Zeitungsbeitrag: Deborah Hilberg, My Father, the Holocaust Scholar. The Man Whose Message Israelis Wouldn’t Hear, in: Haaretz, 6. Dezember 2012.

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Epilog 500 Swift Street, South Burlington/Vermont. Seinen letzten öffentlichen Auftritt absolvierte Raul Hilberg in der Reformsynagoge Temple Sinai in South Burlington. Nur wenige Monate vor seinem Tod sprach er dort am 12. April 2007, bereits sichtlich von seiner Krankheit gezeichnet.103 Hilberg hatte seine zweite Ehefrau Gwendolyn seit ihrem Übertritt zum Judentum öfter in diese Synagoge begleitet. Dass er, der selbst erklärte Atheist, am Ende seines Lebens an einem mit dem Davidstern geschmückten Pult in einer Synagoge sprach, war auch eine Rückkehr zu seinen Wurzeln. Symbolisch schloss sich so der Kreis eines Lebens, dessen jüdische Zugehörigkeit nicht nach außen getragen wurde, ihm aber inhärent war. Bei Freunden, Kolleginnen und Kollegen auf dem Campus der Universität von Vermont galt Hilberg bis zu seinem Lebensende als »Jecke«.104 Hilberg wurde von seiner Umwelt vor allem als deutscher Jude wahrgenommen, wie der Gebrauch dieser spöttischen, aber nicht herablassenden Bezeichnung zeigt. Im Rückblick erscheint es, als sei es Hilberg so ergangen wie später Tony Judt (1948–2010), dem britischen Historiker, der in die Vereinigten Staaten übersiedelte und in seinen Erinnerungen festhielt, er habe sich »in Amerika […] ganz besonders als Europäer gefühlt«.105 Gemeinsam haben die beiden Emigranten, zwischen denen 22 Lebensjahre lagen, nicht nur ihre Selbstbezeichnung als »Außenseiter«,106 sondern auch die Verneinung eines persönlichen religiösen Judentums. Judt, im Gegensatz zu Hilberg ein linker Zionist, der oft wegen seiner kritischen Haltung gegenüber der rechtsreligiösen Regierung Israels unter Beschuss geriet, teilte mit Hilberg das Schicksal, vor allem im Zentrum innerjüdischer Kritik gestanden zu haben. Doch gerade daraus leitete Judt sein jüdisches Selbstverständnis ab, das ohne Einschränkung auch für Hilberg Geltung beanspruchen könnte: »Judesein ist für mich die Bereitschaft zu kollektiver Selbstbefragung und unbequemer Wahrheitssuche, jene Unabhängigkeit im Denken, für die wir einst bekannt waren. Es reicht nicht, die Konventionen anderer Leute zu verwerfen, wir müssen auch die unnachsichtigsten Kritiker unserer selbst sein. Dieser Vergangenheit fühle ich mich verpflichtet. Darum bin ich Jude.«107

103 Den Videomitschnitt des Vortrags verdanke ich Gemeinderabbiner James Scott Glazier, den ich am 12. November 2013 zu einem Gespräch traf. 104 Anath Feinberg, Art. »Jeckes«, in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig hg. von Dan Diner, 7 Bde., Stuttgart 2011–2017, hier Bd. 3., Stuttgart 2012, 180–183. 105 Tony Judt, Das Chalet der Erinnerungen, aus dem Engl. von Matthias Fienbork, Frankfurt a. M. 2014, 166 (zuerst engl. 2010). 106 Ebd., 199. 107 Ebd., 214.

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Hilberg folgte einem der ältesten rabbinischen Gebote, dem »Sachor!«. Zwar hatte er das »Erinnere Dich!« nicht wie Joseph Wulf als Losung über seinem Schreibtisch angebracht.108 Dennoch gehorchte er diesem Grundsatz ein Leben lang bis zu seinem Tod am 4. August 2007. Auch der eingangs geschilderte Auftritt in Lanzmanns Shoah ist davon geprägt: »Erinnere Dich!« an die Täter, an die Opfer, an Menschen wie Adam Czerniaków und »Erinnere Dich!« an den verhängnisvollen Verlauf der jüdischen Geschichte zwischen Anpassung und Assimilation. »Das Geheimnis der Erlösung heißt Erinnerung«, lautet der berühmte Satz von Rabbi Israel Ben Eliser (um 1700–1760), dem Begründer der chassidischen Bewegung, der im Zusammenhang mit dem Gedenken an den Holocaust heute oft zitiert wird. In der ersten Szene, die ihn in Shoah zeigt, erläutert Hilberg seine Intention für die wissenschaftliche Beschäftigung mit dem Judenmord in einem prägnant formulierten Satz: »In all of my work I have never begun by asking the big questions, because I was always afraid that I would come up with small answers; and I have preferred to address these things which are minutiae or details in order that I might then be able to put together in a Gestalt a picture which, if not an explanation, is at least a description, a more full description, of what transpired.«

Hilberg wollte dabei dem Vorwurf der potenziellen wissenschaftlichen Befangenheit stets entgehen – durch eine demonstrative Nichtbetonung seiner jüdischen Herkunft. Konsequent verweigerte er auch jede Nutzung emotionalisierender Adjektive in seinem Werk. Gerade an der Biografie Raul Hilbergs wird deutlich, dass die Trennung zwischen Leben und Werk eine künstliche ist und bleiben muss, insbesondere wenn ein Autor wie er ein Lebenswerk geschaffen hat. Natürlich ist die jüdische Zugehörigkeit Hilbergs nur ein Aspekt seines Lebens; sie besitzt begrenzte Erklärungskraft, weil sich eine Persönlichkeit über zahlreiche solche Zugehörigkeiten definiert und konstruiert, auch über solche, zu denen nichts geäußert oder überliefert wurde. Der Biograf aber ist auf die belegten öffentlichen oder privaten Selbstaussagen einer Person als Primärquellen zurückgeworfen. Dennoch, so zeigt dieser Beitrag, laden zahlreiche Anhaltspunkte dazu ein, die jüdische Zugehörigkeit Hilbergs genauer zu betrachten und in die Analyse von Leben und Werk einfließen zu lassen. Obgleich Hilberg weder das Jiddische noch das Hebräische beherrschte und nicht gläubig war, konstituierte sich seine jüdische Zugehörigkeit aus drei anderen Komponenten: Erstens aus seiner Vertrautheit mit jüdischer Tradition, Geschichte und Kultur, vermittelt durch sein Elternhaus in den frühen Jahren in Wien. Zweitens aus der persönlichen Erfahrung von Anti108 Kempter, Joseph Wulf, 171.

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semitismus in einer Umwelt, die ihn sowohl in den 1930er Jahren in Europa wie in den 1950er Jahren in Amerika als Jude wahrnahm. Und drittens aus seiner Verbundenheit mit dem jüdischen Staat Israel und seiner zionistischen Überzeugung. Für wen er aber fast sechs Jahrzehnte lang den Holocaust erforschte, offenbarte Hilberg noch einmal am Ende seines Vortrags in der Synagoge von South Burlington: »I did it for my people.« So agierte Hilberg als Angehöriger einer Schicksalsgemeinschaft in der Tradition eines jüdischen Aufklärers, der mittels Wissen auch auf überkommene Traditionen seines Volkes hinwies, dem Judentum aber stets verbunden blieb.109

109 Zur Typologie des »jüdischen Aufklärers« siehe Marcus Pyka, Art. »Jewish Studies«, in: Christian Klein, Handbuch Biographie. Methoden, Traditionen, Theorien, Stuttgart/Weimar 2009, 414–418, hier 415.

Katharina Prager

Erinnerungsorte und jüdische ­Auto/­Biografien des Exils – Überlegungen zu vier Intellektuellen aus Wien

»Wien ist für mich, für viele, für alle ein Ort geworden, den nur die Erinnerung findet, wenn der Wunsch ihn aufsucht. Auch diejenigen, denen es nicht verwehrt ist, die Stadt, die auch heute noch Wien heißt, in ihrer Realität zu betreten, werden das Wien, das wir kannten, das wir immer noch meinen, nur umso tiefer, umso schmerzlicher entbehren müssen. Da ich den österreichischen Boden, seit er ein Teil des Dritten Reichs geworden ist, in diesem Leben nicht mehr berühren werde, findet nur noch die Phantasie den Weg zurück zu den Stellen, von denen mein Leben ausging. Ich könnte also ebenso gut von Vineta erzählen, der im Meere versunkenen Stadt, als von Wien. Es ist ein Phantasiegebilde außerhalb der geographischen Realität.«1

Der Schriftsteller und Regisseur Berthold Viertel (1885–1953) schrieb diese Sätze im Frühjahr 1938, als er die ambivalente Moderne Wiens, die ihn um 1900 intensiv geprägt hatte, endgültig verloren glaubte. Schon zuvor hatte das Dollfuß/Schuschnigg-Regime kritische Modernität unterdrückt, aber die nationalsozialistische Machtübernahme am 12. März 1938 machte den Bruch mit Österreich endgültig und die Erinnerung an das moderne Wien um 1900 wurde nicht nur für Berthold Viertel zentral. Noch am selben Tag setzten für die österreichischen Jüdinnen und Juden institutionalisierte Verfolgung und – »wenn sie nicht buchstäblich umgebracht worden sind«2 –Vertreibung ein. Wie viele andere wurden Viertel, der Schriftsteller und Industrielle Hermann Broch (1886–1951), die Schauspielerin und Drehbuchautorin Salka Viertel (1889–1978; von 1918 bis 1948 Berthold Viertels Ehefrau) und die spätere Pionierin der Frauengeschichte Gerda Lerner (1920–2013) zu Exilanten und Exilantinnen  – und damit gewissermaßen zu einer Erinnerungsgemeinschaft.

1

Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach (nachfolgend DLA), A: Viertel, Kasten 19, o. S., Berthold Viertel, Vorbemerkung. 2 Berthold Viertel, Wiederkehr des kleinen Lebens, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, 4. Bde., Wien 1989–1994, hier Bd. 2: Kindheit eines Cherub. Autobiographische Fragmente, hg. von Siglinde Bolbecher und Konstantin Kaiser, Wien 1990, 37–46, hier 39. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 441–464.

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Diese vier Intellektuellen3 verbindet jenseits der Erfahrung der antijüdischen Vertreibung vor allem, dass sie im Roten Wien4 um 1900 kritisch-modernen Kreisen um den Kulturkritiker und Satiriker Karl Kraus (1874–1936) angehörten5 und sich im amerikanischen Exil auf die eine oder andere Art auto/biografisch6 dazu geäußert haben.7 Die vorliegenden Überlegungen widmen sich der Frage, inwieweit das spezifische, von Pierre Nora entwickelte und viel diskutierte Forschungsparadigma der Erinnerungsorte (lieux de mémoire) ein sinnvoller Zugriff auf jüdische Lebenswege im 20. Jahrhundert ist und wie diese Perspektive auto/ biografietheoretisch argumentiert werden kann. Pierre Nora versteht den lieu de mémoire als Kristallisationspunkt kollektiver, Zugehörigkeit stiftender Erinnerung, in dem eine konkrete und eine symbolische Realität aufeinandertreffen.8 Diese eher vage Definition schärfte er etwas durch den Zusatz, dass als lieu de mémoire eine »jederart bedeutsame Entität, ob materiell oder immateriell«, zu begreifen sei, »welche durch menschlichen Willen oder das Werk der Zeit zu einem symbolischen

3 Zur Problematik und Nutzung des Intellektuellenbegriffs bei Frauen siehe Mary Evans, Can Women Be Intellectuals?, in: Christian Fleck/Andreas Hess/E. Stina Lyon (Hgg.), Intellectuals and Their Publics. Perspectives from the Social Sciences, Farnham/Burlington, Vt., 2009, 29–40; Karin Hausen, Eine eigentümliche Gewissheit … dass Intellektuelle im 20.  Jahrhundert ausnahmslos unter Menschen männlichen Geschlechts zu finden seien, in: Gesa Dahne/Barbara Hahn (Hgg.), Denk- und Schreibweisen einer Intellektuellen im 20. Jahrhundert. Über Ricarda Huch, Göttingen 2012, 179–220. 4 Siehe Wolfgang Kos/Sándor Békési (Hgg.), Kampf um die Stadt. Politik, Kunst und Alltag um 1930 (Katalog zur Ausstellung Museum im Künstlerhaus Wien, 19. November 2009 bis 28. März 2010), Wien 2010. 5 Steven Beller und Allan Janik sprachen in diesem Zusammenhang von einer »kritischen Moderne«. Steven Beller (Hg.), Rethinking Vienna 1900, New York 2001, 16, 31 und 41–43; Allan Janik, Wittgenstein’s Vienna Revisited, New Brunswick/London 2001, 16–22 und 226. 6 Die Schreibweise »Auto/Biografie« soll die Untrennbarkeit des Schreibens über den anderen und des Schreibens über das Selbst produktiv aufnehmen. Siehe Anne Rüggemeier, Die relationale Autobiographie. Ein Beitrag zur Theorie, Poetik und Gattungsgeschichte eines neuen Genres in der englischsprachigen Erzählliteratur, Trier 2014, 11–14. 7 Die Verfasserin hat sich in den vergangenen Jahren mit ihren auto/biografischen Materialien der vier Intellektuellen beschäftigt und zu Berthold Viertel eine Biografie in Erinnerungsorten verfasst. Siehe Katharina Prager, Berthold Viertel. Eine Biografie der Wiener Moderne, Wien 2018. 8 Pierre Nora (Hg.), Les lieux de mémoire, Bd. 3: Les France 1. Conflits et partages, Paris 1992, 20: »[…] lieu de mémoire, donc: toute unité significative, d’ordre matériel ou idéel, dont la volonté des hommes ou le travail du temps a fait un élément symbolique du patrimoine mémoriel d’une quelconque communauté.«

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Element innerhalb des kommemorativen Erbes einer wie auch immer gearteten Gemeinschaft geworden ist«.9 Wie der Erinnerungsort erfüllt auch die Auto/Biografie grundlegende Aufgaben der Erinnerungskultur wie »die Beantwortung von Fragen nach gemeinsamer Herkunft, die Stiftung nationaler Identität und die Vermittlung bestimmter Werte und Normen«.10 Als »Gedächtnisgattung par excellence« prägt sie auf verschiedenen Ebenen das Gedächtnis und wird zugleich von ihm geprägt: Sie kann selbst zum Erinnerungsort werden oder Erinnerungsorte konstruieren, affirmieren oder hinterfragen. Sowohl im Fall von Auto/ Biografien als auch von Erinnerungsorten geht es um Aneignung von Vergangenheit durch Selektion, Konstruktion und die Schaffung/Herstellung eines Gegenwartsbezugs.11 Der Zusammenhang dieser beiden Aneignungsformen in jüdischen Auto/Biografien des Exils soll hier am Beispiel der vier oben genannten Intellektuellen aus Wien analysiert werden. Diese Überlegungen lassen sich aber auch auf die Konstruktion der Auto/Biografien von Exilantinnen und Exilanten aus anderen europäischen Metropolen wie Berlin, Prag oder Paris übertragen. Die im Kontext von Erinnerungsorten noch kaum beachtete Kategorie Geschlecht ist in all diesen Prozessen konstitutives Element, das hier dezidiert analysiert wird und bereits bei der Auswahl der vier Personen entscheidend war.12

Individualität und Geschlecht in Auto/Biografien Das Individuum, das im Mittelpunkt jeder Auto/Biografie steht, ist, wie die Zeithistorikerin Johanna Gehmacher festhält, »ein historisch und kulturell spezifisches Konzept«:

  9 Ders., From Lieux de Mémoire to Realms of Memory, XVII, zit. nach Cornelia Siebeck, Erinnerungsorte. Lieux de Mémoire, Version: 1.0, in: Docupedia-Zeitgeschichte, 2. März 2017, DOI: (10. Dezember 2018). 10 Astrid Erll, Biographie und Gedächtnis, in: Christian Klein (Hg.), Handbuch Biographie. Methoden, Traditionen, Theorien, Stuttgart 2009, 79–86, hier 86. 11 Ebd., 79–86; Nikola Herweg, Die Biographie als paradigmatische Gedächtnisgattung, in: Astrid Erll u. a. (Hgg.), Literatur – Erinnerung – Identität. Theoriekonzeptionen und Fallstudien, Trier 2003, 197–210. 12 Zwar gibt es durchaus Studien zu Gender und Gedächtnis, aber beispielsweise enthält eine aktuelle Bestandsaufnahme zu Erinnerungsorten keinen Beitrag zum Geschlecht. Stefan Berger/Joana Seiffert (Hgg.), Erinnerungsorte. Chancen, Grenzen und Perspektiven eines Erfolgskonzepts in den Kulturwissenschaften, Essen 2014.

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»Als solches ist es von Machtverhältnissen und Kategorisierungen geprägt: Individualität ist zuerst einmal der Entwurf einer europäischen, männlichen, weißen Elite. Die Inanspruchnahme von biographischen Formen des Selbstbezugs ist damit zuerst einmal die Behauptung, an dieser privilegierten Position teilzuhaben.«13

Berthold Viertel und Hermann Broch sind aus dieser Perspektive betrachtet nicht nur einer europäischen, männlichen, weißen Elite zuzurechnen, sie gehörten zudem zu jenen bürgerlichen, gebildeten und schriftstellerisch tätigen Männern, deren Themen und Weltsichten seit dem 19. Jahrhundert auto/biografische Trends setzten.14 In ihrer Zeit konnten, sollten und wollten Männer wie sie eine Auto/Biografie schreiben. Für Frauen hingegen hatte im Wien um 1900 der »Kampf um die weibliche Individualität« zusammen mit Kämpfen um eine Reorganisation der geschlechtlichen Arbeitsteilung, um Mädchenbildung, Gleichstellung vor dem Gesetz und um die Ausweitung politischer Partizipationsmöglichkeiten gerade erst begonnen. Dennoch war auch in »feministischen« Kreisen die Vorstellung von einer »natürlichen« Unterschiedlichkeit der Geschlechter noch weit verbreitet: dem Mann als »Individuum« wurden Kultur, Vernunft, Aktivität, (politische) Gewalt und damit der »öffentliche« Raum zugeschrieben. Der Frau als »Gattungswesen« wurden Natur, Emotionalität, Passivität, Schwäche und in diesem Sinn der »private«, häusliche Bereich zugeordnet.15 Salka Viertel und die fast dreißig Jahre jüngere Gerda Lerner waren in Wien im Umfeld dieser »polaren Geschlechtscharaktere« sozialisiert worden. Zum einen lebten sie – durch den amerikanischen Stil beeinflusst – in Sachen Ausbildung, Berufstätigkeit, Sexualität und Ehe als »moderne Frauen« andere Ideen. Im Falle Lerners hatte bereits die Mutter Ilona Kronstein (1897–1948) als Künstlerin ihrer Tochter ein Modell moderner Weiblich-

13 Johanna Gehmacher, Leben schreiben. Stichworte zur biographischen Thematisierung als historiographisches Format, in: Lucile Dreidemy u. a. (Hgg.), Bananen, Cola, Zeitgeschichte. Oliver Rathkolb und das lange 20. Jahrhundert, 2 Bde., Wien/Köln/Weimar 2015, 1013–1026, hier 1018. 14 Gabriele Jancke/Claudia Ulbrich, Einleitung, in: dies. (Hgg.), Vom Individuum zur Person. Neue Konzepte im Spannungsfeld von Autobiographietheorie und Selbstzeugnisforschung, Göttingen 2005, 7–28, hier 15. 15 Harriet Anderson, Vision und Leidenschaft. Die Frauenbewegung im Fin de Siècle Wiens, Wien 1994; Andrea Bührmann, Der Kampf um die weibliche Individualität. Zur Transformation moderner Subjektivierungsweisen im Deutschland um 1900, Münster 2004, 50–69; Karen Hausen, Die Polarisierung der »Geschlechtscharaktere«, in: Werner Conze (Hg.), Sozialgeschichte der Familie der Neuzeit Europas, Stuttgart 1976, 368–393.

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keit mit emanzipatorischem Impetus vorgelebt.16 Zum anderen hatte aber der nicht lang zurückliegende Erste Weltkrieg infrage gestellte Geschlechterhierarchien bereits erneut verfestigt.17 Schließlich war, wie die Historikerin Nancy F. Cott aufgezeigt hat, diese »neue Aura von Freiheit und Individualität«, die die »altbekannte Rolle der modernen Frau umhüllte«, insgesamt eher dünn.18 Gerda Lerner, die vor ihrer Flucht aus Wien 1938 gerade noch das Gymnasium abschließen konnte, professionalisierte sich erst mit 38 Jahren – nachdem sie zwei Kinder großgezogen und »jeden Drecksjob […], den es für Frauen gab«,19 gemacht hatte. Als Historikerin im Bereich der von ihr wesentlich mitgestalteten Frauengeschichte setzte sie sich auch mit der Frage weiblicher Individualität auseinander.20 Über die autobiografische Praxis von Frauen schrieb sie etwa im zweiten Teil ihres Hauptwerkes Women in History: »The creation of an authentic self which defines its own creativity is a historical phenom­ enon which for women was possible only much later in history than it was for men. St. Augustine’s Confessions […] is generally regarded as the first autobiography by which an authentic self was constructed. But that self was male; […]. It is debatable when the first female autobiography succeeded in similarly constructing an authentic self.«21

Lerner als reflexive Theoretikerin stellte ihrer historischen Arbeit von Beginn an auto/biografische Essays zur Seite, die diverse Verbindungen zwischen ihrer Forschung und ihrem Leben herstellten.22 Den Höhepunkt dieses spannungsvollen Wechselspiels zwischen Theorie und Auto/Biografie bilde-

16 Nancy F. Cott, Die moderne Frau. Der amerikanische Stil der zwanziger Jahre, in: Geor­ ges Duby/Michelle Perrot (Hgg.), Geschichte der Frauen, Bd. 4: 20. Jahrhundert, hg. von Françoise Thébaud, Frankfurt a. M. 1997, 93–109; Johanna Gehmacher, Die »moderne Frau«. Prekäre Entwürfe zwischen Anspruch und Anpassung, in: Michael Schwarz/Ingo Zechner (Hgg.), Die helle und die dunkle Seite der Moderne. Festschrift für Siegfried Mattl, Wien/Berlin 2014, 152–161. 17 Françoise Thébaud, Der Erste Weltkrieg, in: Duby/Perrot (Hgg.), Geschichte der Frauen, Bd. 4, 33–92; Bührmann, Der Kampf um die weibliche Individualität, 232–240. 18 Cott, Die moderne Frau, 109. 19 Siehe Alice Schwarzer, Gespräch mit Gerda Lerner. Ich bin ein Alien, in: EMMA (Mai/ Juni 2000), (10. Dezember 2018). 20 Gerda Lerner, Autobiographical Notes, in: dies., The Majority Finds Its Past. Placing Women in History, Oxford 1981, XIII–XXXII, hier XXIII; dies., Feuerkraut. Eine politische Autobiographie, Wien 2014, 501. 21 Dies., The Creation of Feminist Consciousness, Oxford 1993, 47 (Hervorgebung im Original); siehe dazu auch Rüggemeier, Die relationale Autobiographie, 38. 22 Sie publizierte diese Überlegungen in zwei Aufsatzsammlungen: The Majority Finds Its Past. Placing Women in History (Oxford u. a. 1981) umspannt die Jahre 1969 bis 1979 und Why History Matters. Life and Thought (New York/Oxford 1997) die Jahre 1980 bis 1996. Siehe auch Dieter Thomä/Ulrich Schmid/Vincent Kaufmann, Der Einfall des Le­ bens. Theorie als geheime Autobiographie, Berlin 2015, 7–18.

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te schließlich ihre 2002 publizierte »politische Teil[auto]biographie« Fireweed (dt. Feuerkraut). Hier legte sie vor allem Rechenschaft ab über ihre politische Vergangenheit vor ihrer Karriere als Historikerin. Sie »outete« sich als politische Aktivistin und Mitglied der amerikanischen kommunistischen Partei zwischen 1946 und 1958 und versuchte, »das Muster [zu] erkennen, das aus der Vergangenheit in die Gegenwart reicht«.23 Auch Salka Viertel begann erst um 1953, nach ihrer zweiten Karriere als Drehbuchautorin in Hollywood, an einer Auto/Biografie zu arbeiten. Auch sie schilderte Probleme aufgrund ihres politischen Engagements in der McCarthy-Ära. Im Gegensatz zu Lerner reflektierte sie ihre auto/biografische Praxis nie öffentlich, sondern äußerte sich nur in Tagebüchern und Briefen dazu. Ihrem Entschluss, ein »Erinnerungsbuch«24 zu schreiben, lagen aus Geldnöten auch kommerzielle Erwägungen zugrunde, auch wenn sie als wesentliches Anliegen erklärt hatte, kein »Gossipbook«25 als Insiderin Hollywoods und Vertraute des Weltstars Greta Garbo schreiben zu wollen: »[Ich will] nicht über die ›Berühmtheiten‹ schreiben. Aber über das Leben einer Frau, die sich durchschlagen musste in einer so grässlichen Zeit wie die unsere und über den Widerspruch zwischen der sogenannten ›Freiheit‹ und der Realität der Beziehung zwischen Mann und Frau. Es wird sicher viele schockieren, aber es ist mir egal. Ich bin jetzt in dem qualvollen Stadium, in dem ich alle möglichen alten Briefe lesen muss und mich in dem emotionellen Chaos zurechtfinden muss. Auch bin ich in diese ganze Sache des Geldes wegen hineingeraten. Hätte ich keinen Vorschuss genommen, hätte ich es schon längst aufgegeben.«26

Beide Frauen schrieben in englischer Sprache, also der Sprache ihres Exillandes.27 Sie bezogen historische Strukturen in ihre auto/biografischen Werke mit ein und gaben gleichzeitig zahlreichen Unbekannten Raum, wie engen Freundinnen und Freunden, der weiteren Familie, Bekannten aus der Nachbarschaft und ihren »Toten«. Und beide behaupteten ihre Individualität, indem sie die persönliche Handlungsmacht zur Sprache brachten beziehungsweise Bilder von mutigen Frauen entwarfen.28 23 Lerner, Feuerkraut, 12–14. 24 Salka Viertel, The Kindness of Strangers, New York/Chicago, Ill.,/San Francisco, Calif., 1969; dies., Das unbelehrbare Herz. Ein Leben mit Stars und Dichtern des 20. Jahrhunderts, Hamburg 1970; dies., Das unbelehrbare Herz. Erinnerungen an ein Leben mit Künst­lern des 20. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt a. M. 2011. 25 DLA, A: Viertel, Salka, o. S., Salka Viertel an Berthold Viertel, 29. Juli 1953. 26 Ebd., o. S., Salka Viertel an Eduard Steuermann, o. D. 27 Im Fall Gerda Lerners, die der »zweiten Generation« von Exilierten zugerechnet werden kann – also jenen, die ihre (höheren) Bildungsabschlüsse erst in den USA erhielten – ist das wenig erstaunlich. Siehe Andreas W. Daum, Introduction, in: ders./Hartmut Lehmann/ James J. Sheehan (Hgg.), The Second Generation. Émigrés from Nazi Germany as Historians. With a Biobibliographic Guide, New York/Oxford 2016, 1–52. 28 DLA, A: Viertel, Salka, o. S., Salka Viertels Tagebuch, 1961; Lerner, Feuerkraut, 296–298.

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Anders als in den auto/biografischen Texten Hermann Brochs und Berthold Viertels gebrauchten sie jedoch nie ein »Generationen-Wir«. Sie knüpften nicht an eine »Generation« oder »Erinnerungsgemeinschaft« an, wie dies die beiden Männer taten. Stattdessen thematisierten sie deutlich häufiger die konkrete Bewältigung des Exilalltags, das Privatleben wie auch Tabuthemen und Ängste. Dies entspricht geschlechtsspezifischen Charakteristika, wie sie auch an anderer Stelle im Zusammenhang mit Auto/Biografien des Exils ausgemacht wurden. Zwar müssen Auto/Biografien durchaus immer als gegendert gelesen werden, doch wird diese Typologie problematisch, wenn sie in Form von undifferenzierten Zuschreibungen und Verallgemeinerungen angewandt wird. Denn zum einen veränderte sich auto/biografisches Schreiben im 20. Jahrhundert geschlechtsunabhängig erheblich. Zum anderen bedeutete Exil immer auch eine Neupositionierung, durch die sich Konstruktionen um eigene und fremde Geschlechtlichkeit wandeln konnten.29 Interessant ist, dass weder Gerda Lerner noch Salka Viertel in ihren auto/ biografischen Werken Erinnerungsorte aufbauten und suggerierten – sie nahmen nicht auf symbolische Repräsentationen Bezug, die in dieser Zeit eine Rolle spielten, wie das in den Texten Hermann Brochs und Berthold Viertels der Fall war. Scheinbar konnten und wollten die Frauen an solche traditionsstiftenden Konstruktionen von Gesellschaft, Ideologie, Politik und Kultur nicht in gleicher Weise anschließen wie die beiden Männer, womöglich auch, weil die gleichzeitig auf individuelle Zugehörigkeit zielende identitätspolitische Produktion, Funktionalisierung und Nutzung des Erinnerungssystems eine »männliche Konstruktion« geblieben war. Lerner jedenfalls argumentierte, dass Frauen jahrhundertelang von der aktiven Gestaltung und Interpretation von Symbolen, Systemen, Theorien und nicht zuletzt von ihrer Geschichte ausgeschlossen worden waren.30 In der Erzählung der eigenen Geschichte interessierte die beiden Frauen also weniger die Gesellschaftsund Kulturdiagnostik oder die Einbindung der eigenen Person in den historischen Kontext, sondern es ging vielmehr darum, persönliche Erfahrungen, Gegenwelten und andere Systeme sichtbar zu machen. So schrieb Gerda Lerner zwar über ihr politisches Engagement als Kommunistin in Wien wie in den USA, analysierte aber nicht die kommunistische Bewegung und ihre eigene Position darin. Die Frauenbewegung wäre ein anschlussfähiges Sys29 Siehe Katharina Prager, Exemplary Lives? Thoughts on Exile, Gender and Life-Writing, in: Charmain Brinson/Andrea Hammel (Hgg.): Yearbook of the Research Center for German and Austrian Exile Studies 17 (2016). Exile and Gender I: Literature and the Press, 5–18; Katharina Prager, »Ungewöhnliches biographisches Bewusstsein« – Exilantinnenbiografien als Laboratorium für Geschlechterverhältnisse und Transkulturalität, in: Gabriele Knapp/Adriane Feustel/Inge Hansen-Schaberg (Hgg.), Flüchtige Geschichte und geistiges Erbe. Perspektiven der Frauenexilforschung, München 2015, 53–68. 30 Lerner, The Creation of Patriarchy, 5; dies., The Majority Finds Its Past, 158.

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tem für beide Frauen gewesen – ihr standen allerdings sowohl Salka Viertel als auch Gerda Lerner (jedenfalls vorerst) fern. Dennoch entstanden auch in den Auto/Biografien der beiden Frauen Erinnerungsorte als »Knoten des gesellschaftlichen Diskurses«, wie zum Beispiel Frauenbildung in Wien oder die Verfolgungen in der McCarthy-Ära, die jedoch noch nicht oder kaum kanonisiert waren.31 Ihr Schwerpunkt lag dabei häufig viel stärker auf dem Exil als im Falle vieler männlicher Auto/ Biografen, die diese Erfahrung gar nicht erst zum Thema machten.32 Solche Erinnerungsorte aus den Auto/Biografien von Exilantinnen zu destillieren, die in bestimmten Gedächtnis- und Individualitätsdiskursen eine signifikante Rolle spielen könnten, wäre also sicher sinnvoll und lohnenswert, auch im Hinblick auf ihre Bedeutung für die biografische Konstruktion.33 Eindeutig geschlechtsspezifisch zuordenbar ist der späte Trend, über die eigene Geschichte zu schreiben. Viele Exilantinnen erhielten erst durch die Frauenbewegung der späten 1960er und der 1970er Jahre wie auch durch neue Methoden und Schulen der Zeitgeschichte (Life Writing, Oral History) den Impuls, autobiografisch zu arbeiten. Ihre Werke erschienen verspätet in den 1980er Jahren, also in der Zeit des Erinnerungsbooms um Pierre Nora.34

Jüdische Selbst- und Fremddefinitionen im 20. Jahrhundert Wenn die Autobiografie der Ort der Identifikation mit Geschlecht, Nation, Religion oder Ideologie ist, also »die soziale Praxis, die im Prozeß der Modernisierung die Verbindung zwischen dem Kollektiv und dem Individuum herstellt«,35 dann stellt sich jenseits der Perspektive auf die Kategorie Ge31 Siehe Eva Bliminger/Ela Hornung, Feministische Methodendiskussion in der Geschichtswissenschaft, in: Johanna Gehmacher/Maria Mesner (Hgg.), Frauen- und Geschlechtergeschichte. Positionen und Perspektiven, Innsbruck 2003, 127–144; Hiltrud Häntzschel, Geschlechtsspezifische Aspekte, in: Claus-Dieter Krohn/Elisabeth Kohlhaas (Hgg.), Handbuch der deutschsprachigen Emigration 1933–1945, Darmstadt 1998, 101–117, hier 111. 32 Beispiele wären: Stefan Zweig, Die Welt von Gestern. Erinnerungen eines Europäers, Frankfurt a. M. 1992; Heinrich Mann, Ein Zeitalter wird besichtigt, Frankfurt a. M. 1988. 33 Eine frühe Vorarbeit in diesem Zusammenhang ist sicher Christine Backhaus-Lautenschläger, … Und standen ihre Frau. Das Schicksal deutschsprachiger Emigrantinnen in den USA nach 1933, Pfaffenweiler 1991. 34 Zu Pierre Nora siehe Georg Kreis, Schweizer Erinnerungsorte. Aus dem Speicher der Swissness, Zürich 2010, 327–346. 35 Johanna Gehmacher, De/Platzierungen  – zwei Nationalistinnen in der Hauptstadt des 19.  Jahrhunderts. Überlegungen zu Nationalität, Geschlecht und Auto/biographie, in: WerkstattGeschichte 32 (2002), 6–30, hier 12.

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schlecht auch die Frage nach der Zugehörigkeit zu einer Nation, Religion und Ideologie. Und diese steht wiederum in den vorliegenden Lebensläufen immer im Zusammenhang mit der jüdischen Identifikation. Der Historiker Marcus Pyka versuchte im Handbuch Biographie die Bedeutung der Auto/Biografie in den Jewish Studies darzulegen und sprach von den »Schwierigkeiten, eine spezifisch jüdische Biographik methodologisch zu extrahieren«: In jedem jüdisch geprägten Lebenslauf divergieren Selbstund Fremdzuschreibungen um die Frage einer jüdischen Zugehörigkeit und machen biografische Feinarbeit sowie Sensibilität für situationsgebundene Kontexte, Hintergründe und Netzwerke notwendig.36 Die Historikerin Lisa Silverman und ihr Kollege Wolfgang Maderthaner schlugen in diesem Sinn auch vor, »Jewishness« im Wien um 1900 als kritische Analysekategorie ähnlich dem Gender-Begriff zu betrachten. »‘Gender’ – in its designation of the relationship between cultural ideals stemming from but not equivalent to biological attributes of the ‘masculine’ and the ‘feminine’ – avoids the universalization of narratives and characteristics. Similarly, ‘Jewishness’ can also be used as a critical tool or lens through which one can avoid reducing individuals to any set of constitutive, essential ‘Jewish’ or ‘non-Jewish’ qualities since, according to its terms, what is ‘Jewish’ stems from but is not equivalent to any one particular notion of Jewish religion or culture.«37

Als Beispiel für ihre These führten sie den Philosophen Moritz Schlick an, der aufgrund seiner Arbeit und seiner Netzwerke als Jude kodiert, identifiziert und auch als solcher ermordet wurde, obwohl er keineswegs »jüdischer Abstammung« war: »For better or worse, all Viennese understood the cod­ ing of the categories ‘Jewish’ and ‘Non-Jewish’, although ‘membership’ in either could differ widely depending on one’s point of view.«38 Salka und Berthold Viertel sowie Lerner und Broch kamen aus jüdischen Familien. In allen vier Fällen ist die Auseinandersetzung mit der Selbstdefinition, jüdisch zu sein, eine komplexe, durchaus ambivalente und von zeithistorischen Brüchen gekennzeichnete. Hermann Broch konvertierte 1909 zum Katholizismus,39 die anderen drei thematisierten den Konformitätsdruck im »katholischen Österreich« um 1900 und die christlichen Einflüsse etwa

36 Marcus Pyka, Jewish Studies, in: Klein (Hg.), Handbuch Biographie, 414–418. 37 Wolfgang Maderthaner/Lisa Silverman, »Wiener Kreise«. Jewishness, Politics and Culture in Interwar Vienna, in: Deborah Holmes/Lisa Silverman (Hgg.), Interwar Vienna. Culture between Tradition and Modernity, New York 2009, 59–80, hier 62. 38 Maderthaner/Silverman, »Wiener Kreise«, 62 (Hervorhebung im Original). 39 Paul Michael Lützeler, Hermann Broch. Eine Biographie, Frankfurt a. M. 1985, 50 und 366. Konversionen von Jüdinnen und Juden zum katholischen und teilweise auch zum protestantischen Glauben waren in Wien weitverbreitet.

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durch Kindermädchen.40 Letztlich drückten alle eine mehr oder weniger agnostische Haltung aus und ließen eine kritische Auseinandersetzung mit Religionen an sich erkennen. Auch zeigte sich bei allen so etwas wie »ein instinktiver Zionismus«,41 der aber in keinem der vier Fälle zu aktivem oder nachhaltigem zionistischen Engagement führte. Eine bewusste Identifikation als Jüdin beziehungsweise als Jude trat bei allen erst verstärkt nach 1933 mit dem steigenden Druck der nationalsozialistischen antijüdischen Ausgrenzung und Verfolgung ein. So hielt etwa Salka Viertel 1957 über ihre Selbstdefinition und die auf das Religiöse beschränkte Fremddefinition des Jüdischseins fest: »I cannot say about myself that I feel Jewish […]. I have no ties to any traditional Jew­ ishness – my parents did not have them and the ‘anti-religiousness’ of my family when I speak of it to strangers is interpreted (I feel it so often) as denial of Jewishness. As if Jews did not have any other heritage than religion.«42

Hier zeigt sich deutlich die Ambivalenz, sich einerseits nicht jüdisch zu »fühlen«, andererseits als Teil des jüdischen Kollektivs die von außen vorgegebene Reduktion des Judentums auf sein religiöses Erbe hin nicht zu akzeptieren. Diesen Konflikt löste Salka Viertel in der Nachkriegszeit zumindest nach außen hin auf und wünschte dezidiert, als »galizische Jüdin identifiziert« zu werden, »aber nicht als Österreicherin«.43 Gerda Lerner hingegen war nach eigener Aussage »an erster Stelle Österreicherin und erst an zweiter Stelle Jüdin«.44 In dem auto/biografischen Essay A Weave of Connections beschrieb sie ihre von Kindheit an kritische Wahrnehmung der jüdischen Tradition und Erziehung  – »gender restric­ tions« in diesen Bereichen hätten ihr Interesse an Frauengeschichte geweckt. Doch auch jenseits ihrer persönlichen Auseinandersetzung mit dem Judentum seien ihre Erfahrungen als Jüdin für ihre Entwicklung als Historikerin ausschlaggebend gewesen: »I am a historian because of my Jewish experi­ ence. […] What is left to a Jew who refuses the religious community? Antisemitism and history. In short order I experienced plenty of both.«45 Wie die Historikerin Marjorie Lamberti festhielt, widersprach Lerner in anderen  – früheren und späteren – Selbstaussagen der Bedeutung, die sie hier ihrer jüdischen Erfahrung als säkulare Intellektuelle gab. Ihre Erfahrungen als Frau 40 Siehe Michael Pollak, Kulturelle Innovation, in: Gerhard Botz u. a. (Hgg.), Eine zerstörte Kultur. Jüdisches Leben und Antisemitismus in Wien seit dem 19. Jahrhundert, Wien 2002, 97–111, hier 98. 41 DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten Nachtrag 12, o. S., Österreichische Illusionen/Der Knabe Robert Fürth, o. D. 42 DLA, A: Viertel, Salka, o. S., Salka Viertels Tagebuch, 1957. 43 Ebd., Salka Viertel an Eduard Steuermann, 6. März 1954. 44 Gerda Lerner, Ein eigener Tod, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1993, 80. 45 Dies., A Weave of Connections, in: dies., Why History Matters, 3–17, hier 5.

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und als politische Aktivistin wurden viel zentraler in ihre Erinnerungstexte eingeschrieben. Ihre Auseinandersetzung mit dem Judentum und ein Gefühl der Zugehörigkeit verstärkten sich von Mitte der 1980er bis in die 1990er Jahre, als ihre Bücher ins Deutsche übersetzt wurden. Sie selbst begann in der Zeit, Österreich und Deutschland vermehrt zu besuchen, dort zu lehren, und erhielt von diesen Ländern Auszeichnungen.46 Berthold Viertel war bekennender »Atheist«, der nie aus der israelitischen Kultusgemeinde ausgetreten war. Anders als die beiden Frauen tendierte er dazu, die ambivalenten Erfahrungen mit seinem »Judentum – Was immer das sein mag […]: Zugehörigkeit zu einer Rasse, einem Volk oder Reste davon, Reste einer Religionsgemeinschaft, einer geistigen Prägung, die durch und durch gegangen ist«47 – zu verallgemeinern und als für seine »Generation« gültig zu beschreiben. Zeitweise habe sich diese jüdische Zugehörigkeit wie eine »Krankheit« angefühlt – »es war eine Zeit, da man in guter bürgerlicher Gesellschaft von diesem Übel schwieg und es nicht wahrhaben wollte«.48 Dann wieder war sie (scheinbar) irrelevant: »Juden! Wir waren keine mehr. Wir drängten uns gewaltigen Eifers in die jüngeren Zeiten, an ihnen mitzuwirken hell bestrebt.«49 Hermann Broch, der das Genre Auto/Biografie bis an die Grenzen »zum kulturwissenschaftlichen Essay, zur soziologischen Milieustudie, zum geistesgeschichtlichen Porträt« auslotete,50 trat als Person in seinem Schreiben noch mehr als Viertel hinter die »Beschreibung allgemeiner kultureller Konstellationen« Wiens um 1900 zurück. Er setzte sich auto/biografisch mit Hofmannsthal und seine[r] Zeit auseinander und analysierte stellvertretend für seine Erfahrungen die Juden Hugo von Hofmannsthal und Karl Kraus.51

46 Siehe Marjorie Lamberti, Blazing New Paths in Historiography. »Refugee Effect« and American Experience in the Professional Trajectory of Gerda Lerner, in: Daum/Lehmann/ Sheehan (Hgg.), The Second Generation, 244–258, hier 252; Albert Müller, Gerda Lerner und die feministische Frauengeschichte, in: Hanna Hacker/Susanne Hochreiter (Hgg.), Was wir. Beiträge für Ursula Kubes-Hofman, Wien 2013, 167–175, hier 174 f. 47 Berthold Viertel, Kindheits-Saga, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd. 2, 15–18, hier 16. 48 DLA, A: Viertel, Salka, o. S., Salka Viertels Tagebuch, 1961; DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten 19, o. S., Berthold Viertel, Autobiographie. Österreich. Illusionen, o. D. 49 DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten 4, o. S., Berthold Viertel, Gedichte/Prosa 1944, Wir Juden, o. D. Der Kunsthistoriker Ernst Gombrich beurteilte dieses »Verschweigen« positiver als ein Nicht-Einlassen auf die Kategorien der Antisemiten. Ders., »Niemand hat je gefragt …«, in: Botz u. a. (Hgg.), Eine zerstörte Kultur, 85–94, hier 88. 50 Bernhard Fetz, Die vielen Leben der Biographie. Interdisziplinäre Aspekte einer Theorie der Biographie, in: ders. (Hg.), Die Biographie. Zur Grundlegung ihrer Theorie, Berlin/ New York 2009, 3–66, hier 14. 51 Paul Michael Lützeler, Hermann Brochs autobiographische Schriften, in: Manfred Misch (Hg.), Autobiographien als Zeitzeugen, Tübingen 2001, 103–116.

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Für Viertel und Broch wurde das »jüdische Wien« in ihren kulturgeschichtlich-analytischen Auto/Biografien zu einer wesentlichen symbolischen Repräsentation – zu einem Erinnerungsort, den sie kritisch dekonstruierten und zugleich geschichtspolitisch als jüdischen Ort affirmierten, der ebenso wichtig war für ihre persönliche Identifikation als Juden. Die jüdische Bevölkerung Wiens habe sich in einer viel unsichereren Position als die übrigen »im gesellschaftlichen Rahmen fest verankerten« Wienerinnen und Wiener befunden und gerade das habe sie »empfindlicher für die Spannungen und den Druck infolge des Verfalls der alten Ordnung« gemacht, aber auch aufgeschlossener »für alles Neue« – zu dieser Diagnose kam der Künstler Oskar Kokoschka in seiner Auto/Biografie.52 In ähnlicher Weise schloss Berthold Viertel, der eine ständige Auseinandersetzung mit (antisemitischen) Zuschreibungen von außen führte, auf ein »jüdisches Minoritätsbewusstsein«, das er als zentrale Triebkraft der Wiener Modernität postulierte: »Auch heute noch bin ich der Meinung, dass schöpferische Geister, wie Karl Kraus, Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schönberg, Franz Kafka, Peter Altenberg nicht zu ihrer europäisch, ja österreichisch verwurzelten, für Europa und Österreich legitimen Leistung gekommen wären, ohne ihr jüdisches Minoritätsbewusstsein und Unterbewusstsein. Ihre ›jüdische Abstammung‹ gab ihnen ihre häretische und soziale Vorbedingtheit, von der sie auszugehen, auf die sie zu reflektieren hatten. […] Sie sogen ihre Situation mit der Mutter-, oder mit der Ammenmilch ein. Sie vermehrten ihr Vorwissen in der Schule, sie erwarben es sich aus der klassischen und aus der zeitgenössischen Literatur. Sie machten es sich bewusst, als sie selbständig wurden und sich ihrer Umwelt gegenüber definierten, sich in der Wirklichkeit etablierten […].«53

In diesem Zusammenhang steht eine seit geraumer Zeit geführte Forschungskontroverse um den jüdischen Aspekt der Wiener Moderne. Hier wird inzwischen von vielen als Erklärungsmodell akzeptiert, dass eine »paradoxe Form der [dynamischen] Marginalität« ein wesentlicher »Schlüssel zur Sonderstellung der Juden Wiens« und in weiterer Folge eine »driving force« der Wiener Modernität ist.54 Die Wiener Moderne wird jedoch, wenn überhaupt, 52 Oskar Kokoschka, Mein Leben, Wien 2008, 70 f. 53 DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten 27, 69.3143/97, Arbeits-/Notizheft, o. D. 54 Siehe u. a. Gombrich, zit. nach Edward Timms, Cultural Parameters between the Wars, in: Holmes/Silverman (Hgg.), Interwar Vienna, 21–31, hier 23; Steven Beller, Fin de Fin-de-Siècle Vienna. A Letter of Remembrance, in: Günter Bischof/Fritz Plasser (Hgg.), Global Austria. Austria’s Place in Europe and the World, New Orleans, La., 2011, 46–76, hier 63 f.; Edward Timms, Dynamik der Kreise, Resonanz der Räume. Die schöpferischen Impulse der Wiener Moderne, Weitra 2013, 48–51; Zygmunt Bauman, Moderne und Ambivalenz, Hamburg 2005, 251  f.; Jaques Le Rider, Das Ende der Illusion. Die Wiener Moderne und die Krisen der Identität, Wien 1990, 284; Frank Stern/Barbara Eichinger (Hgg.), Wien und die jüdische Erfahrung 1900–1938. Akkulturation – Antisemitismus – Zionismus, Wien/Köln/Weimar 2009, 399–418.

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nur sehr langsam als ein österreichischer Erinnerungsort verstanden, was auch auf die antisemitische Abwehr zurückzuführen ist.55 Das typische Resultat eines zumeist nationalen Forschungsprojekts zur Sammlung von Erinnerungsorten ist ein prestigeträchtiger Sammelband, in dem renommierte Forscherinnen und Forscher anhand bestimmter Topoi Selbst- und Geschichtsbilder verhandeln  – auto/biografische Diskurse spielen dabei selten eine Rolle.56 In Österreich verlief die Festschreibung nationaler Erinnerungsorte insofern untypisch, als diese hier 2004 auf Basis einer repräsentativen, quantitativen und offenen Meinungsumfrage erhoben wurden.57 Der Symbolhaushalt der österreichischen Bevölkerung stellte sich dabei als »erstaunlich« gegenwartsbezogen heraus und zeigte eine starke Konzentration auf die Zweite Republik. So nannten nur 9 Prozent der Beteiligten die Habsburgermonarchie als Gedächtnisort.58 Die Wiener Moderne kam jenseits des Namens Sigmund Freud gar nicht zur Sprache, woraus folgendes Fazit gezogen wurde: »Der seit dem 19. Jahrhundert traditionelle Kanon dessen, was die eigene Nation und den eigenen Staat ausmachte, wurde zumindest in Mitteleuropa schon durch die großen Katastrophen des 20. Jahrhunderts schwer erschüttert. […] Geschichte spielt dabei auf Grund der vielfachen Diskontinuitäten im 20. Jahrhundert als Faktor der nationalen Selbstvergewisserung kaum eine zentrale Rolle.«59

Die Schwierigkeit, die Wiener Moderne als Erinnerungsort zu fassen, lag nicht zuletzt daran, dass »Wien 1900« als Zentrum der multikulturellen Donaumonarchie nur schwer in Form von »nationalen« österreichischen Erinnerungsorten zu erfassen war. Die Habsburgermonarchie war keinesfalls eine nationale und auch keine ethnisch-kulturelle Einheit. Die Vielzahl der existierenden Narrative bildete sich in einer ausdifferenzierten Erinnerungskultur ab. Gerade in Wien gab es verschiedenste »mémoires culturelles« und fast jede Form des »Wiener Selbstverständnisses« war mehrfach kodiert.60 Solch vielfältige Zugehörigkeiten und anti-essenzialistische Zuordnungen 55 Gerhard Scheit/Wilhelm Svoboda, Feindbild Gustav Mahler. Zur antisemitischen Abwehr der Moderne in Österreich, Wien 2002. 56 Eugen Pfister/Katharina Prager, How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Utilize European Lieux de Mémoire as an Historical Instrument, in: Der Donauraum 51 (2011), H. 1, 21–34. 57 Emil Brix/Ernst Bruckmüller/Hannes Stekl (Hgg.), Memoria Austriae, Bd. 1: Menschen, Mythen, Zeiten, Wien 2004, 9–25. 58 Ebd., 14. 59 Ebd., 19 und 22. Unterirdisch durchzog die verdrängte Moderne dennoch die Memoria Austriae, die, obwohl auf einer Umfrage basierend, doch wieder von renommierten Forscherinnen und Forschern geschrieben wurde: Erinnerungsorte wie Gemütlichkeit, Die Wiener Ringstraße, Die Tschechen oder Der Mythos Habsburger fokussieren stark auf das Wien um 1900. 60 Moritz Csáky, Das Gedächtnis der Städte. Kulturelle Verflechtungen – Wien und die urbanen Milieus in Zentraleuropa, Wien 2010, 205–207.

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waren nach 1945 für österreichische Jüdinnen und Juden im Exil sicherlich leichter nachvollziehbar als für eine sich nach 1945 erneut national konstruierende österreichische Gesellschaft. Zum einen eröffneten gerade kulturelle Mehrfachzugehörigkeiten Jüdinnen und Juden eine gewisse kritische Außenperspektive auf Konzeptionen von Zugehörigkeit, sie erschwerten ihnen aber auch jede Form von Zuordnungsmöglichkeit, wie sie gerade im auto/biografischen Kontext verlangt wird. Und das führte zum anderen dazu, dass die Wiener Modernität und ihre  – wie auch immer geartete  – jüdische Identifikation auto/biografisch zu traditionsstiftenden Konstruktionen individueller Zugehörigkeit wurden, denen auch ein gewisser Essenzialismus innewohnen konnte. Diese Spannungen, die in der auto/biografischen Praxis von Jüdinnen und Juden im Exil als making of history sichtbar werden, machen deren Auto/Biografien aus einer erinnerungs- oder gedächtniskulturellen Perspektive so ungeheuer produktiv. In den auto/biografischen Materialien der beiden Männer sind solche transnationalen und vieldeutigen Erinnerungsorte auf den ersten Blick leichter sichtbar, sie sind aber in den Auto/Biografien der beiden Frauen ebenso vorhanden.61 Die Schwierigkeit, die bestehen bleibt, ist allerdings, diese spezifischen Erinnerungs- und Gedächtnisdiskurse einem gegenwärtigen Publikum zu vermitteln. Schon Berthold Viertel bezweifelte, dass er sich als »älterer Europäer« mit einer österreichischen Jugend »nach den Ereignissen« würde verständigen können.62 Und auch der Historiker Gustavo Corni bekräftigte, dass es sehr schwierig sei, »gemeinsame Erinnerungsorte zu finden, die der jüngeren Generation ein Gefühl geteilter Geschichte vermitteln können«.63 Die oben zitierte österreichische Meinungsumfrage zu Erinnerungsorten bestätigte dies 2004 und in den vergangenen dreizehn Jahren dürfte sich wenig verändert haben.

61 Ders., Gedächtnis, Erinnerung und die Konstruktion von Identität, in: Catherine Bosshart-Pfluger/Joseph Jung/Franziska Metzger (Hgg.), Nation und Nationalismus in Europa. Kulturelle Konstruktion von Identität, Frauenfeld/Stuttgart/Wien 2002, 25–50, hier 26. 62 Berthold Viertel, Heimkehr nach Europa, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd.  2, 269–288, hier 269 und 274. 63 »[…] to discover common lieux de mémoire, capable of instilling in the younger generation a feeling of a shared history.« Gustavo Corni, Umstrittene lieux de mémoire in Europa im 20. Jahrhundert, in: Jahrbuch für Europäische Geschichte 3 (2002), 93–100, hier 100 (Hervorhebung im Original).

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Erinnerungsorte im auto/biografischen Leben und Schreiben im Exil Der amerikanische Kulturhistoriker Carl Pletsch stellte 1987 in seiner Beschäftigung mit Friedrich Nietzsche die These auf, dass »im breiteren Kontext des modernen Denkens über höchst innovative Persönlichkeiten« von einer speziellen Selbstwahrnehmung und Selbstmythisierung auszugehen sei, die – der »Ideologie des Genies« verpflichtet – zu einem »autobiografischen Leben« beziehungsweise zu einem »Leben in Erwartung eines Biografen« führe. Ohne auf Details zum Geniegedanken oder auch auf Geschlechterverhältnisse einzugehen, meinte Pletsch, dass bürgerliche Intellektuelle im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert mehr oder weniger bewusst »autobiografisch lebten«, indem sie gezielt Werke und Egodokumente kreierten, bewahrten oder zerstörten, sich also um die Gestaltung des eigenen Nachlebens kümmerten.64 Hermann Broch, Gerda Lerner sowie Berthold und Salka Viertel waren solche bürgerlichen Intellektuellen. Selbstverständlich wiesen alle vier von sich, dass es in ihrer auto/biografischen Praxis um Selbstkanonisierung oder Eitelkeiten ging – darum »sich selbst zu rühmen, weil sie befürchten, daß es sonst keiner sachverständig und ausführlich genug tun wird«.65 Dennoch ist dieser Aspekt wesentlich, vor allem auch im Zusammenhang mit der Diagnose des Literaturwissenschaftlers Helmut Koopmann, der Autobiografien des Exils sogar als besonders ichzentrierte, stereotype Erfolgsgeschichten las, die für Weltereignisse keinen Blick hätten.66 Dies trifft zwar in den vier hier behandelten Fällen kaum zu, denn der oben erwähnte privilegierte Individualitätsentwurf einer europäischen, männlichen, weißen Elite wurde als Voraussetzung für die Inanspruchnahme von biografischen Formen des Selbstbezugs auch für männliche Exilanten problematisch. Daher wurde die Inszenierung einer privilegierten Individualität wohl auf der einen Seite verstärkt, wie Koopmann bemerkte. Auf der anderen Seite wurde sie aufgelöst bis hin zu Darstellungen, die keiner Entwicklungsgeschichte mehr folgten, in denen das Gegenwarts-Ich in Auseinandersetzung mit einem Vergangenheits-Ich begriffen war und die sich als »ein durch

64 »[…] in the larger context of modern thinking about highly innovative individuals.« Carl Pletsch, On the Autobiographical Life of Nietzsche, in: George Moraitis/George Pollock, Psychoanalytic Studies of Biography, Madison, Wis., 1987, 405–434, hier 407 f. 65 Berthold Viertel, Wiederkehr des kleinen Lebens, 39. 66 Helmut Koopmann, Autobiographien des Exils, in: Manfred Misch (Hg.), Autobiographien als Zeitzeugen, Tübingen 2001, 117–138.

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Motive und Themen zusammengehaltenes Bild personaler Identität, […] als fragmentarisches und vorläufiges Ergebnis einer Suchbewegung« zeigten.67 Schon Berthold Viertel erkannte, dass sich hier eine Spannung zwischen zerbrochenen Leben und dem Ideal einer geglückten Auto/Biografie abbildete, die er immer wieder reflektierte: »Aber es ist eine Tatsache: im gleichen Augenblick schreiben Hunderte von Zeitgenossen ihre Autobiographien  – besonders Flüchtlinge, Emigranten, gescheiterte, entzweigebrochene Existenzen, die im Exil vergeblich altern, eines organischen Lebensabschlusses beraubt, auch wenn sie nicht buchstäblich umgebracht worden sind. Und sie alle klammern sich an die kleinen Züge, als wären es herumschwimmende Balken in einem Schiffbruch; oder als hätten sie nichts Wichtigeres zu bergen aus dem Wrack ihrer Existenzen. Sie schreiben die Geschichte ihres verpfuschten Lebens, um sich zu rechtfertigen, um ihre Niederlage zu erklären, ihre guten Absichten zu belegen – oder um sich am Ende noch selbst zu beweisen, daß sie überhaupt gelebt haben. Es muß schon so sein: das Detail beglaubigt sie, indem es ihre Darstellungen wahrscheinlicher macht. […] Am Ende läuft ja alles Erzählen, auch das Erzählen der Weltgeschichte, auf eine Anekdotensammlung hinaus.«68

Es gibt nach wie vor keine fundierte theoretische Auseinandersetzung mit »erinnerndem Schreiben« und Selbstzeugnissen im Exil, doch einige Charakteristika und Trends einer vorerst vorwiegend männlichen Auto/Biografik des Exils wurden doch ausgemacht:69 Von »hoher Selbstreflexivität« bis zum »Widerstand gegen die Gattung Autobiographie, die sich in ihrer Fragmentierung zeigte«, von »Marginalisierung oder Exaltiertheit des Selbst«, vom »Anspruch auf repräsentative Gültigkeit als Vertreter einer Generation« und von »religiöser  – aber viel öfter  – politischer Bekehrungsrhetorik« war in diesem Zusammenhang die Rede.70 Diese Kategorien erscheinen nicht unbedingt zielführend, gelten sie doch ebenso für Auto/Biografien in ganz anderen Kontexten im 20. Jahrhundert. Wesentlicher ist wohl, dass Exilerfahrungen nicht nur sprachliche Bedeutungsverschiebungen erzeugen; dass der Verlust vieler Kontexte, Medien, der Materialität der Lebensdokumentation etc. oft die Erzählung der eigenen Geschichte erschwerte; dass die Spannung zwischen »Vorleben« und »Nachleben« wie auch die Frage nach dem künftigen Publikum die Lebens67 Michael von Engelhardt, Biographie und Identität. Die Rekonstruktion und Präsentation von Identität im mündlichen autobiographischen Erzählen, in: Walter Sparn (Hg.), Wer schreibt meine Lebensgeschichte. Biographie, Autobiographie, Hagiographie und ihre Entstehungszusammenhänge, Gütersloh 1990, 197–247, hier 238–240. 68 Viertel, Wiederkehr des kleinen Lebens, 39. 69 Wulf Koepke, Die Selbstdarstellung des Exils und die Exilforschung. Ein Rückblick, in: Claus-Dieter Krohn u. a. (Hgg.), Autobiographie und wissenschaftliche Biographik, München 2005, 13–29. 70 Richard D. Critchfield, When Lucifer Cometh. The Autobiographical Discourse of Writers and Intellectuals Exiled during the Third Reich, New York 1994.

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geschichten beeinflusste. Wesentlich ist auch, dass in diesem Spannungsfeld Prozesse und Probleme des Erinnerns zentral werden  – des Erinnerns als Verfahren der Aneignung von Vergangenheit in all seiner Selektivität, Kon­ struktivität und auch in seinem Gegenwartsbezug. Erinnerungsorte  – und das wurde Pierre Nora auch immer wieder zum Vorwurf gemacht  – unterliegen »einem Lamento über das unwiederbringlich Vergangene«; Trauer und Nostalgie sind in gewisser Weise in sie eingeschrieben.71 Nora begann sein Unternehmen, nationale Erinnerungsorte für Frankreich zu sammeln und zu analysieren, in den 1980er Jahren, als die Republik kollektiv dem einstigen Großmachtstatus nachtrauerte. Das »Zeitalter des Gedenkens«, in das Nora Frankreich eintreten sah, war auch eine Zeit der Verunsicherung, wenn auch weit weniger existenziell als im Falle derjenigen, die ins Exil gezwungen worden waren. In diesem Zusammenhang ist es interessant, eine Person einzubeziehen, die in gewisser Weise als Pierre Nora der Wiener Moderne bezeichnet werden kann: Stefan Zweig, dessen Selbstmord 1942 das deutschsprachige Exil erschütterte. Seine postum erschienene Autobiografie Die Welt von Gestern nimmt bis heute großen Einfluss auf Darstellungen der Wiener Moderne. Zweig betrauerte darin eine verlorene Welt und rekonstruierte sie nostalgisch. In seinem nachgelassenen Werk gestaltete er sie sorgsam zu einem kompakten wie verklärten Bild des bürgerlichen Wiener Fin de Siècle aus. Er selbst blieb als »Zeuge dieser ungeheuren Verwandlungen«, die jene Welt vernichtet hatten, im Hintergrund, dennoch wollte er für seine Generation sprechen.72 Bereits die Kapitel benennen einige Erinnerungsorte wie Schule, Universität, aber auch »Eros Matutinus«, die er viel mehr rekonstruierte als kritisch dekonstruierte. Möglicherweise hätte sich der kritische Aspekt verstärkt, hätte Zweig das Ende des Zweiten Weltkrieges erlebt wie die vier hier ausgewählten Personen, für die Zweigs Welt von Gestern auch sehr problematische Aspekte enthielt. Hier wird deutlich, wie sehr Erinnerung sich immer aus Gegenwart und Zukunft heraus konstruiert. Die verklärte Darstellung ist es auch, die Zweig von Pierre Nora unterscheidet, der sich nicht nur als Bewahrer kanonisierter nationaler Mythen verstand. Nora beharrte darauf, »dass sein Projekt eine Art Gegengeschichte sei, die die überkommenen Mythen und Erinnerungen dekonstruieren sol-

71 Stefan Berger/Joana Seiffert, Erinnerungsorte – ein Erfolgskonzept auf dem Prüfstand, in: dies. (Hgg.), Erinnerungsorte, 11–36, hier 13. 72 Zweig, Die Welt von Gestern, 13.

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le«.73 Dieser Aspekt seines widersprüchlichen Projekts kommt wiederum in Hermann Brochs Kulturgeschichte oder Soziologie Wiens um 1900 durchaus zum Ausdruck. Auch Broch ging es darum, die »Wesensart einer Periode« zu erfassen, und er tat dies ebenfalls in thematischen Bündelungen um deutsche Kultur, das monarchische Element, 1848, den österreichischen Adel und das Bürgertum und nicht zuletzt Hugo von Hofmannsthal und Karl Kraus, die als Erinnerungsorte gelesen werden können.74 Ebenso sehr wie die Rekonstruktion dieser Periode und ihres Stils war allerdings für Broch nun auch deren kulturkritische Analyse notwendig. Broch wies dabei interessanterweise den Anspruch, eine Auto/Biografie zu schreiben, von sich. Obwohl er jahrzehntelang auf verschiedene Weise selbstbiografisch tätig war, erklärte er sich zu einem »unbiographischen Menschen«, der, »keine eigentliche Autobiographie« geschrieben habe. Dennoch wurde seine Studie Hofmannsthal und seine Zeit als eine Auseinandersetzung mit der Zeit, die ihn selbst geprägt hatte, also als eine stark auto/biografische Schrift rezipiert.75 Berthold Viertel hingegen setzte sich mit seinem auto/biografischen Schreiben intensiv auseinander und dachte über Erinnerung und ihren Zusammenhang mit der »Profilierung des Ichs« nach.76 »Erinnerung ist eine Dichterin. […] Erinnert wird das Erinnerungswerte; es handelt sich da um bewußte und unbewußte Auslese. Die Erinnerung konstituiert die ›Identität der Person‹, gehorcht dabei jedoch den vitalen Notwendigkeiten des Individuums, wie die Psychoanalyse festgestellt hat.«77

Die von ihm formulierten Schwierigkeiten mit der nicht erreichbaren Authentizität des Erinnerns, mit Strategien der Fiktionalisierung und mit daraus resultierenden »Problemen des modernen Ich« bedingten wohl auch, dass sein »autobiographisches Erinnerungsprojekt«, mit dem er sein Leben als Exilant zu fassen suchte, gänzlich fragmentarisch blieb.78 Gerade diese Fragmentierung lässt es sinnvoll erscheinen, in der Bearbeitung von Berthold Viertels auto/biografischen Materialien eine Bündelung 73 Was als »melancholische Übung in nationaler Selbstanalyse« begann, endete allerdings, wie der Historiker Tony Judt anmerkte, »erstaunlich konventionell«. Ders., Das vergessene 20. Jahrhundert. Die Rückkehr des politischen Intellektuellen, München 2010, 197– 220; siehe auch Pfister/Prager, How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Utilize European Lieux de Mémoire as an Historical Instrument, 21–33. 74 Hermann Broch, Hofmannsthal und seine Zeit, Zürich 1964, 5. 75 Lützeler, Hermann Broch, 13 und 333. 76 Berthold Viertel, Gespaltenes Ich, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd. 2, 10–13, hier 11 f. 77 Ders., Dichtung und Wahrheit, in: ebd., 267–269, hier 267. 78 Nach Viertels Tod wurde sein »autobiographisches Erinnerungsprojekt« nur teilweise veröffentlicht und außerhalb der Exilforschung kaum rezipiert.

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wiederkehrender Themen in Erinnerungsorten an- und vorzunehmen. In der Befassung mit dem umfangreichen auto/biografischen Quellenkorpus wurde rasch klar, dass Viertel sich oft weniger mit Dingen oder Ereignissen selbst als mit »den mannigfaltigen Reden darüber« beziehungsweise den Erinnerungen daran beschäftigte:79 In seinem auto/biografischen Schreiben unternahm Viertel die doppelte Anstrengung der Rekonstruktion und gleichzeitigen Dekonstruktion von Vergangenem, das er bewahren wollte und später auch für eine Wiederaneignung im Nachkriegsösterreich und anderswo vorsah. Er wollte »besondere Türen« schaffen, »die in die Vergangenheit […] und zugleich in die Zukunft« führten.80 Zweigs, Brochs und schließlich auch Berthold Viertels Themen und Topoi standen also in einem dominanten Narrativ der Erinnerung. Alle drei Autoren versuchten für ihre Generation historische Entwicklungen nachzuvollziehen, durch den von Viertel sogenannten »Rückspiegel der Erinnerung«.81 Durch diesen Rückspiegel rekonstruierten sie ihre Schlüsselthemen im Hinblick auf eine erneute Verwendung als auto/biografische Erinnerungsorte – mal mit bewahrendem Gestus, mal sehr destruktiv. Zweig, Broch und Viertel waren im Übrigen befreundet und tauschten sich über ihre Erinnerungsprojekte aus.82 Die Anglistin Anne Rüggemeier definierte Auto/Biografien wie die Zweigs, Brochs und Viertels, in denen ein »autobiographisches Ich inszeniert [wird], welches nicht als autonom und isoliert in Erscheinung tritt, sondern als ein ständiger Verknüpfungsort zwischen Ich und Anderem« als »relationale Autobiographien«. Solch auto/biografische Verwobenheit und Auseinandersetzung mit Einzelpersonen, Personenverbänden oder Kollektiven als Grundlage der Selbstpositionierung scheint nach Rüggemeier insbesondere in transkulturellen Lebensläufen wie eben jenen von Exilierten auf, die mit mindestens zwei Kulturen in Auseinandersetzung treten. Zudem würden »relationale Selbstzeugnisse« nach Rüggemeier auch oft zum »Sprachrohr von marginalisierten Gemeinschaften«, als die Exilierte ebenfalls gelten müssen, da sie zumeist sowohl in der Kultur ihres Herkunftslandes als auch in der des Aufnahmelandes am Rand bleiben.83 Diese Thesen sind jedenfalls im Falle der vier hier untersuchten Intellektuellen zu bestätigen, wenn auch die 79 Simon Ganahl, Karl Kraus und Peter Altenberg. Eine Typologie moderner Haltungen, Konstanz 2015, 27. 80 Berthold Viertel, Danksagung, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd. 1: Die Überwindung des Übermenschen. Exilschriften, hg. von Konstantin Kaiser und Peter Roessler, Wien 1989, 201 f., hier 201. 81 Ders., Memorabilien, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd. 2, 263–267, hier 266. 82 DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten 36, 91.15.11, Berthold Viertel an Elisabeth Bergner, 23. November 1937. 83 Rüggemeier, Die relationale Autobiographie, 11–13 und 61 f.

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Erinnerungsgemeinschaften, an die sie anschlossen, unterschiedlich waren. Die »gender-unabhängige« Definition des Relationalen, die Rüggemeier vornimmt, wird im Falle Gerda Lerners und Salka Viertels insofern problematisch, als beide eben kaum mit einem kollektiven relationalen Kontext und daher auch kaum mit der offiziellen Geschichtsschreibung in Dialog traten, wie das bei den drei Männern der Fall war.84 Über ihr Leben zu schreiben hatte für Lerner »mit Ordnen zu tun, mit Formgebung, auch wenn ich mir der Schwierigkeiten und Einschränkungen eines solchen Unternehmens völlig bewusst bin. […] Dokumente sind vorhanden und bescheinigen ihre eigene Existenz. Doch alles übrige ist eine Auswahl, es ist ein Fleckerlteppich des Lebens, den eine Person hinterlassen hat, etwas das zufällig oder absichtlich vor dem täglichen Verfall gerettet wurde. […] Ein fragwürdiges Unternehmen, zweifellos, denn es ist etwas, das mit dem eigenen Leben zu Ende geht, unvermeidlich subjektiv und durch die eigenen Vorurteile beeinflusst. Man hört nicht auf, die Vergangenheit im Licht gegenwärtiger Einsichten umzugestalten.«85

Beide Frauen erzählen folglich sehr pragmatisch und chronologisch von ihren Erfahrungen und binden diese an kein Kollektiv und auch kaum an Symbole, die für sie die Wesensart der Epoche verkörpern. Die beiden weiblichen Lebensgeschichten thematisieren das Exil als Verlusterfahrung viel weniger als die der beiden Männer – von Trauer und Nostalgie ist hier kaum etwas zu spüren. Dass sich in ihren Erinnerungen aber dennoch Erinnerungsorte bilden, steht außer Frage. Diese Orte gälte es noch stärker sichtbar zu machen und untereinander – sowie zu den offensichtlicheren Erinnerungsorten der Männer – in Beziehung zu setzen.

Biografische Erinnerungsorte als Methode All diese Überlegungen zu den vier jüdischen auto/biografischen Leben im Exil verweisen bereits darauf, dass Erinnerungsorte auch in der biografischen Bearbeitung dieser Lebensläufe Perspektiven eröffnen, die zu weitreichenden und differenzierten Erkenntnissen führen. Zwar hat sich die Gedächtnisforschung bisher nicht systematisch mit Biografik beschäftigt, doch schon Astrid Erll meinte: »Ein Verständnis von biographischem Schreiben als Akt

84 Ebd., 10 und 63–67. 85 Lerner, Feuerkraut, 11.

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kultureller Erinnerung vermag vieles zu erklären, was in vergangenen Diskussionen mit dem Etikett der ›biographischen Fiktion‹ versehen wurde.«86 Insbesondere das Konzept der Erinnerungsorte kann dabei einiges, was zunächst gegensätzlich oder widersprüchlich scheint, zusammenbringen und erweist sich damit als ein möglicher kulturwissenschaftlicher Zugang, der die Biografie als Gedächtnisgattung und als machtvolle Erinnerungspraxis ernst nimmt. Der sonst oft verdeckt wirkende Zusammenhang zwischen Auto/Biografie und kollektivem Gedächtnis kann insbesondere durch die Strukturierung einer Biografie in Erinnerungsorte offengelegt und kritisch mitreflektiert werden. Hierbei öffnet sich nicht zuletzt ein Raum, der Brüche und Ambivalenzen in der Konstruktion der auto/biografischen Erinnerungsorte sichtbar macht und die »Deutungsbedürfnisse und Deutungsnormen« der behandelten Person reflektiert.87 Die Konzepte Biografie und Erinnerungsorte zusammenzudenken, ist speziell dann interessant, wenn weniger die Handlungen, Werke und Wirkungen einer Person die wissenschaftliche Behandlung mit ihr begründen – sie »biographiewürdig« machen88 –, sondern wenn vielmehr ein Interesse an ihr als typischer Repräsentantin bzw. typischem Repräsentanten eines sozialen Milieus besteht.89 Die hier behandelten vier Personen gehören beispielsweise nicht zu den völlig unbekannten Geschichtslosen, sie wurden aber zumeist nur in bestimmten Fachkulturen kanonisiert. Daher stellt sich an ihnen explizit die Frage, wie »über die Partikularität des Einzelfalles hinaus und jenseits des Anspruchs auf Repräsentativität« in einer Biografie menschliches Handeln als strukturiertes und strukturierendes Tun, als Allgemeines oder Besonderes dargestellt werden kann.90 Anhand der biografischen Erinnerungsorte kann nun individuelle mit kollektiver Erinnerung – und können die sie bedingenden Kontexte und Strukturen – in Zusammenhang gebracht und wissenschaftlich erforscht werden. Im Falle von Personen, die bereits Bestandteil des kulturellen Gedächtnisses und damit selbst Erinnerungsorte sind, ist diese Methode ebenso anwendbar. Nicht zuletzt deshalb, weil das »spotlight« auf die individuellen Personen und ihr Leben in den einzelnen Erinnerungsorten zugleich aufgebaut und auseinandergenommen wird, kann so immer wieder von den Individuen abgelenkt oder dezentriert werden. 86 87 88 89 90

Erll, Biographie und Gedächtnis, 86. Ebd., 79 und 83 f. Hannes Schweiger, Biographiewürdigkeit, in: Klein (Hg.), Handbuch Biographie, 32–36. Gehmacher, Leben schreiben, 1023. Elisabeth Tuider, Diskursanalyse und Biographieforschung. Zum Wie und Warum von Subjektpositionierungen, in: Forum Qualitative Social Research  8 (Mai 2007),  H.  2, Art.  6; Volker  R. Berghahn/Simone Lässig (Hgg.), Biography between Structure and Agency. Central European Lives in International Historiography, New York/Oxford 2008.

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Während das Konzept nationaler Erinnerungsorte problematisch sein kann, erscheint die Bündelung wiederkehrender autobiografischer Topoi in Erinnerungsorten für eine biografische Analyse durchaus sinnvoll. Gerade das Wien um 1900, das hier Ausgangspunkt der Reflexionen ist, war – wie bereits erwähnt – keine ethnisch-kulturelle oder religiöse Einheit. Die konkurrierenden Narrative der Stadt bildeten sich im Gegenteil in einer höchst ausdifferenzierten Erinnerungskultur ab. Biografische Erinnerungsorte von Exilantinnen und Exilanten bieten die Möglichkeit, solche Spannungen produktiv und über das 20.  Jahrhundert hinweg sichtbar zu machen. Insbesondere wenn sie mit der internationalen Moderne(forschung) verbunden und gegeneinandergestellt werden, können nicht zuletzt Diskontinuitäten der Überlieferung und ihre Folgen untersucht werden. Der Historiker James S. Amelang betont, wie entscheidend die Befassung mit dem Ort und dem Entstehungszusammenhang von Selbstzeugnissen ist, um diese interpretieren zu können.91 Im Zusammenhang mit Erinnerung ist die biografietheoretische Forderung nach der Kontextualisierung der Produktion des untersuchten autobiografischen Materials besonders ernst zu nehmen. Die Untersuchung der historischen und biografischen Kontexte des autobiografischen Schreibens wie auch der Rezeptionsgeschichte dieses Materials ist so genau wie möglich nachzuvollziehen. Wie das Beispiel Stefan Zweigs zeigt, macht es einen Unterschied, wann, wo und wie Erinnerung entsteht. Die Auswahl der biografischen Erinnerungsorte schließlich kann nur assoziativ und anhand der oben skizzierten Überlegungen erfolgen. Sie ist an der Gegenwart des Forschungsstandes orientiert; die Anzahl der Erinnerungsorte kann höher oder niedriger angesetzt werden und auch ihre Reihung ist eine individuelle Entscheidung. Erinnerungsorte sind schließlich keine »objektiv vorfindbaren Phänomene«, sondern »Konstruktionen jeweiliger Forscherinnen und Forscher«, die in diesem Fall aus den auto/biografischen Materialien destilliert werden.92 Das auf Erinnerungsorten basierende biografische Konstrukt ist ein möglicher Weg – allerdings einer, der insbesondere die brüchigen Lebenswege jüdischer Exilantinnen und Exilanten differenziert auszuleuchten und zu erfassen scheint. Im Spannungsfeld von Zeitgeschichte, Kulturgeschichte und Biografieforschung bieten sich vielfältige Anschlussmöglichkeiten, die dennoch offen und vorläufig genug bleiben, um ein Um- und Weiterschreiben in viele Richtungen zuzulassen. Insofern gilt Berthold Viertels Einladung: 91 James S. Amelang, Transcultural Autobiography, or The Lives of Others, in: Claudia Ulbrich u.  a. (Hgg.), Selbstzeugnis und Person. Transkulturelle Perspektiven, Wien/Köln/ Weimar 2012, 77–85. 92 Siebeck, Erinnerungsorte.

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»Mitarbeiter sind erwünscht; Lieferanten von Material, das sorgfältig eingefügt wird, so daß keine Bruchstelle bleibt.«93 Nicht zuletzt ist jede Auto/ Biografie durch die reflektierte, kritische Lektüre ein Produkt ihrer Leserinnen und Leser. Anhand von Berthold Viertel und seinem »autobiographischen Erinnerungsprojekt« wurde diese Methode assoziativ entwickelt und erstmals erprobt – für die anderen drei hier behandelten jüdischen Intellektuellen und ihre auto/biografischen Werke steht eine solche Umsetzung noch aus. Methodisch erscheint es in ihrem Fall zunächst möglich, ja produktiv und in der Darstellung vielleicht sogar einfacher, Diskursanalyse und Biografie zu verbinden.94 In dieser Frage sei nochmals ein Seitenblick auf Karl Kraus gestattet, der nicht zum Exilanten wurde und vorwiegend aktuelle Themen bearbeitete. Die neuere Kraus-Forschung betrachtet ihn zunehmend als jemanden, der diskursanalytisch arbeitete.95 Der amerikanische Germanist Paul Reitter schreibt über ihn: »Man könnte sagen, dass er Schlüsselmerkmale seiner Epoche […] unter die Lupe nahm […] und sie mit Tausenden Seiten von Kommentaren und gewissenhafter, oft atemberaubender dokumentarischer Arbeit absicherte […].«96 Die Arbeit mit diskursanalytischen Verfahren wäre in einer Kraus-Biografie sinnvoll und naheliegend. Auch die hier behandelten Exilantinnen und Exilanten betrieben, Kraus folgend, »in gewisser Weise Diskursanalyse«, aber nur in vergleichsweise kleinem Ausmaß. Zudem zeigt sich im »Filter der Erinnerung« und einer damit verbundenen »teleologische[n] Tendenz«97 eine entscheidende Differenz, die ganz wesentlich durch den »Schatten des Holocaust« zum Tragen kommt und aus ihrem auto/biografischen Leben und Schreiben nicht wegzudenken ist: »Die deutsche Epoche zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen hat nun einmal zum Hitlerismus geführt: und es scheint nicht schwierig und nur allzu verlockend zu sein, nachträglich alle Phänomene dieser Zeit […] dieser Linie entsprechend an- und einzuordnen. Deutsche Emigranten, die sich selbst und der Welt über die Entwicklung, die in Hitler gegipfelt hat – oder zu ihm abgestürzt ist – Rechenschaft ablegen, stehen geradezu unter psychologischem Zwang, sich als Propheten zurückzudatieren.«98 93 Berthold Viertel, Wiederkehr des kleinen Lebens, 41. 94 Kürzlich erschien dazu Tina Spies/Elisabeth Tuider (Hgg.), Biographie und Diskurs. Methodisches Vorgehen und Methodologische Verbindungen, Berlin 2017. 95 Siehe Ganahl, Karl Kraus und Peter Altenberg. 96 Jonathan Franzen, Das Kraus-Projekt. Aufsätze von Karl Kraus (unter Mitarbeit von Paul Reitter und Daniel Kehlmann), Reinbek bei Hamburg 2014, 146. 97 Ingrid Aichinger, Probleme der Autobiographie als Sprachkunstwerk (1970), in: Günter Niggl (Hg.), Die Autobiographie. Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, Darmstadt 1998, 170–199, hier 181. 98 Berthold Viertel, An ihren Träumen sollt ihr sie erkennen!, in: Berthold Viertel. Studienausgabe, Bd. 1, 255–260, hier 257.

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Solchen Verschiebungen der Perspektive, die sich in der Vermittlung zwischen Vergangenheit und Gegenwart zeigen sollte – in Biografien und anderen Studien  – theoretisch und methodisch Rechnung getragen werden. Der Modus der Darstellung und die methodische Konzeption von Biografien sind nicht zuletzt deshalb sorgfältig auszuwählen, weil sich die Biografie als Form verbreitet und als Faktor des kollektiven und kulturellen Gedächtnisses durchgesetzt hat.99 Kein empirisches Individuum ist mit einem Muster identisch und interessante Biografik muss immer wieder mit neuen Methoden und gegen diese arbeiten. So steht am Ende dieser Überlegungen, dass gerade auch Exilbiografien nicht »nach einem bestimmten Muster gestaltet werden können«.100 Den »beklemmenden Zauber« der Erinnerung in die biografische Konstruktion einzubeziehen, könnte allerdings ein sinnvoller Zugang sein: »Und ist Erinnerung, gar die Erinnerung des Alters, eine verlässliche Augenzeugin? Hat sie sich nicht gewesenes zurecht-gedichtet, ehe sie so berichtet? Der Alternde, am Ende seines Daseins beinahe angelangt, erhält wohl, als einen Ersatz für das, was ihm nicht mehr bevorsteht, die innere Ermächtigung, zurück zu leben, jedoch um den Preis einer geisterhaften Beiläufigkeit, die sich niemals wieder mit Blut füllen wird. Ein plötzlich aus der Zeitenferne herantastender Geruch vermag die Verbindung mit dem Gelebten wiederherzustellen, als ein frei wandernder, von unserem bewussten Willen unabhängiger Bote. Da halten wir inne, erschreckt oder beglückt, und wissen: ja, so war es – so, nicht aber wie unser von den Jahren gebleichtes Gedächtnis es zeigte. Oder eine Melodie kommt, nach einer Entfremdung von sechzig Jahren, wieder heim, irgendein damals so populär gewesenes Lied, ein selbst längst gestorbener Schmachtfetzen, den eine Militärkapelle im Orte eines Sommeraufenthalts schmetterte […]. Ein beklemmender Zauber geht davon aus […]? Und es glückt, wir sind wieder dort wie damals, an der inzwischen zerstörten Stätte, die, wenn wir sie heute aufsuchten, uns nur grässliche Trümmer wiese.« 101

 99 Gehmacher, Leben schreiben, 1026. 100 Hannes Schweiger, Identitäten mit Bindestrich. Biographien von MigrantInnen, in: Bernhard Fetz/Hannes Schweiger (Hgg.), Spiegel und Maske. Konstruktionen biographischer Wahrheit, Wien 2006, 175–190, hier 178. 101 DLA, A: Viertel, Kasten 19, o.  S., Berthold Viertel, Verschiedenes Autobiographisches (Hervorhebung im Original unterstrichen).

Enrico Lucca

Biography and Institutional History: Hugo Bergman’s First Journey as Rector of the Hebrew University (1937) Historical biography has long defeated the academic veto it suffered, being legitimized even by its formerly most radical critics.1 The last decades have witnessed not only a revival of the genre but also an increasing number of academic publications that discuss its new methodologies and challenges.2 Bio­graphical writing has consequently become ever more critical and self-reflective.3 Rather than discussing its status, scholars have begun examining to what degree it can enrich modern historical studies. Opening a window on a particular moment, historical biography can illuminate its context from a unique point of view by shedding light on both the individual and society. Situated at the intersection of multidisciplinary contexts, the genre makes a virtue of its hybridity. It encourages the transcending of intra- and interdisciplinary boundaries and the blending of various fields in an original and non-dogmatic way. If critically interpreted, its inbuilt narrative and narrow focus offer the possibility of molding a captivating story while at the same time providing a prism through which wider problems can be observed.4 No less important, biographical perspective permits an escape from the monodisciplinary obsession of contemporary scholarly writing. 1 See Jacques Le Goff, Comment écrire une biographie historique aujourd’hui?, in: Le Débat 54 (1989), 48–53. 2 See e. g. Christian Klein (ed.), Grundlagen der Biographik. Theorie und Praxis des biographischen Schreibens, Stuttgart/Weimar 2002; idem (ed.), Handbuch Biographie. Methoden, Traditionen, Theorien, Stuttgart/Weimar 2009; AHR Roundtable: Historians and Biography, in: The American Historical Review 114 (2009), no. 3, 573–661; Thomas Etzemüller, Biographien. Lesen – erforschen – erzählen, Frankfurt a. M./New York 2012; Hans Renders/Binne De Haan (eds.), Theoretical Discussions of Biography. Approaches from History, Microhistory, and Life Writing, Leiden/Boston, Mass., 2014; Hans Renders/ Binne De Haan/Jonne Harmsma (eds.), The Biographical Turn. Lives in History, London/ New York 2017. 3 See e. g. Simone Lässig, Die historische Biographie auf neuen Wegen?, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 60 (2009), no. 10, 540–553; see also Volker Depkat, The Challenges of Biography. European-American Reflections, in: Bulletin of the German Historical Institute 55 (2014), 39–48. 4 See Ian Kershaw, Biography and the Historian. Opportunities and Constraints, in: Vol­ ker R. Berghahn/Simone Lässig, Biography between Structure and Agency. Central European Lives in International Historiography, New York 2008, 27–39. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 465–489.

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The biographical turn has not left Jewish and German Jewish studies unaffected. Jewish lives have been deemed worthy of an entire book series at Yale University Press.5 What is more, recent years have seen a blossoming of academic works seeking to illuminate the lives of many protagonists of German Jewish history. To mention only a few names from twentieth-century intellectual history, in the last three years (2014–2017) new biographical works have been dedicated to Franz Kafka, Walter Benjamin, Werner and Gershom Scholem, Martin Buber, and Hans Kohn, with many others on their way.6 It may thus come as a surprise that Hugo Bergman’s biography remains a desideratum. At the center of Central European Jewish life in the first de­ cades of the twentieth century, Bergman also became an important figure for the Jewish yishuv, and in particular for the history of its cultural institutions. In Prague he headed Bar Kochba7 – the local Zionist circle – and worked tirelessly to promote the renaissance of European Jewish culture. In Jerusalem he directed the National and University Library from 1920 to 1935 and contributed greatly to the enhancement of the Hebrew University from its very beginnings. Known for his political activities, he was counted among those who engaged in cultivating a peaceful coexistence between Arabs and Jews. A focus on Bergman’s intellectual biography is particularly amenable to investigating aspects of paramount importance for the transfer of knowledge between Europe and Palestine (and vice versa). Of especial importance in this context is the role of the tradition of German universities and libraries in the establishment of new institutions in Mandatory Palestine, the reception and translation of German and European philosophy in Israeli academia, and no less significant the history of the development of Zionist ideas and concepts. Likewise, Bergman played an important role in establishing a canon of contemporary Jewish thought and in circulating it in Europe in the aftermath of World War II. As has recently been argued with reference to a number of post-imperial Jewish biographies, Bergman’s life trajectory may also be interpreted

5 6

34 volumes had already been published by July 2017. See Reiner Stach, Kafka, 3 vols., Frankfurt a. M. 2002–2014; Howard Eiland/Michael W. Jennings, Walter Benjamin. A Critical Life, Boston, Mass., 2014; Mirjam Zadoff, Der rote Hiob. Das Leben des Werner Scholem, Munich 2014; Ralf Hoffrogge, Werner Scholem. Eine politische Biographie (1895–1940), Konstanz/Munich 2014; Noam Zadoff, From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back. Gershom Scholem between Israel and Germany, Jerusalem 2015 (Heb.); Dominique Bourel, Martin Buber. Sentinelle de l’humanité, Paris 2015; Amir Engel, Gershom Scholem. An Intellectual Biography, Chicago, Ill., 2017; Adi Gordon, Toward Nationalism’s End. An Intellectual Biography of Hans Kohn, Waltham, Mass., 2017. 7 See Dimitry Shumsky, Zweisprachigkeit und binationale Idee. Der Prager Zionismus 1900–1930, trans. from the Heb. by Dafna Mach, Göttingen 2013.

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in many senses through the category of “rooted cosmopolitanism.”8 A bio­ graphical narration that centers on Bergman’s frequent travels and longer stays outside of Palestine/Israel can also help to challenge a perhaps too superficial account of his life – molded on a Zionist (self-)representation – as taking place along a unidirectional course from Prague to Jerusalem. By concentrating on Bergman’s first journey as rector of the Hebrew University, this contribution aims to illustrate a forgotten episode in the early history of this institution. This will be articulated through an analysis of Bergman’s mission taking place in three countries and two different continents between February and May 1937. Finally, an account of the political and intellectual network gravitating around Bergman and his journey will serve as an example to prove his absolutely central position within twentieth-century (Jewish) intellectual history.

The First Rector of the Hebrew University Bergman was appointed rector of the Hebrew University on 8  November 1935 after quitting the National and University Library, whose director he had been for the past fifteen years, in late August. His decision, which had already been announced in the spring, was not accepted without criticism by the local press. Some newspapers polemically pointed to the fact that he may have been removed from his charge owing to public pressure due to his political activity.9 As is known, Bergman had been one of the leaders of Brit Shalom and was considered among the leading leftist intellectuals in the Jewish yishuv. He was in many respects a politically controversial figure. In late 1934, he brought a libel action against the editors of Hitton ha-Meuhad, a Revisionist Tel Aviv daily newspaper which held him responsible for Communist propaganda and anti-Zionist sympathies. In particular, the paper blamed Bergman more than once for having supplied subsidies to Haor – a journal supposedly professing Communist theories – and for providing bail for a person charged with being a member of the Palestine Communist Par8

9

On the notion of “rooted cosmopolitanism,” see Kwame Anthony Appiah, Cosmopolitan Patriots, in: Critical Inquiry 23 (1997), no. 3, 617–639. On Hannah Arendt’s thinking, see Natan Sznaider, Hannah Arendt. Jew and Cosmopolitan, in: Socio 4 (2015), 197–221. As concerns biography studies, see Sarah Panter/Johannes Paulmann/Margit Szöllösi-Janze, Mobility and Biography. Methodological Challenges and Perspectives, in: Sarah Panter (ed.), Mobility and Biography, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2016, 1–14. Archive of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (henceforth AHU), Hugo Bergman Personal Files, Folder I, Letter from Judah L. Magnes to Jacob Landau, Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 28 May 1935.

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ty.10 The case lasted for several months until Bergman’s claim for libel was rejected. In the wake of his appointment to the rectorship, the accusation made headlines again in the Palestinian press. However, it seems that politics was not the reason that led him to resign from the direction of the National Library. Instead, Bergman had long wished to devote his time entirely to teaching and scholarly research.11 To this end, although in partial exception to Hebrew University norms, the Board of Governors in the summer of 1935 agreed to appoint him full professor of philosophy and to include him in the Academic Senate.12 Freed from his library duties, Bergman intended to keep abreast of current scholarly work and in particular of new research in the philosophy of science, logic, and the philosophy of language, which had been his major academic interests in Europe before World War I. In mid-September 1935, he traveled to Paris to take part in the first “Congress of Scientific Philosophy,” where he met important figures such as Raymund Popper, Rudolf Carnap, Otto Neurath, Alfred Tarski, and Bertrand Russell.13 Earlier on, through the help of his old friend and scholar of nationalism Hans Kohn (1891–1971), Bergman arranged a scholarly research stay in the United States for 1936. Kohn put him in contact with the Department of Adult Education in Des Moines (Iowa)14 and suggested that he deliver some talks at major American academic institutions on the historical and social significance of the most influential German philosophers.15 10 See the articles [n.  a.], Dr.  Bergman Paid a Bail of 100 Palestine Pounds to Release a Communist, in: Hitton ha-Meuhad, 25 June 1934, 1 (Heb.); [n. a.], London – Jerusalem – Moscow. Dr. Bergman and the Editor of “Haor” Stein Continue to Undermine the United Jewish Front, in: ibid., 8 September 1934, 1 (Heb.). Bergman responded to this a few days later with a message published in the major Palestinian papers (Davar, Doar ha-yom, and Haaretz). 11 Bergman already began asking many times from 1931 onwards to be freed from his role as chief librarian, but was prevented leaving his post because it was apparently not possible to find a suitable replacement. 12 There was already a full professor, Leon Roth, at the Department of Philosophy. However, the decision to appoint Bergman, too, was taken exceptionally in light of his services over many years and his scientific standing. AHU, File 112/II, Doc. no. 10, Full Professorship for Dr. Bergman. 13 See Rudolf Carnap, Tagebücher 1908 bis 1935. Transkribiert von den kurzschriftlichen Originalen von Brigitta Arden und Brigitte Parakenings, diary entry 15 September 1935, 1053, (25 January 2019). See also Hugo Bergman, Zur Geschichte und Kritik der isomorphen Abbildung, in: Actes du Congrès international de philosophie scientifique, Sorbonne, Paris 1935, 7 vols., here vol. 7: Logique, Paris 1936, 65–72. 14 Kohn had delivered a cycle of lectures at the same institutions in 1933. See Gordon, Toward Nationalism’s End, 157. 15 See National Library of Israel Archives (henceforth NLI), Arc  4º1502, Hugo Bergman Papers, File 01 1561, Letter from Hans Kohn to Hugo Bergman, 18 July 1935.

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On these premises, it is quite clear that his nomination to the rectorship was not planned in advance. The 1935 meeting of the Board of Governors, held in Luzern, ratified an important change in the administrative structure of the Hebrew University.16 Chancellor Judah L. Magnes (1877–1948), upon whom all decisional powers had been concentrated until that moment, was elected President of the Hebrew University – an honorary position – while the publisher and businessman Salman Schocken (1877–1959), until then honorary treasurer, was named Chairman of the Executive Committee. It was also decided that some of the administrative duties connected with the post of chancellor would be turned over to the rector, to be elected freely by the members of the Senate. This was meant as a first step towards a more collegial administration and the complete maturity of the institution. Few candidates were suggested for the new post of rector. The two most prominent were Samuel Klein (1886–1940) and Alfred Abraham Fraenkel (1891–1965).17 Klein was professor for geographical research in Palestine and was considered the champion of Magnes’ faction, the “clerical” ones, meaning those who wished to maintain institutional continuity. On the other hand, those who wanted to signal a clear distance from Magnes’ administration – and in particular from his somewhat despotic tendencies – looked favorably upon Fraenkel. As Dean of Mathematics, Fraenkel had been close to Chaim Weizmann (1874–1952) and Albert Einstein (1879–1955), standing against Magnes in the famous controversy concerning the administration of the university18 that had led to the establishment of an ad hoc committee – headed by Sir Philip Hartog (1864–1947) – to inquire into its organization.19 In an attempt to find a solution to this radical opposition, Bergman’s name came up. His first advocates were Gershom Scholem (1897–1982), at that time professor of Jewish mysticism, and Samuel Sambursky (1900–1990), professor of physics. Both of them were very close to Bergman and shared his political views. They presented his candidacy as a good compromise that could grant the institution both continuity and innovation. In light of his experience, his importance for the yishuv and for the Zionist movement, and thanks also to his personal commitment, Bergman was the only person that could win the sympathy of the majority of the Senate: 16 See Uri Cohen, The Mountain and the Hill. The Hebrew University of Jerusalem during Pre-Independence Period and the Early Years of the State of Israel, Tel Aviv 2006 (Heb.). 17 Other figures taken into consideration were Leo Aryeh Mayer (1895–1959), a scholar of Islamic art, and the mathematician Michael Fekete (1886–1957). Both were later appointed to the rectorship: Mayer from 1943 to 1945, Fekete from 1945 to 1948. 18 See for example Herbert Parzen, The Magnes-Weizmann-Einstein Controversy, in: Jewish Social Studies 32 (1970), no. 3, 187–213. 19 On the Hartog Committee and its consequences see Cohen, The Mountain and the Hill, 76–80.

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“He has been working in the country for fifteen years, has administrative experience, is of good character, and is a figure of the movement and the country, a personality es­ teemed even by his opponents. […] he has a sense of duty. When he takes on a position, he dedicates to it the entire efforts of his person. He is the only one whose appointment would not be an affront to Magnes’ group and who would simultaneously command the trust of the progressive people.”20

Scholem’s and Sambursky’s campaign eventually proved to be successful and Bergman was elected over Klein.21 His appointment was not unanimously welcomed by the Jewish yishuv. Besides the right-wing press, Berl Katznelson (1887–1944), a leader of the Labor movement, also conveyed his disagreement with the decision.22 Due to his new duties, Bergman’s journey to the United States – as well as his wish to commit himself entirely to scholarly research – was immediately postponed. The following year was not easy for Bergman, partly for personal reasons.23 Besides that, 1936 saw the outburst of the Great Arab Revolt, which dramatically shook the life of the yishuv and caused important losses to the Hebrew University.24 Yet, it seems that Bergman managed to guarantee a certain institutional stability, so that on 28 October 1936 he was reappointed rector by a large majority of the ballots.25 His planned trip to the United States only took place in 1937, yet not as planned on a private basis. Bergman was invited to lead an institutional fundraising mission that also brought him, as main destinations, to Czech-

20 “Er arbeitet 15 Jahre im Lande, hat administrative Erfahrung, ist ein sauberer Charakter und eine Figur in der Bewegung und im Lande, eine auch bei Gegnern geschätzte Persönlichkeit. […] er hat Pflichtgefühl. Wenn er ein Amt übernimmt, so widmet er sich ihm mit dem ganzen Einsatz seiner Person. Er ist der einzige, dessen Wahl die Partei Magnes nicht vor den Kopf stoßen würde und die gleichzeitig das Vertrauen der fortschrittlichen Leute hätte.” The Schocken Institute for Jewish Research, Jerusalem, The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 51, Letter from Samuel Sambursky to Salman Schocken, 13 October 1935. 21 Bergman received 13 votes, Klein 8, 1 was blank. AHU, Protocols of Senate Meetings, File 140, Meeting of 8 November 1935. 22 See e. g. Berl Katznelson, Draft of a Letter to Hugo Bergman, November 1935, in: idem, The Letters of Berl Katznelson, 1930–1937, ed. by Anita Shapira and Esther Raizen, Tel Aviv 1984, 207 f. (Heb.). See also Anita Shapira, The Zionist Labour Movement and the Hebrew University, in: Judaism 45 (1996), no. 2, 183–198, esp. 192. 23 Bergman had long struggled to obtain a divorce from his first wife, Else Fanta. She agreed only after many months and signed the divorce on 25 October 1936. Two days later, Bergman married Escha Burckhardt. Escha had previously been married to Gershom Scholem. Their divorce was signed on 26 March 1936. 24 The orientalist Levi Billig (b. 1897) was murdered at his desk on 21 August 1936. Another member of the School of Oriental Studies, Avinoam Yellin (b. 1900), was killed on 24 October 1937. 25 Bergman received 13 votes, Fekete 1, 3 were blank. AHU, Protocols of Senate Meetings, File 140/II, Meeting of 28 October 1936.

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oslovakia and Poland. This would be his last visit to Central and Eastern Europe before World War II.26

Farewell to Central Europe: Prague, 26 February – 8 March 1937 As the main purpose of the mission was to secure donations and income for the enhancement of the Hebrew University, Bergman’s 1937 travels to Europe and to the United States provide important insights into the early history of this institution and on the relationship between the yishuv and the diaspora. Bergman’s impressions, collected in his correspondence (private and formal alike), his diaries, and in his detailed reports, reflect his efforts to rethink the role of the Hebrew University vis-à-vis the Land of Israel, the Zionist movement, and Jewish communities outside Palestine. Needless to say, his take was very much influenced by the crassly different portraits of Jewish life that he observed in Central and Eastern Europe (especially Poland) and in the United States. Bergman’s mission was in many senses the first of its kind and was considered an experiment. If until that moment fundraising actions had been conducted spontaneously by single agents, the idea was that a high member of the university would now accompany emissaries working at the Organization and Information Department (OID) providing help and institutional prestige. This formula offered the possibility of organizing political meetings, events, and receptions and to talk extensively not only about financial needs, but also on the cultural achievements and challenges of the young institution. What is more, the mission was also meant to test the work of the local branches of the Friends of the Hebrew University, which were then expanding and would eventually become the major tool for raising financial support.27 Accompanied by his wife Escha Burckhardt (1896–1978) and by the OID director Alfred Berger (1890–1940), Bergman traveled to Czechoslovakia

26 Bergman visited Denmark and Sweden together with Alfred Berger on a similar mission that took place in September 1938. 27 On this aspect, see Eliyahu Honig, The Societies and Finances of the Hebrew University, 1925–1948, in: Hagit Lavsky (ed.), The History of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 3 vols., Jerusalem 2000–2009, here vol. 2: A Period of Consolidation and Growth, Jerusalem 2005, 113–145 (Heb.). See also Uri Cohen, University vs. Society in a Period of Nation Building. The Hebrew University in Pre-State Israel, in: Historical Studies in Education 19 (2007), 81–109, esp. 99–102. Parallel to Bergman’s mission, other actions took place during the same period in other European countries.

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from Italy, where he had visited Rome and met with local Chief Rabbi David Prato (1882–1951).28 He reached Prague in the last days of February, where he joined Kurt Joachim Grau (1891–1947), a teacher at the Hebrew University pedagogy department who had been paving the way for Bergman’s visit over the past weeks.29 A formal reception in the presence of local Jewish leaders and donors was given in honor of Bergman at the Hotel Alkron. Yet, at least in terms of concrete financial results, the Czechoslovakian situation did not seem to leave great room for hope.30 Some organizational complications and a supposedly uncooperative attitude on the part of local Jewish agents – in particular the President of the Prague B’nai B’rith district, Josef Popper – further complicated the action. In a letter, Bergman lamented that Alexander Eig (1894–1938),31 a member of the Botanical Society, had undertaken a private action only a few days earlier in the name of the Hebrew University without previously notifying the administration.32 These complications notwithstanding, Bergman managed to take advantage of his knowledge of Prague society to win some donors over to the cause of the university. His brother Arthur (1881–1958) provided important help, since he was still based in Czechoslovakia working as an agent of Keren Ha-yesod (Foundation Fund). Bergman met with the Jewish leader and philantropist Otto Freund (1882–1939) – director of the Bohemia Union Bank –, with Baron Herbert Fuchs-Robetin (1886–1949), and engaged in long and difficult negotiations with Hans Petschek (1895–1968), the descendant of a family of Bohemian bankers and industrialists whom he dubbed the “Czech Rotschilds.”33 As Berger stated in his report to Schock-

28 Unfortunately, not much is known about this meeting. See Bergman’s very short report from Italy, in: The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 742, Transcription of a letter from Hugo Bergman to Salman Schocken, 1 March 1937 (Germ.). 29 See The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 742, Dr. Grau, Bericht aus Prag, begonnen Di. 16. Februar 1937, abgeschlossen Stg. 7. März 1937. See also [n. a.], Die Jerusalemer Universität, in: Selbstwehr, 25 February 1937, 4. 30 Bergman had been warned by his brother Arthur about the scarse possibilities of obtaining substantial financial aid in Czechoslovakia. See NLI, Arc  4º1502, File 01  786, Letters from Arthur Bergmann to Hugo Bergman, 19 and 20 January 1937. 31 On Alexander Eig and the work of the Botanical Society, see Yair Paz, The Botanical Garden and the Garden of the Prophets. Two Projects for the Establishment of Educational Gardens at the Hebrew University, in: Hagit Lavsky (ed.), The History of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, vol. 2, 443–472 (Heb.). See also Yfaat Weiss, “Nicht durch Macht und nicht durch Kraft, sondern durch meinen Geist.” Die Hebräische Universität in der Skopusberg-Enklave, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 14 (2015), 59–90, here 78–81. 32 AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (Czechoslovakia), File 619, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Shlomo Ginzberg, 9 March 1937 (Heb.). 33 AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (Poland), File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to the members of the Standing Committee, 15 March 1937 (Heb.).

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en, Bergman’s contribution in this last case was essential: “The sums from Petschek were very difficult to obtain and without the accompaniment of Dr. Bergman I would probably have received little to nothing.”34 As concerns contacts with local Jewish organizations, Bergman spoke at the General Assembly of the Czechoslovakian Friends of the Hebrew University,35 lectured in German at the Prague B’nai B’rith lodge, and took part in the gathering of the Alte Herren of Bar Kochba and Barissia. On its way from Prague to Warsaw, the Hebrew University delegation stopped in Hradec Králové (Königgrätz) where a reception organized by the local B’nai B’rith lodge took place.36 Bergman also registered a message in Czech on the Hebrew University which was later broadcast on the radio37 and met with the representatives of the local Tarbut school system.38 In the lecture held in the hall of the Prague B’nai B’rith lodge, he tried to give his audience a taste of life in the yishuv by describing the cultural problems related to the difficulty of shaping a community out of people of different provenance. In particular, he pointed to the new challenges raised by the increasing number of immigrants in the aftermath of 1933.39 The necessity to deal with old religious questions and to adapt them to the creation of a new society was also addressed and in this regard Bergman expressed his sincere appreciation for the work of Rav Kook (1865–1935), the first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of Mandatory Palestine. Particular significance was given to the role of communication and media. Bergman emphasized the educational function of the radio for the yishuv and wished that the same could also be provided for Jews in Europe. Less than one week after his visit to Prague, Bergman contributed to the jubilee issue for the thirty-year anniversary of the German-language weekly Selbstwehr 34 “Die Summe von Petschek war nur sehr schwer zu erhalten und ich hätte ohne Begleitung von Prof. Bergman wohl kaum etwas bekommen.” The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 742, Transcription of a letter from Alfred Berger to Salman Schocken from Warsaw, 10 March 1937 (Germ.). 35 Director of the society was Josef Langer. At the time of Bergman’s visit, the society counted 777 members. Archives of the Jewish Museum in Prague, Fond 215, Spole cˇ nost p rˇátel Hebrejské univerzity v Jerusalém eˇ (1933–1938) [Society of the Friends of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem], Protokoll über die Generalversammlung “Der Gesellschaft der Freunde der Hebräischen Universität in Jerusalem,” abgehalten am 4. März 1937. I thank Anna Holzer-Kawalko for kindly drawing my attention to this document. 36 See Bnai Brith. Monatsblätter der Großloge für den  cˇ echoslovakischen Staat 17 (1938), no. 2, 76. 37 The talk was broadcast on 24 March. See Haaretz, 24 March 1937. 38 Tarbut was a school network that originated in Poland and offered students the possibility of taking most subjects in Hebrew. 39 See Hugo Bergman, Probleme des heutigen Palästina, in: Bnai Brith. Monatsblätter für den Cechoslovakischen  ˇ Staat 16 (1937), no. 4, 139–141. The same lecture was also delivered in Warsaw (9 March), Łód z´ (12 March), and Cracow (14 March).

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with an article dedicated to the tasks of the Zionist press in the diaspora.40 Besides congratulating Selbstwehr on being a perfect model for other journals, Bergman focused on the need for “a systematic education of readers” both in regard to their understanding of Palestine and its problems as well as of the Jewish world in general. The most remarkable results from his visit to Czechoslovakia were obtained perhaps on a political and institutional level. The delegation of the Hebrew University (Bergman, Berger, and Grau) was received first by Emil Franke (1880–1939), the Minister of Education, then by Karel Weigner (1874–1937), Dean of the Charles University, who according to some s­ ources held an impressive speech praising the moral mission of the Jerusalem institution.41 Finally, on 4 March, a private meeting with Czechoslovakian President Edvard Beneš (1884–1948) took place in the presence of Senator Angelo Goldstein (1889–1947), himself like Bergman a former member of Bar Kochba.42 The event had a great echo in the local papers and was greeted as the most significant achievement of Bergman’s mission.43 Beneš asked Bergman about the relevance of the Hebrew University for Palestinian society and wanted to know about the number of students. On his part, Bergman pointed to the strong ties between the university and the system of Hebrew schools in the diaspora, hinting especially at the Subcarpathian region – at that time under Czechoslovakian rule – where seven Hebrew schools (Volksschulen) already existed.44 Along with Goldstein, he wished that the Czechoslovakian state would work towards the “nationalization” of those schools  – i. e. to

40 See idem, Die Aufgaben einer zionistischen Zeitung in der Golah, in: Selbstwehr, 12  March 1937. Other contributors in the same issue were Max Brod, Leo Herrmann, Heinz Politzer, and Willy Haas. 41 See [n.  a.], Dr.  Bergmann beim Schulminister. Empfang zu Ehren der Delegierten der Hebräischen Universität, in: Selbstwehr, 5 March 1937, 3. See also NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 01 2304, Nachruf von Otto Freund. 42 Angelo Goldstein co-founded the Theodor Herzl Association, a Czech Zionist student group in Prague, and was its first chairman in 1909–1910. 43 See e. g. [n. a.], Dr. Bergmann und Abg. Dr. Goldstein beim Präsidenten, in: Selbstwehr, 5 March 1937, 1. 44 On the schools’ impact on Jewish life in the Subcarpathian region, see the 1935 journalistic report by Irma Pollakov (1892–1983), one of the leading members of the Tarbut office in Prague. Idem, Vývoj hebrejského hnutí v  cˇ eskoslovensku [The Development of the Hebrew Movement in Czechoslovakia], in: Židovské zprávy [Jewish News], 1 February 1935, cit. in: Tatjana Lichtenstein, Zionists in Interwar Czechoslovakia. Minority Nationalism and Politics of Belonging, Bloomington, Ind., 2016, 205  f. See also Aryeh Sole, Modern Hebrew Education in Subcarpathian Ruthenia, in: Avigdor Dagan et al. (eds.), The Jews of Czechoslovakia. Historical Studies and Surveys, 2 vols., here vol. 2, Philadelphia, Pa./New York, 1971, 401–439.

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bring them under the state budget – and to exempt them from the Sunday closure law.45 On the basis of these requests, Senator Goldstein met one week later with Prime Minister Milan Hodža (1878–1944) and handed him a memorandum with the cultural, economic, and social demands of the Jewish minority. In his answer, Hodža stated positively that all the norms concerning minority rights should also be considered applicable to the Jews. As an outcome of this resolution, besides the desired nationalization of Subcarpathian Volksschulen, the government also consented to the opening of new Hebrew schools.46 The decision was greeted as a historic success of the Jewish Party (židovská strana).47 As concerns Bergman’s audience with Beneš, after discussing the needs of the Jewish minority the discourse turned to politics and the current situation in Palestine and Europe. Bergman confessed his preoccupation with British politics in Palestine, which he found ambiguous and very likely to endanger a peaceful resolution to the Arab-Jewish conflict. Beneš agreed and suggested that the same could be said for England’s conduct vis-à-vis Germany and Czechoslovakia.48 However, Bergman later admitted that he was astonished to observe Beneš’s general optimism in the face of the current European political climate. Retrospectively – in light of the Munich agreement which took place only one and a half years later – his hope that democratic countries would line up together in the fight against Fascism is rather telling:

45 NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 155a, Bericht über die Audienz von Prof. Bergman und Abg. Goldstein beim Präsidenten Beneš vom 4. März 1937. A copy of the report can be found in the AHU as well as in the Schocken Archive. 46 See [n. a.], Zur Verstaatlichung der hebräischen Volksschulen, in: Selbstwehr, 26 March 1937, 4. Only a few weeks later, on 11 April, the building of a new Hebrew Gymnasium was inaugurated in Muka cˇ evo. See [n. a.], Die Einweihung des hebräischen Gymnasiums in Muka cˇ evo, in: Selbstwehr, 9 April 1937, 4. See also Selbstwehr, 23 April 1937, 4. 47 See [n. a.], Entscheidende Regierungserklärung zu den jüdischen Minderheitenforderungen. Verstaatlichung der hebräischen Volksschulen, Modifizierung der Gesetzesvorlage über die Sonntagsruhe, Staatliche Förderung der jüdischen sozialen Arbeit, in: Selbstwehr, 15 March 1937, 3. 48 See Bericht über die Audienz von Prof. Bergman und Abg. Goldstein beim Präsidenten Beneš: “Dr. Bergman erzählte ihm von den Zwiespältigkeiten im englischen Lager selbst, von den Gegensätzen zwischen dem High Commissionar [sic] und dem Obersten Richter, worauf der Präsident erwiderte, dies sei typisch für die englische Politik und zeige sich genau so in ihrem Verhalten zu Deutschland oder zur Cechoslovakei”  ˇ (“Dr. Bergman informed him of the divisions in the English camp itself, between the High Commissioner and the Supreme Judge, to which the President retorted that this is typical of English politics as evident also in their behavior towards Germany and Czechoslovakia.”) Beneš attributed this behaviour to a certain political “empirism” which he deemed typical of the British.

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“He [Beneš] assesses the international situation, difficult as it is, with great calm. Germany knows that, in the event of an attack on Czechoslovakia, the entire democratic world will be turned against it and so does not dare launch an attack. Should it nevertheless come to war, the victory of democracy is assured, but he does not believe it will come to such a war, which could only result in chaos.”49

The Hebrew University as Erlebnis: Poland, 8 – 14 March 1937 Bergman and Berger reached Warsaw by train on 8 March at noon. Unlike Czechoslovakia, the mission to Poland did not present organizational complications, having been efficiently prepared by the Polish Friends of the Hebrew University, and in particular thanks to Edward Pozna ´nski (1901–1974), a central figure in the society and Bergman’s close friend.50 Yet, unlike in Czechoslovakia, the situation of Jews in Poland had been deteriorating in the 1930s, and especially after 1935. The number of Jewish students at Polish universities was drastically diminished and Jews suffered many acts of violence and discrimination on a daily basis.51 As early as late 1935, a campaign was launched to create separate benches for Jewish students to prevent them mixing with non-Jewish peers. The 1936/37 academic year saw an escalation in disturbances, including a threeday “blockade” of the University of Warsaw by right-wing students.52 The general condition of Polish Jewry was no better. In March 1936, the Polish Parliament (Sejm) passed a law, eventually amended, to prohibit ritual slaughter (shekita), with various social and economic repercussions on the 49 Ibid.: “Er [Beneš] beurteile die internationale Situation, so schwierig sie sei, mit gros­ ser Ruhe. Deutschland wisse, dass es sich im Augenblick eines Angriffs auf die CSR  ˇ der ganzen demokratischen Welt gegenüber gestellt sehen würde und werde es nicht wagen, den Kampf zu beginnen. Sollte es aber doch zum Krieg kommen, so sei der Sieg der Demokratie sicher, aber er glaubt nicht, dass es zu einem solchen Krieg kommen wird, der das Chaos zur Folge haben müsste.” 50 Edward Pozna ´nski was a member of the Lwów-Warsaw philosophical school, too. Bergman thought of him several times as a possible successor to the directorship of the Jewish National and University Library. In 1940, Pozna ´nski eventually moved to Jerusalem where he lectured in philosophy. 51 See e. g. Natalia Aleksiun, Together but Apart. University Experience of Jewish Students in the Second Polish Republic, in: Acta Poloniae Historica 109 (2014), 109–137. 52 See Steven Paulsson, s. v. “Ghetto Benches,” in: Richard S. Levy (ed.), Antisemitism. A Historical Encyclopedia of Prejudice and Persecution, 2 vols., here vol. 1, Santa Barbara, Calif./Denver, Col./Oxford 2005, 275. See also Harry Rabinowicz, The Battle of the Ghetto Benches, in: The Jewish Quarterly Review 55 (1964), no. 2, 151–159.

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lives of many Jewish families. As has been noted, both antisemitism and “pro-Zionist” leanings – i. e. in favor of Jewish emigration – characterized Polish political debate throughout the 1930s.53 In such a turbulent climate, it soon became clear that, if not much could be expected in terms of donations, Bergman’s presence in Poland nevertheless acquired a particular meaning. Polish Jewry welcomed him as a “symbol of the Jewish people.”54 Precisely in light of current academic discrimination, the fact that he was addressing Jewish students as a Jewish rector and as the head of a Hebrew institution of higher learning strengthened their hope and gave rise to true acts of enthusiasm.55 Bergman’s meetings with Jewish student organizations in Warsaw and Cracow were perhaps the highlight of his Polish week. As he noted in a letter to Magnes, the idea of the Hebrew University triggered in his audience a sort of religious joyfulness: “It is difficult for me to describe the great love that Polish Jewry manifested for the idea of the University. There were at times really ecstatic moments, there is a feeling of reverence [ir’at kavod] as if in front of the Holy of Holies [qodeš ha-qodašim].”56

According to Bergman, Jewish students in Polish universities were in constant fear of being beaten. It seemed to him that all of them would have liked to study at the Hebrew University. In Cracow, a delegation presented him with a memorandum asking for an agricultural faculty. In other cities, students asked for faculties of medicine and law.57

53 See Ezra Mendelsohn, The Jews of East Central Europe between the World Wars, Bloomington, Ind., 1983, 71. 54 Hugo Bergman, Tagebücher und Briefe 1901–1975. Published by the Leo Baeck Institute, ed. by Miriam Sambursky, with an introduction by Nathan Rotenstreich, 2  vols., here vol. 1: 1901–1948, Königstein/Ts. 1985, 441. 55 Ibid.: “The people here are really touching. To them, this visit is a real treat and I do not think there is any two-facedness in the respectful and joyful manner in which they have received me, but genuine joy. […] Reception by the students. They moved me to tears, and as a result I spoke very warmly and from the heart. […] I did not want to leave there.” (“Die Leute hier sind wirklich rührend. Für sie ist der Besuch wirklich ein Fest, und ich glaube, in der Art, wie sie mich respektvoll und beglückt aufnehmen, liegt keine Heuchelei, sondern wirkliche Freude. […] Empfang durch die Studenten. Sie haben mich zu Tränen gerührt, und ich habe dadurch sehr warm und herzlich gesprochen. […] Ich wollte von dort nicht weggehen.)” 56 AHU, File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah L. Magnes, 22 March 1937 (Heb.). In a letter to Buber, Bergman described his visit to Poland as a “Triumphzug des Universitätsgedankens” (“triumphal procession of the idea of the university”). See NLI, Arc Ms. Var. 350, Martin Buber Papers, 08 91, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Martin Buber, 16 March 1937 (Germ.). All translations from the Hebrew are the author’s unless otherwise stated. 57 See Daniel L. Schorr, A Bigger and Better University, in: The Sentinel, 1 April 1937, 8. The article contains an account of Bergman’s visit to Europe for the American press.

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The festive atmosphere was disturbed in two cases by a small group of Revisionists. Apparently, the protesters distributed leaflets demanding the resignation of Magnes and Bergman from the university. The event resonated in the Jewish Telegraphic Agency, with both the Palestinian (Hebrew and English) and the Polish (Yiddish and Polish) press reporting briefly on it.58 However, none of the papers mentioned the names of the protesters. Interestingly enough, a few days after Bergman’s visit the Polish language Revisionist weekly Trybuna Narodowa published a vitriolic open letter addressed to the rector: “I am going to emigrate to Palestine in the near future […] and I would like to continue my studies at the university in Jerusalem. You, dear Professor, are the head of this institution and will be my rector as well. Therefore, I feel obliged to inform you that I was the person who interrupted your public lecture at the Institute of Judaic Studies by shouting “Hugo Bergman is a symbol of a national treason.” […] I am completely aware that there is a gap between you and me – both in terms of age and knowledge. If so, why did I want to confront you, dear Sir, with some difficult questions? […] I believe that neither age nor education should prevail as an argument when we speak about your non-scientific political activity. A reflection on this activity should be based on another decisive factor, namely – a conscience. A conscience as a Jew and a Zionist.”59

The letter was penned by none other than the 23-year-old Beitar activist Menachem Begin (1913–1992), later to become Israeli prime minister, who turned out to be the mind behind the protests. A few months later, Begin was jailed for six weeks after heading a demonstration against the Jewish Agency.60 His letter encapsulated a series of typical Revisionist arguments. Caustically hinting at Magnes’ attempt to name the chair for international relations – held by Norman Bentwich (1883–1971) – “The Chair for International Peace,” Begin censured the university for depleting the funds of Polish Jewry in anti-national propaganda activities. He rebuked Bergman, as a leader of Brit Shalom, for fraternizing with the “enemies of his own people,” and finally resorted to the old calumny already propagated by the Tel Aviv Revisionist paper Hitton ha-Meuhad:

58 See e. g. The Palestine Post, 11 March 1937, 8; Davar, 14 March 1937, 2. See also [n. a.], Revisionisten demonstrieren gegen Hugo Bergmann, in: Selbstwehr, 19 March 1937. 59 Menachem Begin, List otwarty do P. Dr. Hugona Bergmana, Rektora Universytetu Hebrajskiego [Open Letter to Dr. Hugo Bergman, Rector of the Hebrew University], in: Trybuna Narodowa [National Tribune], 19 March 1937, 5 and 8 (Pol.; emphasis in the original). My sincere thanks goes to Anna Holzer-Kawalko, who kindly helped with the translation of the Polish original. The same paper had already criticized Bergman in an article published on 12 March 1937, 4. 60 See Avi Shilon, Menachem Begin. A Life, New Haven, Conn./London 2012, 17.

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“Beyond Brit Shalom, you have been involved in another ‘humanitarian’ activity. Who transferred money to the Palestine Communist Party Ha-Or and delivered – or signed – a declaration for the sake of Communist prisoners? […] Why didn’t you stand up for […] so many prisoners […] who suffered for Zionism? […] The Communists have always been our enemy, so I would like to ask you again: What should we call a person who supports the most dangerous enemies of his own nation?”61

In spite of what the tone of the letter may suggest, Bergman’s letters tried to diminish the importance of the event by noting that his opponents were neither successful nor did they have any significant influence on other students.62 Given the great expectations underpinning his short visit, it is no surprise that Bergman was approached by several exponents of the local Jewish cultural scene, who turned to him as a referent and a possible help for their projects and needs. These included the multifaceted intellectual Hillel Zeitlin (1871–1942),63 the poet and dramatist Itzhak Katzenelson (1886–1944), and the Yiddish theater actor and Kafka’s close friend Yitzchak Lowy (1887– 1942).64 In the press conference, Bergman remarked on the limited possibilities of the Hebrew University, especially concerning the admission of new students.65 However, he sought to stress the Polish contribution to the development of this institution, from the pioneering library efforts of the physician and book collector Joseph Chasanowich (1844–1919) – originally from Białystok  – to the important cooperation of the local Friends of the University.66

61 Begin, List otwarty do P. Dr. Hugona Bergmana, Rektora Universytetu Hebrajskiego, 5 (Pol.; emphasis in the original). On Begin’s later take on the Hebrew University members, see Cohen, University vs. Society in a Period of Nation Building, 87 f. 62 AHU, File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah L. Magnes, 22 March 1937 (Heb.). 63 On the encounter between Bergman and Zeitlin, see Jonatan Meir, The Book of Visions. Hillel Zeitlin’s Mystical Diary in Light of Unpublished Correspondence, in: Alei Sefer. Studies in Bibliography and in the History of the Printed and the Digital Hebrew Book 21 (2010), 149–171, esp. 165 f. (Heb.). See also Bergman’s letter to Buber above from 16 March 1937. 64 On the meeting in Warsaw with Lowy, see Hugo Bergman, Zwei Schriften über Franz Kafka, in: Mitteilungsblatt des Irgun Olej Merkas Europa 39, 1 October 1971, no. 40/41, 7; and idem, Franz Kafka und die Hunde, in: Mitteilungsblatt der Irgun Olej Merkas Europa 40, 3 September 1972, no. 34/35, 4. 65 According to statistics quoted by Bergman, Polish students constituted two thirds of all students enrolled at the Hebrew University. Yet in 1934, due to financial restrictions, only 541 of 787 students from Poland who asked to be admitted to the Hebrew University could be accepted. In 1935, 1141 students from Poland submitted the request for application and only 589 were accepted. 66 Reports from the press conference were published in the local Polish and Yiddish press. Some paper clippings are kept in the Bergman Archive at the National Library of Israel. See NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 05 128.

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Bergman’s schedule in Poland was rather hectic. In Łód z´ he held six speeches in one single day, as he also did in Cracow. In both cities, he met with the local Jewish communities, visited the Hebrew gymnasia, addressed the Jewish student organizations, lectured, and took part in the assembly of the local branches of the Friends of the Hebrew University. In Warsaw, he attended a crowded Shabbat service headed by the famous Polish historian and Rabbi Moj z˙ esz Schorr (1874–1941), who was also Chairman of the Warsaw Friends of the Hebrew University. On Friday evening, he opened an exhibition on the Hebrew University that had been organized in the halls of the recently erected Main Judaic Library.67 He there made the acquaintance of Tadeusz Kotarbi ´nski (1886–1981), a famous Catholic professor of philosophy, one of the founders of the Lwów-Warsaw school and one of the few to strongly oppose the anti-Jewish resolutions taken by Polish universities.68 On a diplomatic and political level, the delegation of the Hebrew University was received by the British ambassador in Poland, the dean of the University of Warsaw Włodzimierz Antoniewicz (1893–1973), and the Polish Minister of Education and Religious Affairs Wojciech Šwi e˛ tosławski (1881– 1968), who was also a famous chemist.69 Šwi e˛ tosławski’s attitude is perhaps paradigmatic of the weakness with which the Polish government faced the antisemitic wave in Poland’s universities and of its failure to cope with the escalation of violence. Šwi e˛ tosławski had spoken out in parliament in January against “ghetto benches” and encouraged the university authorities to take concrete steps to end the violence. In April, a few weeks after Bergman’s visit and in the aftermath of frequent attacks against Jewish students, the Ministry of Education broadcast an appeal for the nationalist groups to at least avoid using life-threatening weapons.70 The government promised in return to reconsider the issue of segregation, and indeed in October Šwi e˛ tosławski authorized the allocation of a separate section in classrooms for Jewish students for the sake of maintaining order.71 67 See AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (Poland), File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to the members of the Standing Committee, 15 March 1937 (Heb.). 68 See Harry Schneiderman, Poland, in: The American Jewish Year Book  39 (1937– 1938/5698), Philadelphia, Pa., 1937, 380–433, esp. 420. See also Anita Burdman Feferman/Solomon Feferman, Alfred Tarski. Life and Logic, Cambridge 2008, 42. 69 In a letter to his wife, Bergman described Šwi e˛ tosławski as “menschlich und nett und ungezwungen” (“personable and nice and easy-going”). See Bergman, Tagebücher und Briefe 1901–1975, Bd. 1, 441. 70 See Howard M. Sachar, Dreamland. Europeans and Jews in the Aftermath of the Great War, New York 2002, 65 f. 71 See Celia  S. Heller, Jewish Social Status in Sociological Perspective, in: Herbert  A. Strauss, Hostages of Modernization. Studies on Modern Antisemitism 1870–1933/39, 2 vols., here vol. 2: Austria – Hungary – Poland – Russia, Berlin/New York 1993, 1135– 1152, esp. 1149 f.

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Emotionally touched by the condition of Polish Jewry, Bergman reflected on the aims of his mission and more generally came to weigh the relationship between the Hebrew University – in its being part of the Zionist Palestinian world  – and the diaspora. As a large part of the university budget depended on voluntary subscriptions and thus had to be raised anew each year, these contributions were fundamental to the survival of the institution. In its founders’ view, the university had to enjoy financial independence in order not to suffer from external ideological influences. However, Bergman could not help but notice that Zionist organizations were actually overexploiting diaspora Jewish communities. Even worse, they were not caring for them. In his view, the Hebrew University had a moral duty as an institute of higher learning not to participate in this conduct but rather to propound in exchange cultural and spiritual values: “The propaganda for the university can give a lot to the Jewish audience if it is conducted within the idea of the university, according to its principles. Everywhere entrepreneurs told me: The Land of Israel has to give and not just to take. We understand that you cannot give us money, yet there are cultural and spiritual values that you could and you should give us but your emissaries only come to exploit us and nothing more. From this point of view I think that the [Zionist] funds are really wrong, as [for them] every­ thing turns out to be ‘for the purpose of the moment.’ And what cannot be collected now is considered superfluous. We have not finished seeding yet here we already hasten to harvest. Our work in the Diaspora is what the Germans call ‘Raubbau.’ We should and we can give and it is very hard to imagine the love with which Jews welcome in every place the message of high Jewish culture.”72

Accordingly, Bergman devoted a substantial part of his travels to visiting Hebrew educational institutions in Poland, both the gymnasia referring to the Tarbut network73 – as he already did in Czechoslovakia – and the schools connected to the innovative pedagogical work of Markus Braude (1869– 1949), the leader of a progressive synagogue in Łód z´ and Martin Buber’s brother-in-law. Bergman’s interest in fostering Hebrew education in Poland was also authentic due to personal experience. After World War I, Bergman long debated whether to join the Cultural Department at the Zionist Executive’s office in London – as he eventually did – or to take up Braude’s invita-

72 AHU, File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah L. Magnes, 22 March 1937 (Heb.; italics underlined in the original). 73 On the relation between Zionist ideology and the Tarbut school network in Poland, see Kamil Kijek, Was It Possible to Avoid “Hebrew Assimilation”? Hebraism, Polonization, and Tarbut Schools in the Last Decade of Interwar Poland, in: Jewish Social Studies 21 (2016), no. 2, 105–141.

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tion to embark on his educational pioneering efforts in Poland.74 Following Bergman’s visit, the Hebrew University arranged with the schools to send observers to the final examinations to ascertain the students’ knowledge of Hebrew. Bergman’s correspondence from the time of his mission also reveals a sincere preoccupation with the paucity of the Hebrew press. With the collapse of Ha-tsefirah in 1931, the only existing Hebrew paper published in Poland by 1937 was the weekly Ba-derekh.75 There was moreover no possibility of procuring Palestinian publications, neither Haaretz nor Davar.76 What is more, the difficulty of accessing Hebrew books printed in Palestine was very likely to hinder the cultural ties between the two countries and to jeopardize Hebrew pedagogical institutions in Poland and their remarkable efforts: “We, the members of the university, have to care more clearly than ever for the diffusion of Hebrew culture and in particular of the Hebrew book. It is not possible to find a single Hebrew book from Palestine in all of Great Poland! There are of course also technical difficulties […], but English, French, and German books can still be accessed without problems. At the moment, we have a big network of Hebrew schools and deep efforts have been undertaken there. Yet without pushing young blood in this organism, without the sending of Hebrew newspapers and books from Palestine to Poland, I can hardly imagine how these schools could strengthen their position.”77

Likewise, rather than focusing on financial issues, Bergman’s report to the members of the Standing Committee emphasized the Polish demand for “spiritual nurture.” A major effort was needed on the side of the Hebrew University to come closer to such a receptive audience as Jewish students in Poland – and Polish Jewry in general – proved to be. If it was not possible to grant admission to all the students who applied, at least the university should see it as its responsibility to promote the circulation of Hebrew publications and radio broadcasts and to foster cooperation between Palestine and local institutions.78

74 See Central Zionist Archives, A 40, Jakob Klatzkin Collection, File 170 , Letter from Hugo Bergman to Jakob Klatzkin, 8 April 1919 (Fr.). Bergman was particularly attracted by the possibility of living within an “Eastern Jewish milieu.” See also Bergman, Tagebücher und Briefe 1901–1975, vol. 1, 119 f. 75 See Avner Holtzman, s. v. “Ba-Derekh,” in: The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe, (25  January 2019). See also Bernard Wasserstein, On the Eve. The Jews of Europe before the Second World War, New York 2012, 253 f. 76 The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 742, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Salman Scho­ cken, 14 March 1937 (Germ.). 77 AHU, File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah L. Magnes, 22 March 1937 (Heb.). 78 See AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (Poland), File 611, Letter from Hugo Bergman to the members of the Standing Committee, 15 March 1937 (Heb.).

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It is interesting to note Bergman’s rather different impressions of Czechoslovakia and Poland. Although certainly well informed about its social and political life, Bergman drew rather pessimistic conclusions from his journey to Prague, probably due to the internal divisions and to the unwillingness to cooperate that he encountered among some local Jewish groups. By contrast, Bergman’s passionate portrait of the adversities and the vibrancy of Jewish life in Poland may be at least partially explained as a consequence of his “Western Jewish gaze,” hardly familiar with the inner core of Eastern European Jewry and thus more prone to be impressed.79 Long perceived as the beating heart of European Jewry, Poland – and Galicia in particular – was extremely meaningful to Bergman, who had already visited Cracow and Lwów (Lemberg) in 1903 during his chairmanship of Bar Kochba. If in Poland the gospel of the Hebrew University was hailed as an Erlebnis, an experience – as Bergman jotted down in his notes –80 the same can perhaps be said for his own re-encounter with Eastern Jewry.

First Contact with the New World: United States, 22 March – 8 May 1937 The Bergmans arrived in New York on the Queen Mary a few days before Pesach eve.81 Bergman’s first impressions of the United States reveal his amazement at the discovery of a new reality. During the voyage, Bergman brushed up on his English. Yet in his first report to the OID, he confessed that he had probably overestimated the knowledge of German in American uni-

79 See Berger’s report: “Prof. Bergman’s achievements are truly remarkable; he speaks tirelessly and makes himself available for anything – and is also celebrated in a truly warm fashion that is difficult for Western Jews to imagine.” (“Wirklich bewunderungswürdig ist die Leistung von Prof. Bergman, der unermüdlich spricht, sich zu allem zur Verfügung stellt  – dafür aber auch in wirklich herzlicher und für Westjuden schwer vorstellbarer Weise gefeiert wird.”) The Schocken Archive, Order 0, File 742, Transcription of a letter from Alfred Berger to Salman Schocken from Warsaw, 10 March 1937. 80 See Bergman’s notes in view of his travel report in front of the members of the Senate and the Executive Committee: NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 02 48. The report took place on 29 May 1935 in the yet-to-be-inaugurated Schocken Library in Rechavia. 81 The first seder night was celebrated at the Temple Imanu-El, where Magnes had been Rabbi.

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versities and intellectual circles. Unlike in Jerusalem, not knowing German did not appear to impede academic relations in the United States.82 Likewise, Bergman regarded the inclinations of the American general press with a certain surprise. Instead of asking about the Hebrew University, journalists took more interest in questions such as “who is the greater Jew of our day,” “what do you mean by pacifism,” or “in what case is a war justified?”83 Relations to the Arabs was considered the main topic to be addressed. Bergman drafted a press release where, while avoiding direct political references, he focused on the importance of the scholarly work of the School of Oriental Studies with a view to elucidating its potential for indirect political contributions: “I have been asked very often what I think about the situation in Palestine with regard to the Arabs. I am not able to give a political reply to this question and I cannot predict what will happen during the next few years. […] I trust that the work which is being done at the Arabic Department within the School of Oriental Studies at Hebrew University will some day be of very great help in bringing about an understanding between the two races. […] I am convinced that this work of the Arabic Department although it is undertaken without any political intentions will have its political consequences.”84

In the United States, the fundraising methods and structure of the Friends of the Hebrew University also worked differently than in Europe. Besides individual contributions, most of the donations came from a percentage of each community’s budget. That means that the propaganda work had to concentrate on persuading local selected committees rather than supplying a rich service of information to the Jewish press.85 Samuel Finkel (1895–1967), a renowned figure in the American Reform movement, was Director of the American Friends.86 Although quite positively impressed by him and by the efficiency of the central organization office, Bergman remarked that hardly

82 See AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (USA), File 620/I, Schreiben des Herrn Professor Bergman an die Abteilung für Organisation und Information, New York, 23 March 1937. Bergman sent fifteen extremely detailed stenographic reports of his American mission to Manka Spiegel from the OID. A copy of these reports can also be found in NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 04 110b. 83 See AHU, File 620/II, Abschrift des stenographischen Berichtes Nr. 7 von Prof. Bergman, Toronto, 7 April 1937. Clippings from Bergman’s interviews with the American press are kept in NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 04 110b. 84 See Hugo Bergman, Culture and Agriculture, in: The Sentinel, 15 April 1937, 6. Bergman also hinted at the recent Hebrew translation of the Qur’an completed by Yosef Rivlin. 85 See AHU, Friends of the Hebrew University (USA), File 620/I, Schreiben des Herrn Professor Bergman an die Abteilung für Organisation und Information, New York, 23 March 1937. 86 Samuel Finkel was also national president of the Federation of Temple Brotherhoods.

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anyone of the society members was exclusively committed to supporting the Hebrew University.87 It is certainly true that the American Friends proved crucial for the survival of the institution in its first years. Established as early as June 1925 as the American Advisory Committee and headed by the banker Felix Warburg (1871–1937) – who was very close to Magnes –, the society contributed up to 38.2 percent of the university’s entire budget before 1936/37.88 However, relations between the organization and the university administration were far from well coordinated. Quite tellingly, Finkel lamented for example that he had still not been invited to visit Jerusalem.89 Bergman’s mission was meant to strengthen the ties between the American Friends and the university and to help bring the institution closer to American Jewry.90 The program prepared by the society was a true tour de force, to which Bergman patiently submitted.91 According to Finkel’s report, in six weeks Bergman visited 13 cities, including Toronto and Montreal beyond the US border, had 143 appointments, and held up to 34 formal speeches (not counting informal talks at dinners, luncheons, and meetings) between New York and other destinations.92 On 24 March, he took part in a formal dinner at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, to which many illustrious guests  – Jews and nonJews – were invited. Albert Einstein was one of the speakers, coming specifically for the event and delivering his welcome address partly in English and partly in German.93 In his speech, Bergman emphasized the contribution of the Hebrew University to the life of the yishuv. This had to do with concrete practical achievements such as researching water, exploring the soil, and fighting dis87 See AHU, File 620/II, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Salman Schocken, 27 March 1937 (Germ.); see also AHU, File  620/II, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah  L. Magnes, 11 May 1937 (Heb.). 88 See Cohen, University vs. Society in a Period of Nation Building, 101. In 1931, the organi­ zation changed its name to American Friends of the Hebrew University. 89 Bergman subsequently organized Finkel’s visit to the Hebrew University, which took place in the fall of 1937. 90 Finkel later described Bergman’s visit as a “turning point in the history of the American Friends as well as of the Hebrew University.” See AHU, File 620/II, Samuel Finkel, Report of Visit of Dr. Hugo Bergman, Rector of Hebrew University, March 22 – May 8 1937. 91 The complete agenda of Bergman’s meetings – consisting of almost fifty typewritten pages – can be found in NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 04 110b. 92 See AHU, File 620/II, Samuel Finkel, Report of Visit of Dr. Hugo Bergman, Rector of Hebrew University, March 22 – May 8 1937. During his visit to Jerusalem, Finkel held a more detailed report in front of the Executive Committee. See AHU, File 620/IV, Director’s Report to Executive Committee at Meeting Held September 29 1937. 93 Bergman transcribed Einstein’s address in his second report to Manka Spiegel. A Hebrew translation was later published in the press. See [n. a.], Einstein on the Hebrew University, in: Davar, 9 May 1937, 2 (Heb.).

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eases and plagues, but also with sharpening the Hebrew language to apply to various areas of knowledge. More generally, Bergman declared that it was the university’s duty to set a cultural standard in Palestinian society especially through its external activities – among them summer courses and radio lectures. However, Bergman saw the “greatest importance” of the young institution in serving “the whole Jewish people all over the world.” This was related, of course, to Ahad Ha’am (1856–1927) and his vision of Palestine as a spiritual center, from which Bergman, along with the other founders of the Hebrew University, clearly took inspiration. It is not by chance that he chose to open his address with the story of the Talmudic sage Yohanan ben Zakkai and the creation of the Yavneh school.94 During his mission Bergman also met with the delegates of important American foundations (Carnegie, Guggenheim, and Rockefeller) and tried to cope with the difficulties in the relationship between the American Friends and cooperating groups. In the course of previous years, consistent financial help was given to the Hebrew University by American associations such as Hadassah Women’s Zionist Organization, the American Jewish Physicians Committee, MAILAMM (Palestine Institute of Musical Science), and the School of Education Committee. It was otherwise noticed that a lack of coordination led frequently not only to a duplication of efforts but also to a confusion of public opinion. Finkel wished to centralize the activities in the office of the American Friends and to impress upon the university the necessity of dealing with the various groups through the office of the Friends.95 Other difficulties had to be attributed directly to the university’s organizational deficiencies. Bergman regretted for example not having been given detailed expense proposals that he could have presented to the foundations. He also complained about the absence of a full and up-to-date report on the Hebrew University’s academic activities.96 The first concrete results of Bergman’s mission were the creation of three new branches of the society (in Toronto, Montreal, and Providence) and the establishment of a special Library Committee headed by Alexander Marx

94 See NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 04 110b, Address by Dr. Hugo Bergman, Rector of the Hebrew University, Jerusalem, Made at the Dinner in His Honor, Given by the American Friends of Hebrew University, at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Wednesday, 24 March 1937. 95 Finkel’s proposal was not received positively by Nathan Ratnoff, President of the American Jewish Physicians Committee. See AHU, File 620/II, 15. Stenographischer Bericht von Herrn Professor Bergman, “Rex”, 10 May 1937. Rex was the name of the ocean liner the Bergmans sailed with on their return from the United States. 96 See AHU, File  620/II, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah  L. Magnes, 11  May 1937 (Heb.).

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(1878–1953), Chief Librarian at the Jewish Theological Seminary.97 Other possible future plans were discussed individually by Bergman with local partners.98 On 3 May, addressing graduate students at the New York School for Jewish Social Work, Bergman deplored the disunity of Jewish educational groups and proposed the creation of a “Jewish Ministry of Education” to coordinate their work throughout the world. According to the press account, Bergman maintained that this ministry should be responsible for composing uniform curricula, planning publications and translations, and fostering the exchange of students and instructors.99 Equally intense were the efforts to bring the Hebrew University closer to the American academic world. Bergman was invited to lecture at major American universities, where he also met the institutions’ highest authorities.100 The topics he chose to address are particularly significant as he often engaged with difficult philosophical problems still rather unknown to the local scholarly audience.101 Bergman’s journey can also be regarded as one of the earliest episodes in the American reception of the tradition of the Brentanoschule and Austrian philosophy.102 At Princeton, Einstein took part in the discussion after Bergman’s lecture on the problem of truth.103 At Harvard, his talk on Henri Bergson was introduced by the old English philosopher Alfred

 97 The committee was created to assist the National and University Library in Jerusalem in the collections of books and manuscripts in the United States. One of its founders was Sonja Udin, who had previously worked in the National Library under Bergman’s directorship.  98 See e.  g. AHU, File  620/III, Hugo Bergman, Programm für eine Zusammenarbeit der Hadassah und der Hebräischen Universität auf dem Gebiete des Erziehungswesens, 8 July 1937.  99 See Jewish Telegraphic Agency, 4 May 1937, 5. See also AHU, File 620/II, 14. Stenographischer Bericht von Herrn Prof. Bergman, New York, 3 May 1937. 100 Among others, Bergman delivered lectures at the following academic institutions: University of Buffalo (6 April), Johns Hopkins University (15 April), University of Chicago (20 April), Princeton University (26 April), and Harvard University (28 April). 101 Bergman devoted one lecture to the philosophy of Franz Brentano (1838–1917) and another to discussing Brentano’s and Marty’s theories of truth. Anton Marty (1847–1914) had been Bergman’s philosophy professor and doctoral supervisor at the Charles University in Prague. 102 On the Brentano School, see Barry Smith, Austrian Philosophy. The Legacy of Franz Brentano, Chicago, Ill./La Salle 1994; see also Denis Fisette/Guillaume Fréchette (eds.), À l’école de Brentano. De Würzburg à Vienne, Paris, 2007. On Bergman’s place within the Brentanoschule, see Guillaume Fréchette, Bergman and Brentano, in: Uriah Kriegel (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Franz Brentano and the Brentano School, New York 2017, 323–333. See also Rudolf Haller, The Philosophy of Hugo Bergman and the Brentano School, in: A. Zvie Bar-On (ed.), On Shmuel Hugo Bergman’s Philosophy, Amsterdam 1985, 15–28. 103 See AHU, File 620/II, 12. Stenographischer Bericht von Professor Bergman, New York, 29 April 1937. For a typescript of the lecture, see NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 03 78.03.

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North Whitehead (1861–1947), who spoke enthusiastically of the Hebrew University and  – in Bergman’s words  – contributed to creating an atmosphere of “spiritual elevation” (“hitrommemut nefesh”):104 “The recent foundation of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem recalls the foundation of Harvard University three hundred years ago. There is in each case a group of heroes upholding ideals amid every discouragement of physical difficulty. The history of Ameri­can culture during 300 years and the history of Hebrew culture during three thousand years bear witness to the force of ideas in creating, preserving and transforming the higher life of humanity.”105

A short list of names suffices to offer an idea of the number of intellectuals and famous researchers Bergman was introduced to during his mission. These included the great Romanist Leo Spitzer (1887–1960), the founders of Gestalt psychology Max Wertheimer (1880–1943) and Kurt Koffka (1886– 1941), the psychologist Kurt Lewin (1890–1947), the phenomenologist Marvin Farber (1901–1980), and the recipient of the Nobel Prize Nicholas Murray Butler (1862–1947). All these and many other outstanding scholars are mentioned in Bergman’s reports. His contacts opened to him the doors of American academia, and in particular Bergman could get a taste of the world of German (Jewish) Wissenschaft in exile. To this should be added the fact that he had the chance to meet and discuss more than once with other important figures already well acquainted to him such as Hans Kohn, Albert Einstein, and the famous Jewish theologian Mordecai Kaplan (1881–1983). Bergman also profited immensely from experiencing the life and the structure of American colleges and universities. He praised the alumni system and wished that something similar be established at the Hebrew University.106 On several occasions, he sought to promote academic exchanges between Jerusalem and American institutions for professors and students alike.107 As he wrote to Magnes, in light of the current European situation the opportunity to cooperate with American universities would support the development of the Hebrew University even more than the mere preoccupation with securing its economic stability:

104 See AHU, File  620/II, Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah  L. Magnes, 11  May 1937 (Heb.). On Bergman’s lecture, see Harvard University Gazette, 24  April 1937, 131. A typescript of the lecture is held in NLI, Arc 4º1502, File 10 331. 105 Alfred North Whitehead, cit. in Samuel B. Finkel, American Jews and the Hebrew University, in: American Jewish Yearbook 39 (1937–1938/5698), 193–201, here 199 f. 106 See AHU, File 620/II, 14. Stenographischer Bericht von Herrn Prof. Bergman, New York, 3 May 1937. 107 See ibid., 12. Stenographischer Bericht von Professor Bergman, New York, 29 April 1937; ibid., 13. Stenographischer Bericht von Herrn Professor Bergman, Northampton, 1 May 1937.

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“I see here enormous possibilities for your activity not only from the financial side but in particular as concerns the spiritual ties between us and America. […] There is an extensive and highly important work to be accomplished: saving our university from its isolation, from the risks of narrow horizons, and connecting it to America. I could not see more clearly that this is the most important task that can be achieved here. By virtue of this effort I am sure that financial salvation will also follow.”108

Summary Bergman was the first rector of the Hebrew University. As he had to cope with new problems and come up with new solutions, he can in many senses be seen as a pioneer. This in-depth look into his mission from 1937 – his first as rector – offers a privileged perspective on Bergman’s understanding of his own role while at the same time it unveils his attempts to confront the structural limits of an institution still in the making. This biographical perspective proves of great help here. Concerned as it is with minute details and indulging in rather variegated sources (reports, diaries, formal and private letters, newspaper articles etc.), biography discloses meaningful insights which contribute to enriching the more panoramic view offered by institutional history. Bergman’s impressions from his journey hint at the many notable challenges  – not least financial  – that the Hebrew University was faced with in its attempt to represent the cultural center of the Jewish people. By focusing on Bergman and his deep commitment to European Jewish culture, this episode from the early history of this institution also opens a window on its not easy relationship to the yishuv and the Zionist Organization in a time of nation-building. Likewise, it provides a paradigmatic example of the university’s self-projection, in particular with regard to diaspora Jewish communities. The appreciation of the differences between Bergman’s three destinations also adds a significant dimension to the story. In this sense, it becomes clear that the United States, and in particular the American academic world, disclosed an entire set of new opportunities to be explored in the following years by the young institution. On the other hand, although in a highly distinct manner, the Czechoslovakian and Polish scenarios enable a deeper insight into the way Bergman and the Hebrew University directly experienced the deterioration of the European political landscape and the crisis of liberal democracies. The years to come were to exceed the worst expectations.

108 See ibid., Letter from Hugo Bergman to Judah L. Magnes, 11 May 1937 (Heb.).

Gelehrtenporträt

Anna Holzer-Kawalko

Lost on the Island: Mapping an Alternative Path of Exile in the Life and Work of Ernst Grumach On a summer evening in early July 1959, the world of Ernst Grumach (1902–1967) suddenly shrank by half. At the end of his workday at the East German Academy of Sciences (Akademie der Wissenschaften der DDR), the 57-year-old German Jewish professor of classical and German philology quietly packed all of his belongings, put on his coat, carefully locked the office, and upon arriving at his apartment in Charlottenburg in West Berlin, he refused to ever come back to the Eastern part of the city. His colleague and friend, Ingeborg Weber-Kellermann, reported some time later that Grumach visited her on his way home.1 The account she delivered verbally to the vice-president of the Academy, Wolfgang Steinitz,2 provides some details on the motivations behind Grumach’s decision: “In early July, Mr. Grumach visited her late one evening at her apartment and told her, ­quite agitated, that he had been interrogated by a gentleman at the academy in such a manner that he became hot and cold all over. The gentleman questioned him about his activities during the Nazi period, especially his librarianship, and asked him: ‘You presumably had a very good relationship with the SS?’ The conversation was conducted in the tone of a pointed interrogation, and he did not think himself capable anymore of returning to the academy after this incident. He did not want to be subjected to such methods again.”3

Indeed, Grumach never set foot in the Eastern part of the city again. This day marked the end of a very singular period in his biography which constitutes the focus of this paper. Grumach had been living in Berlin for more than two decades, having not only survived the darkest years of Nazi rule but also having remained in the divided city after the war, until his dramatic wartime experiences unexpectedly struck him again fourteen years later and prompted his escape. Most of his Jewish colleagues, especially those who, like Gru1

Ingeborg Weber-Kellermann (1918–1993) was a folklorist and anthropologist. She worked at the East German Academy of Sciences from 1946 to 1961. See Archiv der Berlin-Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (henceforth BBAW), file no. 657, Wissenschaft­ liche Mitarbeiter, A Report on Ernst Grumach by Wolfgang Steinitz, 22 October 1959. 2 Wolfgang Steinitz (1905–1967) was a linguist, folklorist, and was vice-president of the East German Academy of Sciences from 1954 to 1963. 3 BBAW, file no. 657, Wissenschaftliche Mitarbeiter, A Report on Ernst Grumach by Wolfgang Steinitz, 22 October 1959. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 493–518.

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mach, were not politically or intellectually engaged with Communism, had left Germany long before and re-established themselves in other European countries, the United States, or Palestine/Israel respectively. Their experi­ ences are quite well covered in the vast scholarly literature devoted to German Jewish intellectuals in exile.4 Grumach’s biography differs significantly from those stories of Jewish migrants, refugees, or – as was the case with some Communists returning to East Germany after 1945 – of Jewish repatriates, which center on movement from place to place.5 Grumach’s case was quite the opposite: Until the summer of 1959, his life was characterized by a motionlessness that was rather rare at this time. Furthermore, although the central questions and the main challenges in his academic life were similar to those faced by the majority of his intellectual milieu, Grumach’s career was neither typical nor represen­ tative, and was marked by some incredible strokes of luck as well as a few highly unpopular choices. This may explain why he has received relatively little scholarly attention to date.6 4 Interest in intellectuals in exile already began in the immediate post-war period when, in 1953 and at the suggestion of the Society for the Protection of Science and Learning, Norman Bentwich published his book The Rescue and Achievement of Refugee Scholars. The Story of Displaced Scholars and Scientists 1933–1952, which was devoted mainly to Jewish refugees from the Nazi regime. Since then, the body of studies addressing various aspects of this subject has grown exponentially. See e. g. Steven E. Aschheim, Beyond the Border. The German-Jewish Legacy Abroad, Princeton, N. J./Oxford 2007; Marianne Hassler/Jürgen Wertheimer (eds.), Der Exodus aus Nazideutschland und die Folgen. Jüdische Wissenschaftler im Exil, Tübingen 1997; Alexander Stephan (ed.), Exile and Otherness. New Approaches to the Experience of the Nazi Refugees, New York/Oxford 2005. 5 From the many biographies of German Jewish migrants and refugees, this study draws on those which concerned themselves with people in Grumach’s intellectual circle. See e. g. Eckart Mensching, Über einen verfolgten deutschen Altphilologen. Paul Maas 1880–1964, Berlin 1987; Natan Sznaider, Jewish Memory and the Cosmopolitan Order. Hannah Arendt and the Jewish Condition, Cambridge, Mass., 2011; Noam Zadoff, From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back. Gershom Scholem between Israel and Germany, Jerusalem 2015 (Heb.). 6 Some information on Grumach’s fate during the war can be found in the articles by Dov Schidorsky devoted to the Nazi looting of Jewish libraries. See e. g. idem, Confiscation of Libraries and Assignments to Forced Labor. Two Documents of the Holocaust, in: Libraries & Culture 33 (1998), no. 4, 347–388; idem, The Library of the Reich Security Main Office and Its Looted Jewish Books Collections, in: Libraries & the Cultural Record 42 (2007), no. 1, 21–47. Furthermore, there are two articles dealing with Grumach’s academic work in post-war Germany. Both of these studies contributed substantially to my research. However, neither of them consulted two important primary sources which are included in this paper, those being the documentation kept in the Ernst Grumach Personal Collection in Jerusalem and the papers from the collection of the Bertolt Brecht Archive at the Akademie der Künste in Berlin. See Günter Wirth, Ernst Grumach. Universalgelehrter von internationalem Rang und Zeitzeuge sui generis, in: Hochschule Ost. Leipziger Beiträge zu Hochschule und Wissenschaft 1/2 (1999), Leipzig 1999, 106–130; Bodo Plachta, Ernst Grumach und der “ganze Goethe,” in: Roland S. Kamzelak/Rüdiger Nutt-Kofoth/Bodo Plachta (eds.), Neugermanistische Editoren im Wissenschaftskontext, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2011, 219–250.

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This article presents Grumach’s unique position as an opportunity to expand our understanding of the variability of German Jewish experience in the first half of the twentieth century. While existing studies of German Jewish exiled scholars have focused on the condition of leaving, fleeing, or returning to Germany and the impact of the new and unfamiliar surroundings on the intellectual production of these academics on the move, Grumach’s biography draws attention to the opposite predicament – to those who stayed in Germany and witnessed its most dramatic transformations from within. The article focuses precisely on the life circumstances of such a “non-migrant” scholar as well as on his intellectual response to these circumstances as evident in the development of his academic work and interests. What were the main factors that influenced his path through the Nazi and then Communist regimes? How were they translated into his relations with German and German Jewish circles? How did they transform his scholarship? Relying entirely on archival documentation, this article offers an intellectual portrait devoted to the lived and intellectual spaces of Grumach’s life in Berlin in Nazi and postwar Germany.7 As opposed to a few available studies that deal solely with the wartime or the post-war period in Grumach’s life, I here purposely insist on examining them together, not only because the latter cannot be properly understood without its wartime context, as reflected in the mysterious episode of June 1959, but also because this perspective allows me to demonstrate that his biography in fact offers an alternative path of exile, not necessarily rooted in geographical changes or physical displacement. Mapping this path is the main purpose of the article.

Between Königsberg and Berlin: Early Years Ernst Grumach grew up in the rather open world of an assimilated, liberal, and well-educated Jewish family in East Prussia (Fig. 1). He was the third 7 This article is based mainly on the vast correspondence which Grumach kept carefully throughout his life. After his death, these letters, as well as some other family documents, were donated by Grumach’s daughter to the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People (henceforth CAHJP) in Jerusalem, where they are currently held as the Ernst Grumach Private Collection. To reconstruct further details in his biography, I also consulted several archives in Berlin, including the Landesarchiv, Archiv der BerlinBrandenbur­gischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Centrum Judaicum, the archives at the Humboldt­Universität and the Akademie der Künste, as well as the Deutsches Literatur­ archiv in Marbach and the digital collections of the Library of Congress in Washington, D. C. Finally, some of my questions were answered by Grumach’s daughter, Professor Irene Shirun-Grumach, with whom I conducted an interview in Jerusalem in 2016.

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child of Friederike Mendelssohn and Nathan Grumach, who ran a notary office in Tilsit near the Lithuanian border.8 His father passed away in 1908, when Grumach was a young child, and so he was raised solely by his mother, who had decided not to remarry. Although this put the whole family in a very difficult financial situation, Friederike managed not only to provide for her children but also to have all of them educated. Grumach attended Realgymnasium first in his hometown and then in Königsberg, where he befriended Hannah Arendt, who would become one of his few lifelong friends.9

Portrait of Ernst Grumach by W. Klein, 1946. The Edythe Griffinger Art Catalogue. © Leo Baeck Institute, New York.

Having completed a matriculation exam in 1921, Grumach enrolled in the Faculty of Law and Political Sciences at the University of Königsberg, but 8 9

On Grumach’s childhood and adolescence, see CAHJP, P205, files 1–6. See Hannah Arendt/Gershom Scholem, The Correspondence of Hannah Arendt and Gershom Scholem, ed. by Marie Luise Knott, Chicago, Ill./London 2017, 51 and 71.

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from the very first year he studied a variety of subjects including philosophy, classical philology, Egyptology, and ancient history, fully enjoying the academic freedom granted to students by the Weimar university system.10 Over the following eight years, he traveled a lot between Königsberg and other major German universities in Marburg, Freiburg, Leipzig, and Berlin, where he met his most important teachers, including Karl Jaspers, Paul Friedländer, and Martin Heidegger. The latter in particular – who was already a doyen of the Philosophy Department in Marburg (and later Freiburg)  – significantly influenced Grumach’s research interests, which centered at the time on classical philology as well as ancient Greek philosophy. His engagement with those areas of study resulted in a doctoral dissertation entitled Physis und Agathon in der Alten Stoa (Physis and Agathon in the Old Stoa) written under Richard Harder and submitted in 1929 to the Faculty of Philosophy at his alma mater.11 As recalled by Herbert Arthur Strauss, Grumach’s later student and friend, a great fascination with ancient Greece went hand in hand with his distant attitude towards Judaism, the particularity of which he considered something to be overcome rather than to be cherished, and which, in Grumach’s understanding, “had lost its raison d’être when it met with the classical roots of universal civilization, the Greeks and Hellenism.”12 A great advocate of the concept of melting the Jewish world into general culture, Grumach himself may be seen as a product of such a fusion. The great veneration for antiquity was a powerful phenomenon in German cultural and intellectual history, exerting a profound impact on the concept of “scholarly Bildung” at German universities.13 Against this backdrop, the very preoccupation with classical philosophy and philology, which was shared by many secular Jews, may be seen as an expression of their firm rootedness in

10 See Walter Rüegg (ed.), A History of the University in Europe, 4 vols., Cambridge 1992– 2011, here vol. 3: Universities in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (1800– 1945), Cambridge 2014, 3–74. 11 Richard Harder (1896–1957) was a classical philologist specializing in Greek epigraphy and known mostly for his translations of Plotinus. See Gerhard Schott, Richard Harder. Klassischer Philologe, erster Interpret der Flugblätter der “Weißen Rose”, und das “Institut für Indogermanische Geistesgeschichte,” in: Elisabeth Kraus (ed.), Die Universität München im Dritten Reich. Aufsätze, 2 vols., here vol. 2, Munich 2008, 413–500. 12 Herbert Arthur Strauss, In the Eye of the Storm. Growing Up Jewish in Germany, 1918– 1943. A Memoir, New York 1999, 158. Herbert Arthur Strauss (1918–2005) was a German Jewish historian and an author of a number of works on antisemitism and Jewish emigration under the Nazi regime in Germany. 13 On the impact of ancient Greece on German culture, see e. g. Damian Valdez, German Philhellenism. The Pathos of the Historical Imagination from Winckelmann to Goethe, New York 2014; Bas van Bommel, Classical Humanism and the Challenge of Modernity. Debates on Classical Education in 19th-Century Germany, Berlin/Munich/Boston, Mass., 2015.

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German culture.14 As revealed in the vast correspondence and multiple documents included in Grumach’s personal estate, he was hardly interested in the introspective examination of his Jewish origins, and definitely preferred to deal with broad academic questions concerning the Greco-Roman foundations of European civilization than to deliberate on his own condition of being a German Jew, or rather a Jewish German.15 However, when Grumach entered the realm of German academia, this very condition became both increasingly interesting and increasingly problematic for his academic milieu. Upon receipt of his doctorate, Grumach was hired for a part-time lecturing position at the University of Königsberg. From 1931 to 1933, he served as an instructor of Greek and Latin and as a scholarly assistant in the Institute of Classical Studies. Although remote from the intellectual life of Berlin and other centers of German Jewish culture, it might have been a rather typical beginning of an academic career. And yet, it was precisely at this time that being of Jewish descent, however irrelevant to Grumach himself, became an awkward predicament that filled his German colleagues with uneasiness and “distrust” – as it was put in 1931 by one of the members of his Latin classes when he came to know Grumach’s background.16 Only two years later, but under entirely different political conditions, what began as a rather symbolic exclusion from the academic community turned into an actual dismissal that put a quick end to the early years of Grumach’s academic career. Had Grumach already started at the periphery of German academia, he now found himself completely outside this realm. Almost immediately after getting married to his non-Jewish fiancée Margarete Breuer in early 1933, Grumach – as a scholar of “non-Aryan origin” – was hindered from teaching at the university by virtue of the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service (Gesetz zur Wiederherstellung des Berufsbeamtentums) adopted on 7 April 1933. In the first few months following his dismissal, Grumach was determined to regain his position. He sought help from his former professors and other faculty members, but to no avail, prompting him to consider emigration. It seems that he was looking first and foremost for a place where he would be able to develop his career without further ado and thus did not consider applying for a position at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where the Department of Classical Studies had been founded only a few years before, although Palestine had become an increas14 See Yaacov Shavit, Athens in Jerusalem. Classical Antiquity and Hellenism in the Making of the Modern Secular Jew, London 1999. 15 See CAHJP, P205, files 10, 11 and 13. 16 See ibid., file 20/2, Herman Luding to Friedel Schaller, 28 December 1931. On the development of the racial paradigm at German universities, see e. g. Lara Day/Oliver Haag (eds.), The Persistence of Race. Continuity and Change in Germany from the Wilhelmine Empire to National Socialism, New York/Oxford 2017.

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ingly popular destination, especially for academics of Zionist orientation.17 Grumach, however, was not a Zionist, and he had no strong connections to the Jewish academic milieu – neither in Germany nor in the Yishuv. Instead, he submitted numerous applications in the United Kingdom, the United States, and Turkey, all of which were rejected. Between 1933 and 1937, Grumach kept trying, unsuccessfully, to find a position abroad, while working in a family-owned bookstore in Königsberg. Although he lacked an academic affiliation at the time, Grumach was determined to continue his research, taking advantage of the bookstore in order to keep up with the cutting edge in the field of classical philology. Documentation from the store reveals that, despite rather serious financial troubles, he bought a lot of professional literature such as the latest Greek and Latin dictionaries, purchases with rather low market potential beyond the academic community.18 Deprived of any forum to share his ideas, Grumach developed them mainly in correspondence with his fellow scholars, which in the following years turned into his primary space of intellectual activity.19 Soon, this abstract realm of thought built with multiple correspondence partners became the only escape from his continuously shrinking world. While Grumach was able in his letters and essays to travel through epochs and lands of the ancient world, in reality escape from the dusty shop counter was a herculean task. His expulsion from the university was shortly followed by the closure of public spaces, including municipal institutions, coffee shops, and cultural events, as well as the increasing diminution of the private spaces to which German Jews were systematically pushed by Nazi policy.20 The experience of being stuck, confined, or even cut off from the rest of the world found its interesting manifestation in the development of Grumach’s academic interests. It was in this period, around 1934/35, when he became 17 On the history of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, see Toldot ha-universita ha-ivrit be-Yerushalaim [The History of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem], vol. 1, ed. by Shaul Katz and Michael Heyd, and vol. 2–3, ed. by Hagit Lavsky, Jerusalem 1997 and 2005– 2009. On the emigration of German Jewish intellectuals to Palestine, see e.  g. Claudia Sonino, German Jews in Palestine, 1920–1948. Between Dream and Reality, Lanham, Md., 2016; Hagit Lavsky, The Creation of the German-Jewish Diaspora. Interwar German-Jewish Immigration to Palestine, the USA, and England, Berlin/Boston, Mass./Jerusalem 2017. 18 See CAHJP, P205, files 8 and 9. 19 The Ernst Grumach Personal Collection contains numerous letters from the period from 1933 to 1941, in which Grumach discussed various research topics with his colleagues. These papers constitute a valuable and as yet unexplored primary source for classical philologists as well as historians interested in the development of the discipline. 20 For an interesting analysis of the spatial experiences of German Jews in Nazi Germany, see Guy Miron, “Lately, Almost Constantly, Everything Seems Small to Me.” The Lived Space of German Jews under the Nazi Regime, in: Jewish Social Studies 20 (2013), no. 1, 121–149.

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concerned with a new research topic. While previously occupied with the languages of the Anatolian peninsula, he now moved to an island – a space characterized precisely by a state of isolation – and engaged with the Minoan civilization on Crete, which became one of his major scholarly projects. For the next two years, he worked on the structure and composition of the Cretan writing systems, especially the Linear B script. However, his many attempts to publish results of this research bore no fruit.21 How peripheral and closed his private island was at that time, Grumach learned harshly in 1936, when the Royal Academy of Arts in London opened an exhibition of Arthur Evans’ excavation of Knossos. He was desperate to see the discoveries, but the new regulations of foreign exchange prohibiting currency exports of over 10 Reichsmark made his visit impossible, practically turning him into a prisoner in his increasingly unfamiliar homeland.22 Grumach had to wait many years for the opportunity to personally admire the archeological treasures from Knossos. Meanwhile, he lost his only livelihood as the Nazi authorities in Königsberg revoked his bookseller’s license. At that point, Grumach had literally nowhere to go; there were no opportunities left in his hometown.23 But then an unexpected offer of help came from Professor Otto Toeplitz, who in those years worked for the Reich Representation of German Jews (Reichsvertretung der Deutschen Juden).24 Toeplitz convinced the board of governors of the Higher Institute for Jewish Studies (Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums) in Berlin to hire Grumach as a lecturer at the Department of General Scholarship (Allgemeinwissenschaftliche Abteilung).25 Thanks to Toeplitz’s recommendation, Grumach managed to get away before his tiny island in Königsberg sank for good.

21 See e. g. CAHJP, P205, file 10, Richard Hartmann to Ernst Grumach, 22 October 1935. 22 Ibid., file 10, Ernst Grumach to Sir Arthur Evans, 2 September 1936. 23 For the history of Jews in Königsberg under the Nazi regime, see Stefanie Schüler-Springorum, Die jüdische Minderheit in Königsberg/Preußen, 1871–1945, Göttingen 1996, 295–360. 24 On the activity of the Reichsvertretung, see Salomon Adler-Rudel, Jüdische Selbsthilfe unter dem Naziregime, 1933–1939. Im Spiegel der Berichte der Reichsvertretung der Juden in Deutschland, Tübingen 1974. 25 Although the name was officially changed to Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in 1934, I use the original name Hochschule, which was preferred by its students and lecturers, and by which it is known today.

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Twice Saved and Twice Trapped in Wartime Berlin The Grumach family moved to Berlin in May 1937, three months after Ernst and Margarete had born their first and only child, Irene. An academic appointment at the Hochschule saved Grumach not only from extreme poverty but also from his intellectual solitude. In his first academic year in Berlin, he still managed to meet some of the most renowned and leading personalities of this institution, such as Ismar Elbogen, Eugen Täubler, Max Wiener, and of course Leo Baeck, who led the Hochschule in the last period of its exis­ tence. Through his transfer to Berlin, Grumach’s professional career came back onto the academic track for the first time in over four years. Grumach joined the Hochschule in a period of radical transition and final, if slow, decline. Originally established as a rabbinical seminary promoting the intellectual values of the Wissenschaft des Judentums, it underwent major changes in the late 1930s due to the implementation of discriminatory laws at German universities.26 After Jewish students had been barred from obtaining higher degrees, the board of governors decided to also include non-Judaic courses in the program of study, such as philosophy, general history, sociology, and classical philology, in the hope that the new curriculum would replace the university studies.27 This was probably the main reason why Grumach was offered a teaching position. Nevertheless, the Hochschule remained strongly oriented towards instruction of Jewish subjects, which were rather far from Grumach’s own scholarly interests. Within this framework, he had to settle for delivering mainly introductory courses to classical philosophy and serving as a language instructor. For obvious reasons, the new position was a significant advancement in his career, even though the best years of the Hochschule were already over. On the other hand, this new occupation prevented him from pursuing his previous research projects and from accumulating a record of original academic studies. Grumach therefore still hoped to find a more suitable position abroad. As with many other Jews in Germany, this hope turned to despair after the November Pogrom in 1938.28 As seen in his letter of 6 December 1938 to British archaeologist William Buckler, written a year and a half after his arrival in Berlin, Grumach did not feel safe anymore, but rather felt intellectually and physically trapped:

26 See Richard Fuchs, The Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in the Period of Nazi Rule. Personal Recollections, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 12 (1967), 3–31. 27 Ibid., 9 f. See also CAHJP, P205, file 14, the course schedules offered at the Hochschule in the academic years 1937 to 1941. 28 On the impact of November 1938 on German Jewry, see Raphael Gross, November 1938. Die Katastrophe vor der Katastrophe, Munich 2013.

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“I was called in [19]37 to a Berlin Jewish college as a docent for Classics and Egyptology. Now however I don’t see how it will be possible to keep up this position and to pursue my scientific work. […] All [my] work is now interrupted and our existence almost impossible, if I don’t succeed in finding some kind of temporary shelter […]. Under these circumstances excuse my asking, whether there is any possibility for me to come to England, […], and to find a place, where I could be of any help. […] Please excuse my troubling you with my affairs. I would not do it if any other way would be open to me.”29

However, no answer ever came and Grumach’s family stayed in Berlin, slowly resigning themselves to the situation. Since many of the senior academics managed to secure a position abroad or found other ways to leave Germany, Grumach soon became one of the major lecturers in his department. As previously during the most difficult moments in East Prussia, he appears to have sought relief from his predicament in the intellectual activity available to him. He kept teaching and delivering lectures, even under increasingly dangerous conditions and to a continuously shrinking audience. To once again quote Herbert Arthur Strauss: “I was a major beneficiary of Grumach’s scholarly teaching and took fifteen courses and seminars with him between 1939 and 1942, one third of my total load. […] Of Grumach’s formal courses and seminars, some records have been preserved. […] These notes reveal the painstaking preparations he had lavished on these lectures: I was his only student in the end. His philological, archaeological, and conceptual methods added up to mountains of detailed arguments – and all around us was barbarism!”30

Any potential impact of the Hochschule on Grumach’s relationship to Judaism remains unclear since the documents from his personal collection hardly touch upon this subject. However, some strong indication of such influence may be the fact that he and his Christian wife decided to raise their daughter in the Jewish tradition, even though it prevented them from obtaining the status of a “privileged mix marriage” and exposed both Ernst and Irene to the persecutions suffered by the “full Jews.”31 The question of why Grumach, although never interested in organized religion, chose to raise his child as a member of the Jewish community in Nazi-ruled Berlin leaves much room for speculation. Was it a sudden resurgence of interest in his Jewish origins? An act of spiritual

29 CAHJP, P205, file 10, Ernst Grumach to William Buckler, 6 December 1938. 30 Strauss, In the Eye of the Storm, 155 f. 31 Following the November Pogrom, mixed marriages were classified as “privileged” or “non-privileged” depending on whether or not their children were raised Jewish. For more on the “mixed” families during the Nazi period, see Marion A. Kaplan, Between Dignity and Despair. Jewish Life in Nazi Germany, New York/Oxford 1998, 74–93; Yfaat Weiss, Mikrei gvul al nisuim meoravim, bnei ta’arovet ve-chilul geza ba-historia ha-germanit [Marginal Cases. On “Mixed Marriages,” “Interracial Children,” and “Desecration of the Race” in German History], in: Historia. Ktav et shel ha-hevra ha-historit ha-israelit [Historia. Journal of the Historical Society of Israel] 6 (2000), 75–96.

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resistance to the Nazi regime? Or maybe an expression of a rather radical misinterpretation of the situation? Whatever the reason, it was not the only risky and puzzling decision he made at the time. While teaching at the Hochschule in the summer of 1941, Grumach secretly collaborated with an officer of the high command of the Wehrmacht, who sought his assistance in the translation of military documentation from Modern Greek.32 This episode of Grumach’s life is also hardly covered in his papers, since he did not want to leave behind any trace of this “interesting [yet] also dangerous” endeavor, which could have cost him and his family their lives.33 This unusual collaboration did not last for long, as in October of that year, when the first Jews were being deported from Berlin, Grumach was appointed to conduct forced labor at the library of the Reich Security Main Office (Reichssicherheitshauptamt; RSHA). The RSHA was established in 1939 by Heinrich Himmler, who combined the Sicherheitspolizei and the Sicherheitsdienst of the SS in a single institution responsible for targeting the opponents of the Nazi regime.34 The RSHA played a leading role in the persecution and murder of Jews as well as in antisemitic research on Jewish history and culture intended to legitimize Nazi racial policy.35 This research was conducted by Department VII, responsible for “ideological research and evaluation” and overseen by Franz Six and later by Paul Dittel.36 In order to facilitate the anti-Jewish scholarship, the department gathered various Jewish book collections that had been amassed in the storehouses of the department’s library in Eisenacher Straße 11–13 in Berlin. Until Grumach’s appointment in October 1941, the RSHA confiscated such a large quantity of materials from Jewish communities, educational institutions, and private collectors in Germany and occupied countries that the Nazi staff members of the library failed to even basically classify the loot. In order to transform piles of books into a usable library, Six demanded that the Reich Association of Jews in Germany (Reichs­ vereinigung der Juden in Deutschland; hereafter Reichsvereinigung) provide

32 See CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Max Wiener, 29 November 1945. On the Axis occupation of Greece, see Mark Mazower, Inside Hitler’s Greece. The Experience of Occupation, 1941–1944, New Haven, Conn./London 1993. 33 Ibid. See also CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Paul Maas, 30 November 1945. 34 On the RSHA, see Michael Wildt, The Spirit of the Reich Security Main Office, in: Totalitarian Movements and Political Religions 6 (2005), no. 3, 333–349. 35 See Carsten Schreiber, Generalstab des Holocaust oder akademischer Elfenbeinturm? Die “Gegnerforschung” des Sicherheitsdienstes der SS, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 5 (2006), 327–352. 36 Franz Alfred Six (1909–1975) was an SS-Brigadeführer and headed Department VII until 1943. Paul Dittel (1907–1976?) was trained as a historian and Anglicist and served as an SS-Obersturmbannführer. In 1943, he succeeded Franz Six as head of Department VII. On the Department VII library and its personnel, see Schidorsky, The Library of the Reich Security Main Office, 21–47.

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him with a group of Jewish librarians.37 This is how Grumach was transferred from the last center of Jewish higher learning in Germany to one of the major Nazi institutions devoted to anti-Jewish policy and scholarship.38 Again, the new appointment came to Grumach both as a rescue and a trap. Upon arrival in the library’s storehouses on 3 November 1941, he was assigned to serve as head of the group of eight forced laborers chosen to classify and shelve the looted volumes. Besides Grumach, the team included two of his colleagues from the Hochschule, Julius Lewkowitz and Manfred Gross, and five other Jewish scholars and men of culture from Berlin: Erich Guttmann, Israel Alexander, Berthold Breslauer, Jakob Mai and Erich Loewenthal.39 The main responsibility of the so-called Gruppe Grumach was to arrange books gathered at the library and to establish a bibliographical record of the holdings that would serve the Nazi researchers in their studies on Jews.40 Even though the Nazi members of the library lacked sufficient knowledge of the Hebrew language and Jewish history and were thus highly dependent in their work on the expertise of Jewish librarians, they treated them cruelly, threatening and often even beating the slowest members of the group. In fact, working conditions in the department resembled those of a concentration camp, with unlimited

37 On the relationship between the Reichsvereinigung and the RSHA, see Beate Meyer, A Fatal Balancing Act. The Dilemma of the Reich Association of Jews in Germany, 1939– 1945, New York/Oxford 2013. 38 On anti-Jewish scholarship in Nazi Germany, see Alan E. Steinweis, Studying the Jew. Scholarly Antisemitism in Nazi Germany, Cambridge, Mass., 2006; Dirk Rupnow, Judenforschung im Dritten Reich. Wissenschaft zwischen Politik, Propaganda und Ideologie, Baden-Baden 2011. 39 Julius Lewkowitz (1876–1943) was a former lecturer at the Hochschule and a rabbi at the Levetzowstraße Synagogue in Berlin. Manfred Gross (1918–1943) was a former lecturer of Hebrew and Bible at the Hochschule in Berlin. Erich Guttmann (1901–1943) was a former librarian at the Advisory Board for Popular Libraries in Lower Silesia (Beratungsstelle für das volkstümliche Bibliothekswesen der Provinz Niederschlesien) in Breslau. Israel Alexander (1886–1943) was a former rabbi in Berlin, who perished in Auschwitz. Berthold Bres­ lauer (1882–1948) was a former archivist at the Bleichröder House in Berlin. Jakob Mai, probably May, (1890–1943) perished in Auschwitz. Erich Loewenthal (1894–1944) was a scholar and editor, specializing in philology and the history of literature. 40 Shortly after the Grumach Group began working in the library, an additional group of Jewish laborers was brought to the department to deal with less intellectual jobs such as repairs, cleaning, and unloading and packing boxes of books. This group was headed by Max Schwarzwälder. For his testimony, see Yad Vashem Archives, item ID 3756431, file no.  80, Trial against Employees of the Gestapoleitstelle (Central Office) Berlin. Testimonies by Jewish Survivors and German Perpetrators from the Gestapo and the RSHA, 1953–1970, 34–36. On Jewish workers in the RSHA library, see Elisabeth Gallas, “Das Leichenhaus der Bücher.” Kulturrestitution und jüdisches Geschichtsdenken nach 1945, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2013, 30–36; Kerstin Schoor, Vom literarischen Zentrum zum literarischen Ghetto. Deutsch­jüdische literarische Kultur in Berlin zwischen 1933 und 1945, Göttingen 2010, 408–414.

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working hours, humiliating checkups, frequent insults, physical harassment, and the prevailing atmosphere of fear.41 On the other hand, as traumatic as work in the library was, it granted temporary protection from deportation to the concentration and extermination camps. Thus, while being trapped in the library and forced to work directly for the sake of his persecutors, Grumach nevertheless sought to take advantage of his position in order to save as many people as possible. Thanks to his efforts, his group increased in a short time from eight to 25 members.42 As Grumach recalled immediately after the war, the forced laborers were aware of the enormous value of the volumes that fell into their hands as well as of the unprecedented scope of the cultural plunder. Although the Jewish book collections gathered in Berlin were supposed to serve antisemitic scholarship, they actually testified to the unique richness and diversity of Jewish European culture: “Here were f. i. the former library of the Jewish Congregation of Berlin, the library of the Fraenkel Rabbi Seminary in Breslau, the library of the Lehranstalt für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin, the Congregation Libraries of Breslau, Gleiwitz, Hamburg, Munich, Warsaw, Vienna and many smaller Congregation and Lodge Libraries, a series of libraries of remarkable Jews which were beyond the frame of an ordinary private library, […]. A Jewish library of a volume and completeness was collected here as never reached in the world.”43

While working in the library, Grumach and the members of his group sought to salvage the confiscated books from destruction and to preserve them intact as a “central Jewish library” for future generations.44 Although their efforts often ended in failure, such as when a collection of exceptionally valuable Bibles was sent to the paper mill in spite of their desperate protests, this common mission became the foundation for unique friendships, and helped the members of the group to survive under those brutal conditions.45 Grumach invested all of his energy to keeping alive the people and preserving the books that had been placed in his care. He managed to do so for more than a year. However, in early 1943, his achievement started to crumble. In February that year, most of the Jewish librarians were deported to Theresienstadt and other 41 See CAHJP, P205, file 17a, Grumach’s Statement of 23 February 1954 before Berlin Notary, Dr. Alexander Coper. 42 Ibid. 43 Archives of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, NY AR194554/3/8/1400, Item ID 652081, A Report on Jewish Cultural Treasures and Their Part in the Educational Program of the AJDC, 29 June 1946. 44 Ibid. 45 CAHJP, P205, file 17a, A.  J. van der Leeuw, Gedächtnisniederschrift über die Besprechung am 3.  März 1960 mit Herrn Prof. Dr. Ernst Grumach in seinem Hause in Berlin-Wilmersdorf, Berliner Str. 60.

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locations. The only two left alive were Grumach and Berthold Breslauer, as both were married to non-Jewish women. They continued cataloging for a few more months with some new workers appointed by the authorities, until the order came in August 1943 to evacuate all the collections. At the end of summer, Grumach himself had to deconstruct the library he had established, which by then filled three large rooms in the building. His group removed the collections, divided them into separate boxes, and placed them on transports to several castles and shelters in Sudetenland and Silesia. Finally, toward the end of the year, on 23 November, the office in Eisenacher Straße, together with the majority of the remaining books, was destroyed during the Allied bombing of Berlin. However, even this large-scale destruction did not release Grumach from his assignment. He was forced to work at the library, preparing the rest of the books for transportation, until May 1945, when Soviet troops took control of the city. Although the last two years of the war brought Grumach so many traumatic experiences of helplessness, destruction, and death, including among his family members, it seems that the liberation, although longed for and expected, only escalated his sense of loss.46 For the first time in six years, having been twice saved and twice trapped in wartime Berlin, he was finally free, but the city seemed a completely different place than he had previously known. Grumach wrote about this tension between material persistence and human absence, and between the continuity and the feeling of acute strangeness in post-war Berlin, in one of his first letters after the war, to his colleague from the Hochschule Alexander Guttmann: “Our old Hochschule still stands. I looked for it during my first walk through the inner city following the battles. It looks a bit scratched and worn, but it is standing, and I was very moved as I stood before this sleek, gray house to which we are connected through so many memories. Of the large circle of people who once came and went here, hardly anyone is still alive. Dr. Lewkowitz, Alexander, Gross, Lehmann, and Stranz worked under my direction as part of a group of Jewish scholars and librarians that was deployed in a public office and was thereby especially protected. […] But fate soon caught up with them and all efforts to secure a reprieve or even to have them sent merely to Theresienstadt were for naught. […] Meyer Spanier, whom I lodged in our house […], took his own life together with his wife one day before he was due to be picked up, this is one of my worst memories. […] Arthur Spanier […] went to Holland and […] then there was no news from him anymore. […] Dr. Gescheit […] ended up in Buchenwald where he died under tragic circumstances. […] That is a terrible report and it was very difficult to write it down, but I had to convey to you the facts.”47 46 In 1943, Grumach lost his mother, who died in the Theresienstadt concentration camp, and one of his sisters, who perished in Auschwitz together with her husband. 47 CAHJP, P205, file 14, Ernst Grumach to Alexander Guttmann, 14 November 1945. Ale­ xander Guttmann (1904–1994) was a lecturer at the Hochschule prior to his immigration to America in 1940, where he became a professor of Talmud at the Hebrew Union College.

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Between East and West in Post-War Berlin Although freed from forced labor and Nazi persecution, Grumach’s everyday life in the immediate post-war months was still very difficult. Five years of war had left Berlin and its inhabitants in ruin. Large parts of the city were burnt out, choked in rubble, and devastated by the air raids, street fighting, and Soviet artillery. Further destruction was brought by the widespread plundering by starving civilians and Red Army soldiers. The crystallization of the four occupation zones also contributed to the overall tension and social destabilization. While great waves of refugees were constantly pouring into the city, the inhabitants lacked food, water, and a roof over their head. In this gloomy landscape, the situation of Jewish survivors seemed particularly tragic.48 Of the pre-war Jewish inhabitants of the city, only about 7,000 remained alive. Those were soon joined by people returning from the camps and various hiding places. Weak and traumatized, lacking relatives and friends, deprived of property, work, and good health, they were entirely dependent on welfare. The Grumach family suffered the same predicament. Under such circumstances, Grumach was fortunate to find new employment rather quickly, with the reborn Jewish community of Berlin, where he was responsible for establishing contacts with family members of the survivors and with foreign relief organizations.49 Simultaneously, he sought to gain for the community the recognition of the Allied military governments and to establish a local Jewish representation. It seems that both his wartime experiences and his work for post-war Jewish communal restoration brought Grumach closer than ever before to Jewish life and society. As recalled by his daughter, although he had never been interested in Jewish religious practices, attending the first post-war Rosh haShanah service in September 1945 was for him not only a historic but also a personally touching moment.50 However, the work for the Berlin community quickly led him to a twofold disappointment. First, as Grumach repeatedly reported in late 1945, he was struck by the unexpected indifference to the fate of German Jewish survivors which had been shown by Jewish organizations abroad in the first months after the war. He bitterly emphasized that Jews in Berlin were still lacking the most basic amenities such as food and warm clothing and were waiting in vain for

48 On Jewish survivors in post-war Berlin, see e. g. Atina Grossmann, Jews, Germans, and Allies. Close Encounters in Occupied Germany, Princeton, N. J./Oxford 2007. 49 On the post-war history of the community, see Jay Howard Geller, Jews in Post-Holocaust Germany, 1945–1953, Cambridge 2005; Michael Brenner, Nach dem Holocaust. Juden in Deutschland 1945–1950, Munich 1995. 50 Interview with Prof. Irene Shirun-Grumach, April 2016.

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someone to take interest in their predicament.51 Furthermore, the ongoing conflicts and developing power struggle between the representatives of the community filled him with even greater dismay. In his mind the new Jewish leaders cared mainly about their own “independence and fighting each other,” which was the main reason why the survivors struggled to restore their position.52 This led Grumach to give up his employment in the Jewish community by the end of October 1945. His dual disenchantment – first with the foreign Jewish organizations and second with the local Jewish community – finds its interesting counterpart in the stance he took on the restitution of Nazi-looted Jewish archives and libraries, in which he engaged simultaneously to his work in the Berlin community.53 In the documents Grumach wrote immediately after the war, he underscored the importance of keeping the rediscovered collections intact, and suggested that they should stay in Germany, as the legacy and property of the German Jews.54 However, after a few more months of working for the cultural reconstruction of the community, he admitted bitterly that: “The composition and quality of the community has changed in a frightening manner by comparison to earlier. There is little interest today for spiritual and cultural matters. The next distribution of supplies by the Joint is of more interest than the most beautiful Liebermann or Ury, which is understandable considering the dreadful plight of the time, and yet also bitter and painful for those who did not allow themselves to be robbed of their other disposition.”55

Thus, with all the reservations he had towards foreign Jewish organizations, Grumach proposed transferring the cultural treasures of German Jewry to the new centers of Jewish life in exchange for “the means for relief and upcoming emigration” of the Jewish survivors in Germany.56 He expected that in Berlin alone some two thirds of the post-war Jewish community members would leave the country within a few years.57 Interestingly, Grumach himself seems to have refrained from this idea, even though he considered 51 See e. g. CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Walter Breslauer, August 1945. See also ibid., file 17b, Grumach’s report on the wartime fate of German Jews (untitled), 3 March 1946. 52 CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Walter Breslauer, August 1945. 53 On Grumach’s involvement in the post-war restitution of Nazi-looted Jewish libraries see Anna Holzer-Kawałko, Jewish Intellectuals between Robbery and Restitution. Ernst Grumach in Berlin, 1941–1946, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 63 (2018), no. 1, 273–295. 54 See esp. CAHJP, P205, file 17b, Bericht über die Beschlagnahme und Behandlung der früheren jüdischen Bibliotheksbestände durch die Stapo-Dienststellen in den Jahren 1933–1945. 55 Ibid., file 21, Ernst Grumach to Franz Landsberger, 20 February 1946. 56 Ibid. 57 Ibid.

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the United States and the United Kingdom as more suitable places for his daughter’s upbringing.58 Still, he had significant doubts whether he would be able to successfully re-enter foreign academia, and, above all, to adapt himself to people that had not experienced the atrocities of war.59 He may have been waiting for an offer of help from abroad, but it remains unclear whether he actually received any formal invitation – based on the available archival materials, it may be assumed that his nomination was informally discussed at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.60 Palestine, however, had never been too desirable a destination to him. An indication that Grumach was not offered a foreign nomination might be the fact that he submitted an application for a position at the Humboldt University in Berlin as early as June 1946,61 even though in November the previous year he had still claimed that he “would prefer to keep [his] independence, rather than [to be involved with] a university controlled by the Russians.”62 This decision reflects the enormous complexity of the situation in which Grumach found himself after the war. On the one hand, following twelve years under a totalitarian regime, he was very sensitive to the attempts to curtail personal and intellectual freedom which he witnessed in the conduct of the authorities in the Soviet sector of Berlin, where, as he once stated, they quickly became “unbearable, and lost their reputation in a few weeks.”63 On the other hand, precisely because of the long period in which he had not been able to pursue his academic career, Grumach experienced the quite overwhelming recognition that he had already “lost too much time” and was very motivated to put his career back on the academic track.64 In 1946, Humboldt University was the only available academic opportunity, as there was no alternative in the western part of the city. There were also important practical considerations that should not be overlooked in this context: He had a family to provide for, no savings, and no employment after giving up his position at the Jewish community. Finally, it seems that, as was the case for many German Jewish survivors rescued by their German spouses, Grumach still felt a kind of special proximity

58 See e. g. CAHJP, P205, file 20/1, Ursula K. Arnsdorff to Ernst Grumach, 20 January 1946, and Victor Falkenhahn to Ernst Grumach, 22 April 1946. 59 See ibid., file 19, Ernst Grumach to Mr. Pinner, 6 January 1946. 60 Historical Archives of the Hebrew University, file 2276/1946, meeting protocols of the Committee for the Latin Language, 17 May 1946 and 18 August 1946. See also CAHJP, P205, file 19, Paul Jacoby to Hannah Blücher (née Arendt), 15 December 1945. 61 See Wirth, Ernst Grumach, 115. 62 CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Paul Maas, 30 November 1945. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid.

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to German society.65 Obviously, the Nazi regime and its wartime atrocities fundamentally altered the very foundations of the German Jewish world as he had known it, a fact that left him utterly brokenhearted. In the immediate post-war months, Grumach did speak very harshly about his surroundings: “The attitude of the German population is disappointing. Everywhere there is still hidden and open antisemitism, Jews are themselves partly to blame for not having learned anything from this experience. Add to this corruption on an unimaginable scale. It is madness to wish to conduct politics with this depraved people and to reinstall democracy in double-quick time. […] [There should be] no politics, no parties, no talk, [only a] slow readjustment to peaceful, constructive, patient work and to the old inner values, at least for fifty years, until a new generation has grown up.”66

However, it was precisely his taking up a position at a German university after the war, especially when considered in relation to a quite unexpected turn in the development of his academic interests, that appears as an act of “peaceful, constructive, patient work” for “the old inner values”, in which he apparently did not cease to believe, unlike political engagement. His university application was approved in 1949, probably thanks to the recommendation of Professor Wolfgang Schadewaldt, one of his former colleagues at Königsberg University, who also introduced Grumach as a leader of the research group working on the new edition of Goethe at the East German Academy of Sciences. Shortly after accepting his academic nomination, Grumach published his first book, Goethe und die Antike (Goethe and Antiquity), which offered a collection of all classical themes, metaphors, and poetic allusions in Goethe’s writings. This sudden thematic shift may of course be understood as a strategic step motivated by the East German cultural politics of 1949, which was dominated by the celebrations of the bi­centenary of Goethe’s birth, and as an endeavor undertaken in order to reinforce his position at the Academy of Sciences.67 Nonetheless, it may also be seen as an expression of Grumach’s relation to post-war Germany and German society. While emphasizing the continuous presence of the Greco-Roman world in the works of one of the most important German-language writers, this book appears as a dual attempt at establishing continuity between pre- and post-Nazi Germany as well as at restoring the “old inner values” of German culture. In light of the radical reinterpretation of classical antiquity that had been promoted by the Nazis in order to support their totalitarian re-

65 For more on this subject, see for example Ursula Büttner, Not nach der Befreiung. Die Situation der deutschen Juden in der britischen Besatzungszone 1945 bis 1948, Hamburg 1986. 66 CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Paul Maas, 30 November 1945. 67 On the significance of Goethe in the GDR, see Daniel J. Farrelly, Goethe in East Germany, 1949–1989. Toward a History of Goethe Reception in the GDR, Columbia, S. C., 1998.

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gime, Goethe und die Antike offered a rehabilitation of the classical motifs abused by Nazi cultural propaganda, presenting a very different and no less powerful German reception of antiquity.68 Furthermore, when seen from the standpoint of a German Jewish scholar, this book appears as an act of restoring both the classics to German culture and German culture itself to its post-war participants. Goethe’s broad œuvre held a special significance in German general and German Jewish culture, representing for generations of German Jewish intellectuals the world of enlightenment and universalism, which they might fully enjoy and participate in.69 The Holocaust proved no less than an earthquake for this shared universe and constituted the ultimate moment of crisis for the very concept of a German Jewish symbiosis, which was highly debated among survivors.70 While many radically re-evaluated the history of German Jewry and revolted “Against the Myth of the German-Jewish Dialogue,”71 Grumach chose the opposite course of action: He personally engaged in a textual encounter with German heritage and looked for those elements that remained familiar, unaffected, and pure. As one may learn from his correspondence of 1945, it was in Goethe that Grumach found those continuities already during the war and who became his shelter from the distortions and malformations of German cultural heritage after 1933. Goethe was also one of the few German authors whom Grumach kept studying in wartime Berlin and who significantly outgrew his other interests: “My Goethe library alone is today larger than my entire library was during our studies and I believe it could happen that I will one day give up all my other pursuits to spend the rest of my life reading Goethe.”72 This thought at least partially came true, as Goethe was to be his constant companion at the Academy of Sciences during the 1950s. From this perspective, Grumach’s work as an editor, which was motivated first and foremost by

68 See Bernard Mees, National Socialism and Antiquity, in: idem, The Science of the Swastika, Budapest/New York 2008, 111–134; Helen Roche, “Distant Models”? Italian Fascism, National Socialism and the Lure of the Classics, in: Helen Roche/Kyriakos Demetriou (eds.), Brill’s Companion to the Classics, Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, Leiden 2017, 3–28. 69 On the Jewish veneration of Goethe, see Wilfried Barner, Von Rahel Varnhagen bis Friedrich Gundolf. Juden als deutsche Goethe-Verehrer, Göttingen 1992; Klaus L. Berghahn/ Jost Hermand (eds.), Goethe in German-Jewish Culture, Rochester, N. Y., 2001. On the reception of Goethe among German Jewish exile scholars, see Caroline Jessen, Kanon im Exil. Lektüren deutsch-jüdischer Emigranten in Palästina/Israel, Göttingen 2019. 70 See Steven  E. Aschheim, Culture and Catastrophe. German and Jewish Confrontations with National Socialism and Other Crises, New York 1996. 71 See Gershom Scholem, Against the Myth of the German-Jewish Dialogue, in: idem, On Jews and Judaism in Crisis. Selected Essays, ed. by Werner  J. Dannhauser, New York 1976, 61–64. 72 CAHJP, P205, file 19, Ernst Grumach to Heinz Lichtenstein, 16 December 1945.

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his desire to deliver the most accurate version of Goethe’s writing, acquires additional significance that reaches far beyond methodological technicalities of textual criticism.73 The Goethe enterprise as proposed by Grumach aimed not so much at offering the readers just another, alternative version of wellknown writings, but was rather intended as a quite radical act of restoration of the German literary past, which would liberate the original voice of the poet “and deliver [it] to future generations in pure and brilliant form.”74 As Grumach noted in 1956, when a growing wave of virulent antisemitism drove hundreds of Jews to flee the GDR, this original voice had become increasingly necessary.75 Again, in the stifling political climate in East Germany, it was Goethe whose “spirit reaches us, admonishing, counseling, clarifying, comforting us in our dark time, in which ‘confusing dogma spurs the world into confused action.’”76 This very spirit may have enabled Grumach to “believe in continuity” – as Arendt put it during their first post-war encounter – and to envision the renewed and perhaps familiar Germany after the Holocaust. The following years, however, clearly proved that his vision drifted far away from Grumach’s real life in the divided Berlin.77 Although he was based in West Berlin, Grumach sought to stay as far away from any political unrest as possible, occupying an in-between space not only in a geographical but also in a political sense. This cautious attitude could be seen in his public conduct already in the late 1940s, when he was still very much involved in the cultural restitution of Jewish libraries but often insisted on cloaking his role in secrecy. During the 1950s, when suspicion of and hostility toward Jews grew dramatically, Grumach became even more dedicated to keeping his life entirely in the private sphere, probably hoping that this would grant him more academic and personal freedom. His withdrawal from the public sphere and remaining in the gray area of non-participation must have helped him to maintain his unique position between the Western and Eastern parts of the city, which, though not yet divided by the wall, were growing ever more hostile to each other. However, this strategy came at a price. 73 See Plachta, Ernst Grumach und der “ganze Goethe,” 229. See also Ernst Grumach, Prolegomena zu einer Goethe-Ausgabe, in: Goethe. Neue Folge des Jahrbuchs der Goethe-Gesellschaft 12 (1950/1951), 60–88. 74 Ernst Grumach, Aufgaben und Probleme der modernen Goetheedition, in: Rüdiger Nutt-Kofoth (ed.), Dokumente zur Geschichte der neugermanistischen Edition, Tübingen 2005, 161. 75 See Mike Dennis/Norman LaPorte, State and Minorities in Communist East Germany, New York 2011, 28–60. 76 As cited in Strauss, In the Eye of the Storm, 164. 77 Hannah Arendt and Heinrich Blücher, Within Four Walls. The Correspondence Between Hannah Arendt and Heinrich Blücher 1936–1968, ed. by Lotte Kohler, transl. by Peter Constantine, New York 2000, 135.

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As opposed to the pre-1933 period in which Grumach led quite a rich social life, and even to the immediate post-war years when he managed to make some new contacts due to his work for the Jewish community, from the early 1950s onward his social circle shrank dramatically. The intellectual and cultural community that Grumach’s family had been part of either perished or moved together with thousands of German Jewish émigrés to Palestine or, more often, to the academic and literary salons of New York, Chicago, Cincinnati, and so on.78 While remaining outside the Berlin Jewish community and the circles of German Jewish survivors abroad, Grumach became extremely wary of making new acquaintances among his German colleagues. As recounted by one of his students, even those who did establish a more personal connection with Grumach usually did not know any details about his background and wartime experiences: “Hardly any of his students had heard the name Grumach before, and hardly anyone had […] read his Königsberg dissertation. Thus he stood before us one day, a small man, immaculately dressed, smoking fat cigars even early in the morning. He spoke in a manner that inspired confidence, without denying his East Prussian dialect. And yet there was much about him that remained secretive to us. We discovered: He was a Jew. How had he survived the bad times? Had he gone into hiding, emigrated? He did not speak about it, not even later, when we already had a genuine relationship of trust.”79

For obvious reasons, Grumach also did not participate in the intellectual circles of Jewish Communists as he had no illusions about the new political order in the building of which they were deeply engaged.80 However, his efforts to remain neutral and to avoid political troubles did not spare him from the interest of the state officials. As early as March 1953, in the middle of the investigations into the so-called Doctors’ plot then taking place in Moscow, Grumach was investigated by the officials of the State Secretariat of Higher Education (Staatssekretariat für Hochschulwesen), with regard to the alleged connections of his close friend, Victor Falkenheim, and of Grumach himself to Zionist organizations.81 The investigation found no such connection; at some point it was even stated that Grumach “had always been an anti-Zionist

78 On German Jewish emigrants in the United States, see Gerhard Falk, The German Jews in America. A Minority within a Minority, Lanham, Md., 2014. 79 As cited in Plachta, Ernst Grumach und der “ganze Goethe,” 222. 80 On Jewish repatriates of Communist orientation in the post-war GDR, see Karin Hartewig, Zurückgekehrt. Die Geschichte der jüdischen Kommunisten in der DDR, Cologne/Weimar 2000; Ute Frevert, Jewish Hearts and Minds? Feelings of Belonging and Political Choices among East German Intellectuals, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 56 (2011), 353–384; Moshe Zuckermann (ed.), Zwischen Politik und Kultur. Juden in der DDR, Göttingen 2002. 81 See Archiv der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Personalakte Ernst Grumach, G386 III, memo dated on 2 March 1953.

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and had always expressed [this stance].”82 This may have bought him some more time until the watchful eye of the authorities turned to him personally again a few years later, but this very watchfulness had already made the academic framework in which he had to operate increasingly restricted and uncomfortable. By late 1956, Grumach unexpectedly left the Humboldt University. An official request for the termination of his employment mentioned health problems and work overload as the main motivations behind his decision.83 The war had indeed left Grumach in a fragile health condition. And yet the fact that after his dismissal from the university he became engaged in a new and no less exhausting endeavor – as a member of the historical critical edition of Bertolt Brecht – suggests that there might have also been other reasons behind this decision. If he had been looking for more independence, he must have been greatly disappointed. In fact, Grumach’s two-year experience with the Brecht edition reflects very pertinently the increasing politicization and intellectual narrowing of the East German Academy, and marks the beginning of the end of his career in the Soviet sector. Grumach was offered to serve as an academic advisor to the Bertolt Brecht edition in November 1957, at the request of Brecht’s second wife Helene Weigel. After a month of negotiations with Hans Bunge, an assistant director at the Berliner Ensemble who managed the Bertolt Brecht Archive following his mentor’s death, Grumach not only accepted the offer, but also convinced Bunge to invite to the advisory board one of his colleagues from West Germany, Professor Friedrich Beißner.84 His initial correspondence with Bunge and Weigel reveals that he was quite enthusiastic about this new project.85 It soon became apparent, however, that the joint work was pragmatically impossible due to some fundamental differences between the advisory board and the research team in their approach to a suitable methodology and the general purpose of the edition. Some light on the main bones of contention between the scholars was shed by Gert Hillesheim, who participated in the last workshop Grumach attended on 10–11 April 1959 in the Bertolt Brecht Archive. In the report written during those days, Hillesheim noted:

82 Ibid. 83 See ibid., G386 I, Ernst Grumach to the Chancellor of the Humboldt University in Berlin, 10 December 1956. 84 Friedrich Beißner (1905–1977) was a professor of German language and literature at the University of Tübingen. 85 See e. g. Archiv der Akademie der Künste (henceforth AdK), Akademie der Künste (Ost), file AdK-O 4375, Bertolt-Brecht-Archiv, Korrespondenz zur Vorbereitung einer Histo­ risch-kritischen Ausgabe der Schriften Bertolt Brechts 1957, Ernst Grumach to Helene Weigel, 16 December 1957.

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“It became clear in the meeting that hardly any progress had been made since the last meeting of July 1958 with regard to a fundamental agreement concerning methodo­ log­ical questions on the historical critical Bertold Brecht complete edition between the members of the working group of the Bertold Brecht Archive on the one hand and the advisors, Prof. Grumach and Prof. Beissner, on the other, who appeared even more as oppositional figures. […] I could not overcome the impression that Dr. Bunge and the Bertold Brecht working group were at pains to underpin their editorial methods with abstract philosophical categories.”86

Other parts of this document reveal that Grumach was fighting to convince the other members of the workshop not to include a political dimension in their work. In his opinion, the most important task of an editor was to establish not a philosophical or ideological, but rather a philological framework of practical value for the engagement with Brecht’s writing. When his opposition to the “materialistic editorial methods”87 was eventually rejected, Grumach did not agree to withdraw from this stance and refused to sign his name on the edition.88 This request was apparently accepted, as Grumach’s name did not appear in later documentation related to this project. While working for the Brecht enterprise, Grumach must have realized that he would not be able to keep his unique “in-between” position for long, and thus began looking for a possible way out of his predicament. Significantly, he again became increasingly involved with Crete, picking up some of his ideas and studies from the 1930s. The island served now not only as an intellectual, but also as a real escape from the dense atmosphere of the divided city. Even before his fateful encounter with a military officer questioning him about the forced labor in the RSHA library, in early 1959 Grumach applied for the position of a corresponding member at the Academy of Sciences. However, his request was rejected, probably torpedoed by his co-researchers, as was his proposal to establish a new Cretan Department at the Academy.89 To Grumach’s mind, the main opposition came in particular from Professor Johannes Irmscher, one of the leading personalities of the Academy, but also an informal Stasi collaborator,90 who refused to agree to the idea “as long as 86 Ibid., file AdK-O 0319, Arbeitsberichte 1950–1962, Bericht über die Arbeitstagung im Brecht-Archiv vom 10. und 11. 4. 1959 und die vorhergehenden Diskussionen in der Ar­ beitsgruppe von Ernst Grumach über die Brecht-Ausgabe am 6. und 8. 4. 1959. 87 Ibid. 88 Ibid. 89 Plachta, Ernst Grumach und der “ganze Goethe,” 238. 90 On the cooperation between Irmscher and the State Secret Service, see Isolde Stark, Die inoffizielle Tätigkeit von Johannes Irmscher für die Staatssicherheit der DDR, in: Hal­ lische Beiträge zur Zeitgeschichte (1998), no. 5, 46–71; Andreas Wacke, Ost-West-Beziehungen rechtshistorischer und altertumswissenschaftlicher Fachvertreter nach dem Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs. Johannes Irmscher (1920–2000) als geheimer Informant für den Staatssicherheitsdienst der DDR, in: Orbis Iuris Romani 9 (2004), 245–267.

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there is a danger that Grumach will lead it.”91 Shortly after they discussed the matter, Grumach was visited by the mysterious official who was very much interested in his wartime whereabouts and relations with the Nazi persecutors. This sequence of events may explain why, even though he probably did not know about the cooperation between Irmscher and the State Secret Service, he was pretty sure that there must have been some connection between him and the two interrogations he was subjected to in the course of his work at the academy.92 The accuracy of his assumption aside, which cannot be established based on the available archival materials, it finally prompted Grumach to leave the Soviet sector for good. After more than two decades of living in Berlin, and a decade of struggling to keep it undivided for himself, Ernst Grumach finally gave up. His world suddenly shrank by half.

Lost on the Island: On Being at Home and Living in Exile However, this constriction did not last for long. At the end of a very turbulent summer, Grumach was finally free to leave for his favorite island and wrote to Arendt as follows: “In the autumn, I will be in Crete personally, and this time it was particularly necessary, partly in order to continue urgent work and partly to get away from here for once and not to hear about the ‘East-West conflict’ for a couple of weeks. Gretel [Grumach’s wife] must have told you that I gave up my position at the Academy in the summer, a very difficult decision due to the Goethe edition, which was however unavoidable. The transition was not easy. In the meantime, I received a long-term research job on Cretan epigraphy from a West German institution, exactly that of which I have always dreamed, so now I can concentrate in peace on my things without professional or teaching responsibilities and without the permanent political pressure.”93

Indeed, his disappearance from the political radar of the GDR opened much broader social, geographical, and intellectual horizons for Grumach. After having been trapped in so many metaphorical islands in his life – whether it meant the isolation and estrangement of the 1930s while remaining out of the academic world, the Jewish illusionary shelter provided by the Hochschule in the center of Nazi Berlin, the fragile community of survivors in 91 BBAW, file Wissenschaftliche Mitarbeiter no. 657, Report by Wolfgang Steinitz on the Interview with Ernst Grumach, 1 December 1959/7 December 1959. 92 Ibid. 93 Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Hannah Arendt Papers, General 1938–1976, Ernst Grumach 1950–1971.

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the RSHA library, or the struggle to retain personal freedom as a Western, non-Communist, Jewish scholar within the Communist state – it was coming to a real “foreign land” that granted him the opportunity to freely pursue his own academic interests and to take part in the international community of scholars. For the next seven years, his career, if outside the university gates, proved very intense nevertheless. Grumach continued publishing some more studies on Goethe together with his long-awaited epigraphic research – the same with which he had started his career in the early 1930s – while directing the international journal Kadmos devoted to the epigraphy of the ancient world. He stayed in the Western part of Berlin, but often lectured and travel­ ed abroad, mainly to Crete and the United Kingdom, until he unexpectedly passed away during one of his visits to London on 5 October 1967, a month before his 65th birthday. The diligence with which Grumach sought to ignore numerous borders, obstacles, and limitations imposed on him by the turbulent circumstances of his life is perhaps one of the most prominent characteristics of his biography and intellectual production. In fact, Grumach appears as a scholar strongly inclined to what would today be called interdisciplinary studies, or rather to this fundamental openness granted by the position of standing in-between: between epochs, cultures, and places. In his various research projects on antiquity, pre-Greek cultures, Goethe, and Crete, one may see a recurrent attempt to go beyond a customary division of the academic disciplines and to look for hidden roots and connections between historical and philological phenomena. Furthermore, this conclusion seems to be valid also with regard to Grumach’s stance on the Jewish and German components of his intellectual heritage, which he was trying to reconcile and harmonize (rather than separate or divide) within the broader framework of values shared by the universal community of intellectuals that Grumach believed in and aspired to be a part of. In light of this striking contrast between the reality of exclusion and ghettoization of German Jews on the one hand and Grumach’s aspirations on the other, his continuous interest in Crete not only seems to intertwine with his particular biography but also gains additional symbolic meaning for a whole generation of German Jewish scholars in the first half of the twentieth century, for whom the human condition of being-in-the-world – about which the majority of them probably learned in the lectures delivered by Martin Heidegger – was rather living-on-the-island, without any possibility of making their way into the intellectual centers on the mainland of German academy. This predicament was a precondition for the great exodus of scholars who managed to flee Germany or decided to rebuild their lives in new places after the war. At that point, Grumach’s biography  – while reflecting extremely well the complexity of the choices they had to make – shifted in an opposite

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and quite singular direction. Grumach happened to stay in his homeland, but, as shown by this article, he was equally far from feeling at home there. While oscillating between East and West in post-war Berlin, he desperately struggled to re-orientate himself both in the community of German Jewish sur­vivors and in the German academic milieu, but to no avail. His life clearly indicates that exile should not be treated exclusively as a geographical category, just as the condition of homelessness, unfamiliarity, and not-belonging is not necessarily connected to physical movement from one place to another. In learning of Grumach’s life-long journey from Königsberg to Berlin to Crete, one may understand that the relationship between being at home and being out of place is not a one-way path and should not be reduced to geographical considerations. Sometimes remaining in one place in a constantly changing world means no less significant a change than moving with it. Sometimes getting lost on the island means finding a home in the end.

Dubnowiana

Annette Wolf

Simon Dubnow und seine Kritiker: Die Rezeption der Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes in der Weimarer Republik Als Simon Dubnow im September 1922 nach Berlin umsiedelte, wo er gemeinsam mit seiner Frau Ida, geborene Frejdlin, die nächsten zehn Jahre seines Lebens verbringen sollte, schloss er umgehend mehrere Verlagsverträge ab. Diese ermöglichten ihm die Publikation seiner Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes gleichzeitig in vier Sprachen: deutsch, hebräisch, russisch und jiddisch. Im Rückblick lässt sich die Entscheidung, sein Lebenswerk gerade in Berlin zu publizieren, als eindrückliches Symbol lesen. Schon Dubnow selbst erschien dieser Umstand bemerkenswert. Im Mai 1925 resümierte er in seinem Tagebuch: »Auf meinem Tisch liegt ein elegantes Exemplar des eben erschienenen ersten Bandes der Geschichte in deutscher Sprache, zu dem der Titel Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes so gut paßt. Ein seltsames Schicksal! Ein halbes Jahrhundert nach dem Abschluß des Werkes von Graetz, führt ein Historiker aus dem Osten, den es in die Heimat seines Vorläufers verschlagen hat, dessen Werk fort […]. Die nächste Zukunft wird zeigen, wie meine häretische Geschichtskonzeption im Land der traditionellen Wissenschaft des Judentums aufgenommen werden wird.«1

Dubnows widersprüchlich anmutende Selbststilisierung als Nachfolger und Häretiker der graetzschen Tradition korrespondierte mit seinem Werk, das divergierende Einflüsse zusammenführte, und beeinflusste die Rezeption während der Weimarer Republik maßgeblich. Gerade die zehnbändige Weltgeschichte, Dubnows Opus magnum, das die nationaljüdische Selbstverwaltung in der Diaspora als inhärentes Prinzip jüdischer Geschichte herausstellte, unterschied sich hinsichtlich der Fokussierung auf das osteuropäische 1 Simon Dubnow, Buch des Lebens. Erinnerungen und Gedanken. Materialien zur Geschichte meiner Zeit, hg. im Auftrag des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts für jüdische Geschichte und Kultur von Verena Dohrn, 3 Bde., Göttingen 2004–2005, hier Bd. 3: 1922–1933, aus dem Russ. von Vera Bischitzky, Göttingen 2005, 104. Siehe zum dritten Band der Aufzeichnungen Dubnows und zu seiner Zeit in Berlin v. a. Verena Dohrn/Anke Hilbrenner, Einführung. Simon Dubnow in Berlin, in: Dubnow, Buch des Lebens, Bd. 3, 11–51; Karl Schlögel, Simon Dubnows Berliner Tagebuch, in: ders., Berlin Ostbahnhof Europas. Russen und Deutsche in ihrem Jahrhundert, Berlin 1998, 218–233, sowie Viktor E. Kelner, Simon Dubnow. Eine Biografie, aus dem Russ. von Martin Arndt, Göttingen 2010, bes. 459–525. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 521–547.

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Judentum vom Werk des damals unter deutschen Juden wohl meistgelesenen Historikers Heinrich Graetz (1817–1891). Indem Dubnow die jüdische Gemeinschaft als eine überzeitliche, räumlich nicht gebundene »geistige Nation« verstand und die Tatsache, dass sie über keinen Staat und kein fes­ tes nationales Territorium verfügte, nicht als Makel beklagte, sondern als kollektiv-historische Kulturleistung würdigte, grenzte er sich deutlich von der in der deutschsprachigen Wissenschaft des Judentums vorherrschenden »Leidens- und Geistesgeschichte« ab, wie sie Graetz zum Konzept erhoben hatte.2 In seinen Erinnerungen berichtet Dubnow über die Rezeption seiner Neuesten Geschichte des Jüdischen Volkes, deren dritter Band im Frühjahr 1923 in deutscher Übersetzung beim Jüdischen Verlag erschienen war. Heinrich Stern (1883–1951), Vorsitzender des Centralvereins deutscher Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens, sei mit einer »wütenden Rezension« über ihn »hergefallen«: »[J]ede Beleidigung, die dem deutschen Volke zugefügt« werde, treffe auch die deutschen Juden, und diese seien »nicht gesonnen […], die Fensterscheiben zu bezahlen, die ein Außenstehender einwirft – selbst wenn er Dubnow heißt«. »Der Rezensent«, so kommentierte Dubnow diesen Vorfall retrospektiv, habe allerdings erleben müssen, dass »nicht nur die Fensterscheiben in jüdischen Häusern zu Bruch gingen, sondern auch das gesamte Leben der jüdischen Bevölkerung Deutschlands zerstört wurde, ungeachtet ihres Patriotismus und deutschen Nationalismus«.3 Mit seinem Werk hatte Simon Dubnow so schon zu Beginn der Zwischenkriegszeit auf politische Umstände hingewiesen, die nachmals gerade für die Juden im mittleren und östlichen Europa eine stetig wachsende Gefährdung hervorriefen. Dass er mit seiner grundlegenden politischen Konzeption einer nationaljüdischen Autonomie unter den westeuropäischen Juden auf Vermittlungs-

2 Zur Diskussion um das von Salo  W. Baron kritisierte »lachrymose concept of Jewish History« siehe Michael Brenner, Nur eine Leidens- und Gelehrtengeschichte?, in: ders., Propheten des Vergangenen. Jüdische Geschichtsschreibung im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, München 2006, 87–93; zu Dubnows Geschichtskonzeption siehe Robert M. Seltzer, Simon Dubnow’s »New Judaism«. Diaspora Nationalism and the World History of the Jews, Leiden 2014; Grit Jilek, Nation ohne Territorium. Über die Organisierung der jüdischen Diaspora bei Simon Dubnow, Baden-Baden 2013; Anke Hilbrenner, Diaspora-Nationalismus. Zur Geschichtskonstruktion Simon Dubnows, Göttingen 2007; Simon Rabinovitch, The Dawn of a New Diaspora. Simon Dubnov’s Autonomism, from St. Petersburg to Berlin, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 50 (2005), 267–288; Jeffrey Veidlinger, Simon Dubnow Recontextualized. The Sociological Conception of Jewish History and the Russian Intellectual Legacy, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 3 (2004), 411–427; David H. Weinberg, Between Tradition and Modernity. Haim Zhitlowski, Simon Dubnow, Ahad Ha-Am, and the Shaping of Modern Jewish Identity, New York/London 1996. 3 Dubnow, Buch des Lebens, Bd. 3, 77.

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schwierigkeiten stoßen würde, hatte Dubnow durchaus erwartet. Schließlich entsprangen seine Überlegungen strukturell dem osteuropäischen Lebenszusammenhang eines multiethnischen und multireligiösen Russischen Reichs und orientierten sich an der jüdischen Autonomie in Polen-Litauen zwischen dem 16. und 18. Jahrhundert. Für die 1928 zum Druck vorbereitete deutschsprachige Neufassung der Neuesten Geschichte entwarf Dubnow dementsprechend ein Vorwort, in dem er einen Dialog zwischen den westeuropäisch-jüdischen Lesern und dem Autor imaginierte: »Gruppe der Leser: Wir können Ihnen nicht länger folgen. […] Ihre gesamte geschichtliche Konzeption gründet auf der Idee einer kontinuierlichen Entwicklung der jüdischen Nation bis auf den heutigen Tag, wir aber erkennen die Existenz dieser einen Nation, zumindest seit Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts, nicht an. […] Nach der Emanzipation, durch die wir in die bürgerliche Gesellschaft eingetreten sind, zählen wir uns zum deutschen Volk in Deutschland, zum französischen in Frankreich usw. […] Historiker: Wenn Sie mir auch weiterhin folgen, erfahren Sie alles über das Schicksal Ihrer Glaubensgenossen, aber auch vieles mehr […]. Sie werden die Genesis der eigenen Assimilation erkennen, was Sie möglicherweise nachdenklich stimmt. Sie werden die teilweise Erschlaffung des jüdischen nationalen Geistes zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts erkennen, aber ebenso dessen kraftvollen Aufschwung zu Beginn des 20.  Jahrhunderts.«4

Das Gesprächsangebot, das Dubnow hier unterbreitet, deutet darauf hin, dass sein historiografisches Werk neben dem intendiert polemischen und auf Differenz zielenden Gehalt auch Anknüpfungsmöglichkeiten und fruchtbare Anstöße für die deutsch-jüdische Geschichtswissenschaft bereitstellen sollte. Die Rezeption Dubnows in der Weimarer Republik zu untersuchen, bedeutet daher auch, die produktiven theoretischen Überlegungen in den Blick zu nehmen, die Dubnow mit seiner osteuropäischen Perspektive ebenjenen vornehmlich westlich-akkulturierten Lesern offerierte. Dabei fungieren »Ost« und »West« als kulturhistorisch aufgeladene, normative Metaphern, die in ihrem Kern zwar auf dichotome Lebenswelten verweisen, gerade in der hier vorzunehmenden Rezeptionsgeschichte jedoch hybride Strukturen erkennen lassen.5 Dies soll im Folgenden anhand von drei exemplarischen Rezeptionsprozessen erfolgen, die den Zeitraum von 1921 bis 1931 abdecken und je unterschiedliche Perspektiven auf das Werk Dubnows freilegen. Die Lektüren von Selma Stern (1890–1981), Ismar Elbogen (1874–1943) und Hanns Reißner (1902–1977) gehören zu den intensivsten Auseinandersetzungen mit Dubnows Weltgeschichte in der deutsch-jüdischen Presse jener Jahre. In den 4 5

Zit. nach Kelner, Simon Dubnow, 495. Siehe Dan Diner, Zweierlei Emanzipation. Westliche Juden und Ostjuden gegenübergestellt, in: ders., Gedächtniszeiten. Über jüdische und andere Geschichten, München 2003, 125–134; David A. Brenner, Marketing Identities. The Invention of Jewish Ethnicity in Ost und West, Detroit, Mich., 1998.

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maßgeblichen Fachzeitschriften erschienen, können sie eine repräsentative Bedeutung beanspruchen, zugleich setzen sie unterschiedliche thematische Schwerpunkte. Darüber hinaus wurde Dubnow, allerdings unter hauptsächlich politisch-pragmatischen Aspekten, in Martin Bubers kulturzionistischer Zeitschrift Der Jude rezipiert;6 nachfolgend soll es jedoch um Erkenntnisfragen der deutsch-jüdischen Historiografie in ihrer kritischen Beschäftigung mit dem Werk Dubnows gehen, sodass Debatten um jüdische Minderheitenrechte oder Autonomiefragen weitestgehend unberücksichtigt bleiben.7 Dabei erscheint es wie eine Pointe der Geschichte, dass die zentralen Schriften von Simon Dubnow, der schon unter seinen Zeitgenossen als eminenter Repräsentant des russischen Judentums galt, zuerst und damit häufig noch vor dem russischsprachigen Original in deutscher Sprache erschienen.8 Die unmittelbaren Reaktionen waren intensiv und oftmals irritiert; offensichtlich prallten hier verschiedene Zeitbewegungen und Geschichtsvorstellungen aufeinander, und dies in einer Zeit, die selbst einem rasanten Wandel unterworfen war: Der russländische Entstehungskontext der dubnowschen Schriften hatte sich durch die Revolutionen von 1917 bereits überholt und auch der Rezeptionszusammenhang in der Weimarer Republik, mithin zentraler Untergrund und Resonanzboden der deutsch-jüdischen Geschichtswis-

6

Siehe u. a. Bernard Tag, Nationale Ideologien im Judentum der Gegenwart, in: Der Jude. Eine Monatsschrift  2 (1917/18), H.  10–11, 665–670, und H.  12, 748–754; Abraham Schlesinger, Zur materialen und formalen Bestimmung des Nationaljudentums, in: Der Jude. Eine Monatsschrift  3 (1919/20), H.  4, 151–169; Albrecht Hellmann (Siegmund Kaznelson), Nationale Minderheitsrechte der Juden, in: Der Jude. Eine Monatsschrift 4 (1919/20), H. 11, 481–488; Leo Strauss, Soziologische Geschichtsbetrachtung?, in: Der Jude. Eine Monatsschrift 8 (1924), H. 3, 190–192. Auch affirmativere Bezugnahmen auf Dubnow wie die des Juristen und Schriftstellers Karl Lieblich (1895–1984) oder des in der zionistischen Bewegung aktiven Heinrich Margulies (1890–1989) können vor diesem Hintergrund nicht näher in Betracht gezogen werden. Siehe hierzu Christoph Manasse, Auf der Suche nach einer neuen jüdischen Identität. Der Schriftsteller Karl Lieblich (1895–1984) und seine Vision einer interterritorialen Nation, Köln/Weimar/Wien 2015; Vera Regine Röhl, »Es gibt kein Himmelreich auf Erden«. Heinrich Margulies – ein säkularer Zionist, Würzburg 2014. 7 Siehe hierzu Michael Brenner, Zurück ins Ghetto? Jüdische Autonomiekonzepte in der Weimarer Republik, in: Trumah. Jahrbuch der Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg 3 (1992), 101–127. 8 Israel Friedländer hatte bereits 1898 einen theoretischen Schlüsseltext von Dubnow ins Deutsche übersetzt: Simon Dubnow, Die jüdische Geschichte. Ein geschichtsphilosophischer Versuch, Berlin 1898. Friedländer besorgte auch die deutsche Übertragung einer Auswahl der 1905 in russischer Sprache erschienenen Briefe vom alten und neuen Judentum: Simon Dubnow, Die Grundlagen des Nationaljudentums, Berlin 1905. Die kleine Auflage dieser Schrift war schnell vergriffen. Siehe das Vorwort der Redaktion zu Simon Dubnow, Das alte und das neue Judentum, in: Der Jude. Eine Vierteljahresschrift 9 (1925– 1927), H. 3, Sonderheft: Judentum und Deutschtum, 32–57.

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senschaft, veränderte sich in der Krise und der Gefährdung der Demokratie selbst gravierend. So auseinanderstrebend sich die Entwicklung der ost- und westeuropä­ ischen Juden im 19.  Jahrhundert mit der zunehmenden Ethnifizierung auf der einen und der fortschreitenden Konfessionalisierung des jüdischen Selbstverständnisses auf der anderen Seite ausgenommen hatte, so bemerkenswert sind die Überschneidungen und Querverbindungen sowie die trotz aller Unterschiede parallelen Entwicklungen in Ost und West zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts. Zwischen dem alten Zentrum der jiddischsprachigen Diaspora im östlichen Europa und den neuen Zentren in New York, London, Paris und Palästina bildete Berlin einen zentralen Transit- und Vermittlungsort. Als Dubnow im Herbst des Jahres 1922 als Revolutionsflüchtling nach Berlin kam, befand sich die osteuropäisch-jüdische Migration gerade auf ihrem Höhepunkt. Er hatte damit teil an jenem russisch-jüdischen Berlin, das während der Weimarer Republik seine Glanzzeit erlebte und einen Ort vielfacher Verflechtung und Vermittlung darstellte.9 Der sogenannte Berliner Kreis, der mehrheitlich aus russischen Emigranten bestand, traf sich regelmäßig im Hause Dubnow und diskutierte dort Fragen der jüdischen Geschichte, Gegenwart und Zukunftserwartung. Beteiligt waren etwa Isaak Steinberg (1888–1957) und sein Bruder Aaron (1891–1975), Letzterer war einer der Übersetzer des dubnowschen Werks,10 sodann Ilja (Elias) Tscherikower (1881–1943), Jakob Lestschinsky (1876–1966), Leo Motzkin (1867–1933) und Viktor Jakobson (1869–1935). Zudem wurde 1919 in Berlin die erste Niederlassung der Jüdischen Volkspartei (JVP) gegründet, die sich an die 1906 von Dubnow in Sankt Petersburg gegründete Folkspartei anlehnte und ab den 1920er Jahren in den meisten deutschen Großstädten und in zahlreichen kleineren jüdischen Gemeinden vertreten war. Zweimal gelang es der JVP mithilfe von Koalitionen sogar, die Mehrheit in einer jüdischen Gemeinde zu stellen: 1926 in Berlin und 1928 in Duisburg.11 Neben dieser eher zeitgeschichtlichen Ebene ist es das Werk Dubnows selbst, das bereits als eine Synthese divergierender Kontexte angelegt war und seine Charakteristik durch den kontinuierlichen Perspektivwechsel zwi-

 9 Zur osteuropäisch-jüdischen Migration in der Weimarer Republik siehe Tobias Brinkmann, Topographien der Migration. Jüdische Durchwanderung in Berlin nach 1918, in: Dan Diner (Hg.), Synchrone Welten. Zeitenräume jüdischer Geschichte, Göttingen 2005, 175–198; sowie Anne-Christin Saß, Berliner Luftmenschen. Osteuropäisch-jüdische Migranten in der Weimarer Republik, Göttingen 2012. 10 Olaf Terpitz, Berlin als Ort der Vermittlung. Simon Dubnow und seine Übersetzer, in: Gertrud Pickhan/Verena Dohrn (Hgg.), Transit und Transformation. Osteuropäisch-jüdische Migranten in Berlin 1918–1939. Göttingen 2010, 114–135. 11 Siehe Michael Brenner, The Jüdische Volkspartei. National-Jewish Communal Politics during the Weimar Republic, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 35 (1990), H. 1, 219–243.

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schen produktiver Aufnahme und kritischer Abgrenzung von der deutschsprachigen Wissenschaft des Judentums und insbesondere der Historiografie von Heinrich Graetz erhielt.12 Simon Dubnow, der aus einer weithin bekannten Rabbinerfamilie stammte und sich der russischen Judenheit verpflichtet fühlte, hatte sich früh vom religiösen Judentum abgewandt und in seiner Jugend dem westlichen Positivismus und Rationalismus angehangen. Anke Hilbrenner weist darauf hin, dass vor allem das Verständnis des jüdischen Volkes als einer »plurale[n] transterritoriale[n] Nation in der Diaspora«  – mithin also die völlige Abwesenheit staatstheoretischer Paradigmen – Dubnows jüdischer Nationalgeschichte eine paradoxe Modernität verlieh.13 Sein Geschichtsverständnis vereinte zwei gegensätzliche zeittheoretische Axiome: eine evolutionäre Fortschrittserzählung als teleologische Konstante, insofern typisch für das 19. Jahrhundert und modern, sowie traditionell jüdische Motive von zyklischer Zeit, von Zerstörung und Rekonstruktion. Es ist diese Amalgamierung von westlich-modernen und traditionell-jüdischen, von individualistischen und kollektiven Bestandteilen, die Dubnows Geschichtskonzeption für die deutschen Juden der Zwischenkriegszeit relevant und kontrovers werden ließ.

Selma Stern – Deutsch-jüdische Emanzipationsgeschichten Schon kurz nachdem der Berliner Jüdische Verlag zwei von drei Bänden der Neuesten Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes. 1789–188114 veröffentlicht hatte, erschien 1921 in der Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums eine ausführliche Rezension von Selma Stern.15 Sie war eine der ersten promovierten Historikerinnen Deutschlands, seit 1920 bei der Berliner Akademie für die Wissenschaft des Judentums tätig, und würdigte Dubnow als Meister umfassenden Quellenmaterials und gewandten Erzähler. Zu12 Weitere historische Entwicklungen mögen für die Diskussion der dubnowschen Thesen in Westeuropa eine Rolle gespielt haben, etwa die Anerkennung des Zionismus durch die Balfour-Deklaration von 1917 und die Friedensverhandlungen von Paris, die die jüdischen Minderheitenforderungen für Osteuropa zum Gegenstand hatten und vor allem im neu entstehenden Polen und den baltischen Republiken erfolgreich waren, aber auch in der Tschechoslowakei oder Österreich Zugeständnisse für die jüdische Bevölkerung erzielten. 13 Hilbrenner, Diaspora-Nationalismus, 14. 14 Simon Dubnow, Die neueste Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes (1789–1914), 3 Bde., Berlin 1920–1923. Diese erschienen späterhin überarbeitet als die letzten drei Bände der Weltgeschichte. 15 Siehe Selma Stern, S. M. Dubnows »Neueste Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes« (Rezension), in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 65 (1921), 200– 210.

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gleich formulierte sie eine Kritik seiner ideengeschichtlichen Argumentation des Nationaljudentums und setzte dieser ihr eigenes Geschichtsverständnis entgegen.16 In Russland werde Dubnows Werk »von Gelehrten und Laien in gleicher Weise als eine Art nationalen Besitzes betrachtet«, begann Stern ihre Ausführungen. Dabei hob sie auf die besondere jüdische Tradition der Geschichtsbetrachtung ab: Indem jüdische Gelehrte ihre eigene Geschichte lesen und schreiben, suchen sie gleichermaßen »die Problematik der eigenen Seele zu verstehen«.17 Den Gegenwartsbezug und den Rekurs auf die Historiografie als Mittel zur Selbstverständigung erwähnte Stern hier nicht zufällig, denn nicht nur Dubnow, sondern auch sie selbst schrieb für ihre und in ihrer Zeit, die sie – diametral zu Dubnow – als eine Hochzeit der Emanzipation und der »deutsch-jüdischen Symbiose« verstand. Nur aus dieser engagierten Perspektive lässt sich ihre Einlassung zu Dubnow in ihrer ganzen Grundsätzlichkeit verstehen. So wird bereits nach einer äußerst knappen inhaltlichen Zusammenfassung der beiden Bände deutlich, worauf Sterns Kritik abzielte. Was sie als zweischneidiges Kompliment formulierte – »die Art, wie er das inhaltlich weit auseinanderliegende Material in fast mathematischer Einteilung unter einem einheitlichen Gesichtspunkt ordnet, hat etwas Imponierendes und Großes«18 –, enthielt schon den Kern ihres Unbehagens an dem Schematismus des dubnowschen Werks: »Wünscht man sich auch manchmal die gleichmäßige Fläche unterbrochen durch farbige Bilder und bunte Formen, wie man sich in der steifen Straße einer modernen Stadt nach den winkeligen Erkern und spitzen Giebeln mittelalterlicher Gäßchen sehnt […].«19

Es war dieses feste »philosophische« Prinzip, die Idee, nach der Dubnow in der Nachfolge von Hegel und Marx sein Material und seine Erzählung ausrichtete, die Stern im Folgenden als politische Gesinnung eines Nationaljudentums problematisierte. Dabei machte sie ihm zwei zentrale Vorwürfe: erstens eine tendenzhafte Betrachtungsweise und Übertragung der nationaljüdischen Konzeption auf die Vergangenheit und zweitens eine einseitige Methode, nämlich eine fast ausschließlich ideengeschichtliche Perspektive. Einige Überlegungen Dubnows leuchteten der Rezensentin zwar durchaus ein; etwa die Trennung zwischen dem Staat als formalem Bündnis und

16 Zum Werk und zur Biografie Sterns siehe Irene Aue-Ben-David, Deutsch-jüdische Geschichtsschreibung im 20.  Jahrhundert. Zu Werk und Rezeption von Selma Stern, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2017; Marina Sassenberg, Selma Stern (1890–1981). Das Eigene in der Geschichte. Selbstentwürfe und Geschichtsentwürfe einer Historikerin, Tübingen 2004; Apropos Selma Stern. Mit einem Essay von Marina Sassenberg, Frankfurt a.  M. 1998. 17 Stern, S. M. Dubnows »Neueste Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes«, 200. 18 Ebd., 202. 19 Ebd.

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der Nation als historisch gewachsener Zugehörigkeit sowie die damit einhergehende Definition der jüdischen Nation als kultureller Einheit unabhängig von politischer Selbstständigkeit. Jedoch würden diese Vorannahmen seine historische Urteilskraft insgesamt trüben. Dies führe etwa dazu, dass Dubnow »die kulturelle Emanzipationsepoche in Preußen in einem allzu spöttischen und leichten Tone« behandle. »Es ist doch nicht bloß Mode, Koketterie, geistiger Libertinismus gewesen, daß damals eine Reihe von Männern und Frauen sich völlig an die deutsche Kultur verloren. Sie ist vielen doch tiefe Herzenssache gewesen«, bemerkt Stern mit nur mühsam verhohlener Betroffenheit.20 Schließlich müsse auch bedacht werden, »daß diese Umwelt die Welt Schillers und Goethes, Lessings und Kants war, in die der Jude nach Jahrhunderten geistiger Absperrung plötzlich versetzt wurde«.21 Am Beispiel des Toleranzedikts von Joseph II. aus dem Jahr 1782 führte sie ihre grundlegende Kritik an Dubnows geschichtlicher Perspektive weiter aus. Er übertrage hier Vorstellungen eines Zusammenlebens unterschiedlicher Nationalitäten innerhalb eines Staatenverbandes fälschlicherweise auf den regulierenden Staat des aufgeklärten Absolutismus. So waren es zuvorderst methodische Kritikpunkte, die Stern im Verlauf der Besprechung herausstellte. Mit seiner Perspektive auf die »sozial-geistige Entwicklung des Volkes« sei Dubnows Ansatz dem von Graetz zwar bereits einen Schritt voraus, doch vernachlässige Dubnow wirtschaftliche, rechtliche und politische Faktoren. Genau diese multikausale Geschichtsbetrachtung einer »entsagungsvollen Kleinarbeit«, die »vielen verschlungenen Wegen« nachspüren müsse, skizzierte Stern dann in ihrem letzten programmatischen Absatz.22 Dabei lag ihre Emphase auf den Emanzipations- und Assimilationsprozessen der europäischen Juden, die für sie Erfolgsgeschichten darstellten und für die sie am Beispiel der preußischen Geschichte einige Schlaglichter aufzeigte. Hier gelte es, Wirtschafts-, Politik- und Kulturgeschichte zu verbinden, so Stern, etwa in der Frage, wie durch Bevölkerungsund Steuerpolitik die Juden finanziell in den preußischen Staat eingegliedert wurden, wie die Gemeindeautonomie und rabbinische Gerichtsbarkeit aufgelöst wurde oder wie der Wohlfahrtsstaat sich in Gesundheits-, Erziehungsund Sprachfragen einschaltete. Dubnow komme immerhin »das große Verdienst zu«, so resümiert die Rezensentin nicht unironisch, »uns den Blick geschärft zu haben für die ungeheure Fülle der Probleme, die der jüdischen Forschung noch harren«.23

20 Ebd., 206. 21 Ebd. 22 Ebd., 209. 23 Ebd., 210.

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Selma Sterns Anliegen implizierte allerdings einen Perspektivwechsel weg von der innerjüdischen Entwicklung hin zum allgemeinen sozialen und politischen Kontext, der im Titel ihrer 1920 begonnenen umfangreichen Untersuchung Der preußische Staat und die Juden bereits angelegt war. Hier suchte die Historikerin selbst, die in der Auseinandersetzung mit Dubnow benannten programmatischen Forderungen einzulösen. Wie sie in der Rückschau betonte, verfasste Stern das Werk unter dem Eindruck einer Zeit, »in der an eine Wiedergeburt des Judentums aus dem Geiste und mit den Mitteln der modernen Wissenschaft und an eine sinnvolle Symbiose von Deutschen und Juden geglaubt werden konnte«.24 Dementsprechend untersuchte sie den rechtlichen, wirtschaftlichen und kulturellen Prozess der Eingliederung der Juden in den preußischen Staat und das damit sich wandelnde jüdische Selbstverständnis. Assimilation und Emanzipation verstand Stern dabei als notwendige und fortlaufende Aufgaben der Juden in der modernen Welt. Während »Jud Süß«, dem sie eine 1929 fertiggestellte Studie widmete, jedoch noch an den politischen Umständen seiner Epoche scheitern musste, sah sie in ihrer eigenen Zeit die notwendigen Voraussetzungen für eine erfolgreiche Emanzipation als gegeben an. Damit knüpfte Stern auch an das geschichtswissenschaftliche Paradigma an, das Eugen Täubler (1879–1953), der Gründungsdirektor der Akademie für die Wissenschaft des Judentums und Sterns späterer Ehemann, im Sinn hatte: Neben einer Professionalisierung der jüdischen Wissenschaft, die zu einer Etablierung des Faches an den Universitäten führen sollte, ging es ihm insbesondere um die Erforschung der deutsch-jüdischen Geschichte als Beziehungsgeschichte, um die Geschichte einer Minderheit, deren Geschicke durch den Kontakt zur Mehrheitsgesellschaft maßgeblich bestimmt wurden.25 Die im Jahr 1892 von dem Historiker Markus Brann (1849–1920) wiederbelebte und in ihren Ursprüngen auf Zacharias Frankel (1801–1875) zurückgehende Monatsschrift, in der Sterns Rezension erschien, spielte in diesem Zusammenhang eine prägnante Rolle. Sie war seit ihrer Begründung im Umfeld des Breslauer Rabbinerseminars eines der zentralen Foren der deutschsprachigen Wissenschaft des Judentums. Drei Jahre nach der ersten Besprechung druckte die Redaktion noch einen kurzen Nachtrag von Selma Stern zum inzwischen publizierten dritten Band der Neuesten Geschichte

24 Dies., Der preußische Staat und die Juden, 7 Bde., Tübingen 1962–1971, hier Bd. 1: die Zeit des Grossen Kurfürsten und Friedrichs I, Abt. 1: Darstellung, Tübingen 1962, XII (zuerst 1925). 25 Zu Täubler siehe Heike Scharbaum, Zwischen zwei Welten. Wissenschaft und Lebenswelt am Beispiel des deutsch-jüdischen Historikers Eugen Täubler (1879–1953), Münster 2000; David N. Myers, Eugen Täubler. The Personification of »Judaism as Tragic Exist­ ence«, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 39 (1994), H. 1, 131–150.

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Dubnows.26 Darin verschärfte sie ihre Einwände gegen Dubnows Ansatz und Methode: Obwohl mit seinem Werk nun »der erste Versuch einer zusammenhängenden, modernen jüdischen Geschichte überhaupt« vorliege, vermisse sie  – »noch schmerzlicher als früher, weil die Probleme für uns brennender geworden sind«  – eine organisch verknüpfte Geschichte des »Judenproblems« mit den unterschiedlichen Aspekten gesellschaftlichen Lebens. Im Mittelpunkt sieht sie die Frage nach einer »sachlichen Begründung« des Antisemitismus und einer Erläuterung seiner abweichenden Erscheinungsform in der neueren Zeit und seines Wandels von einem primär religiös motivierten zum rassistischen Antisemitismus. Sie schließt mit der Bemerkung: »Man bedauert, wie schon früher, daß der Verfasser alle historischen Probleme an der eigenen nationaljüdischen Einstellung mißt« und »das schmerzensreiche Problem ›Deutschtum und Judentum‹« damit abtue, dass die deutschen Juden »Diener einer fremden Kultur« gewesen seien.27 Die Kränkung, die in dieser Wendung Dubnows für Stern lag, wird deutlich, wenn man sich ihr Verständnis der deutsch-jüdischen Errungenschaften vor Augen führt: Deutschland war für sie ja gerade keine »fremde Kultur«, sondern galt ihr folgerichtig als Teil des Eigenen. In ihrem 1961 verfassten Vorwort zur Neuauflage des ersten Teils von Der preußische Staat und die Juden betonte sie, dass ihre »Ahnen während vieler Jahrhunderte aus Gebot und Gebet, aus Thora und Talmud ihren Gott« in diesem Land erfahren hätten und es ihnen als »Haupt und die Prinzessin der Judenheit« galt.28 Dass gerade seine Neueste Geschichte, die bis zum Jahr 1914 reicht und damit nah an die Gegenwart herankam, bei seinen »deutschen Kollegen« nicht nur auf Zustimmung treffen würde, hatte Dubnow bereits gemutmaßt, doch empfahl er den westeuropäischen Juden, ihr »Dogma« anhand seiner nationalen Geschichtsschreibung einer »neuerlichen Prüfung zu unterzie-

26 Selma Stern, S. Dubnow, Die neuste Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes, 3. Bd. (Rezension), in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums  68 (1924), H.  4–6, 177 f. 27 Ebd., 178. 28 Dies., Der preußische Staat und die Juden, Bd. 1, Abt. 1, XII. Siehe in diesem Sinne auch die Literaturschau Adolf Kobers (1879–1958), Rabbiner und Mitherausgeber der Zeitschrift für die Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland, der in seiner Auseinandersetzung mit Dubnow beklagte, dass es für diesen keine eigenständige Geschichte der deutschen Juden gebe: »Für ihn ist die Geschichte der deutschen Juden lediglich ein Teil der ganzen Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes.« Wer wie Dubnow die Geschichte ausschließlich vom Standpunkt der »Autonomie« bewerte, so Kober, könne folgerichtig der »Mendelssohnschen und nachmendelssohnschen Epoche« keine historische Gerechtigkeit widerfahren lassen. Ders., Aus der neuen und neuesten Literatur zur Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland, in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 74 (1930), H. 2, 81–94, hier 81 f.

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hen«.29 Im Grunde ließe sich aus heutiger Sicht sogar argumentieren, dass Sterns persönliche und professionelle Entwicklung nach dem Muster dieses von Dubnow geforderten Wandels verlief. Wie viele deutsche Juden wandte sich auch Stern im Laufe des Ersten Weltkriegs, der die Hoffnung auf volle Anerkennung als gleichberechtigte Staatsbürger enttäuscht hatte, verstärkt dem Judentum zu.30 Im November 1918 schrieb die aus einer bildungsbürgerlichen Arztfamilie stammende, damals 28-Jährige in ihr Tagebuch: »Noch habe ich im Judentum keine Heimat, aber ich gehöre auch nicht mehr ganz dem Deutschtum an. Ich habe plötzlich keine Lust mehr, in der deutschen Geschichte zu arbeiten.«31 Ihre Dissertation hatte Stern über den rheinischen adligen Revolutionär Anacharsis Cloots geschrieben. Der Wechsel an die säkulare Akademie, die nachmalige zentrale akademische Einrichtung der deutschsprachigen Wissenschaft des Judentums, nur zwei Jahre nach dem Ende des Ersten Weltkriegs mag in diesem Sinn als folgerichtiger Schritt erscheinen.32 Selma Stern hat diese Entwicklung im Rückblick selbst kommentiert. Rund vierzig Jahre später reflektierte sie ihr damaliges Erkenntnisinteresse und die sich verändernde Motivation, die ihre Arbeit an der deutsch-jüdischen Geschichte speiste: »Hatte ich bis dahin geglaubt, daß die Emanzipation so wenig aufgehoben werden könnte wie das Recht, das Gesetz und die Verfassung des Staates, in der sie verankert war, so zeigte mir nun die ›geschehende Geschichte‹, daß meine Arbeit, die ein dringendes Anliegen der Gegenwart hätte klären und dem lebendigen Leben dienen wollen, ihren eigentlichen Sinn verloren hatte, nachdem das lebendige Leben vernichtet worden war.«33

Nach der Flucht ins amerikanische Exil ließ sich an die Vorstellung von einer Befreiungsgeschichte, von einer fortschreitenden Bewegung hin zum Besse-

29 Vorwort zur neuen deutschen Ausgabe, in: Simon Dubnow, Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes, 10 Bde., Berlin 1925–1929, hier Bd. 8: Das Zeitalter der ersten Emanzipation, aus dem Russ. übersetzt von Aaron Zacharovich Steinberg, Berlin 1928, 5. 30 Siehe Eva  G. Reichmann, Der Bewußtseinswandel der deutschen Juden, in: Werner  E. Mosse/Arnold Paucker (Hgg.), Deutsches Judentum in Krieg und Revolution 1916–1923, Tübingen 1971, 511–612. Siehe auch Sarah Panter, Jüdische Erfahrungen und Loyalitätskonflikte im Ersten Weltkrieg, Göttingen 2014. 31 Zit. nach Aue-Ben-David, Deutsch-jüdische Geschichtsschreibung im 20.  Jahrhundert, 36. 32 Siehe zur Akademie Michael Brenner, Art. »Akademie für die Wissenschaft des Judentums«, in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig hg. von Dan Diner, 7 Bde., Stuttgart 2011–2017 (nachfolgend EJGK), hier Bd. 1, Stuttgart 2011, 20–22. 33 Stern, Der preußische Staat und die Juden, Bd. 1, Abt. 1, XII.

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ren, nicht mehr anknüpfen,34 doch hielt Stern immerhin daran fest, dass das damalige Gespräch zwischen Deutschen und Juden eine »reale Möglichkeit« gewesen sei. Im Bewusstsein, »Zeugin einer zerstörten Welt zu sein«,35 wurde ihr Hauptwerk, ja ihre gesamte Arbeit de facto zu einem trauernden Abgesang, zu einer Dokumentation enttäuschter Hoffnungen. Die energische Auseinandersetzung mit Dubnows Thesen Anfang der 1920er Jahre hatte in tragischer Vorausnahme schon auf die zentrale Justierung dieser geschichtspolitischen Annahmen Selma Sterns hingedeutet. Simon Dubnow selbst bezog sich im siebten Band der Weltgeschichte, in der er die preußische Geschichte behandelte, sehr positiv auf sie. Mit Blick auf eine Geschichte der deutschen und österreichischen Juden im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert galt ihm unter anderem Sterns Edition preußischer Quellen als »einer der ersten verheißungsvollen Schritte auf diesem Gebiete«.36 Obwohl beide sich in ihrer Arbeit aufeinander bezogen und zur selben Zeit in Berlin arbeiteten, kam es jedoch nie zu einem persönlichen Austausch.37

Ismar Elbogen – Religiöse Wirkmacht und säkulare Geschichtsschreibung »Wenn irgendeiner, ist Simon Dubnow dazu berufen, eine neue jüdische Geschichte zu schreiben«,38 formulierte Ismar Elbogen 1926. Das graetzsche Werk habe zwar zu seiner Zeit eine neue Epoche in der jüdischen Geschichtsschreibung eingeleitet, müsse inzwischen jedoch als überholt gelten. Elbogen, 1874 in Schildberg (heute Ostrzeszów) in der Provinz Posen ge34 »Es ist zu viel geschehen, wir haben zu viele Menschen verloren und zu viele Werte […] als daß man wieder anfangen könnte, wo einmal der Faden abgeschnitten worden ist.« Brief von Stern an Margarete Horovicz, 21. Oktober 1945, zit. nach Sassenberg, Selma Stern (1890–1981), 40. Siehe zum Wandel von Sterns Geschichtsauffassung auch Christhard Hoffmann, Zerstörte Geschichte. Zum Werk der jüdischen Historikerin Selma Stern, in: Frauen und Exil. Zwischen Anpassung und Selbstbehauptung, hg. im Auftrag der Gesellschaft für Exilforschung/Society for Exile Studies von Claus-Dieter Krohn u. a., München 1993, 203–215. 35 Stern, Der preußische Staat und die Juden, Bd. 1, Abt. 1, 215. 36 Dubnow, Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes, hier Bd. 7: Die Geschichte des jüdischen Volkes in der Neuzeit. Die zweite Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts und das 18. Jahrhundert, aus dem Russ. übersetzt von Aaron Zacharovich Steinberg, Berlin 1928, 513. 37 Davon geht Irene Aue-Ben-David aus. Siehe dies., Deutsch-jüdische Geschichtsschreibung im 20. Jahrhundert, 107, bes. Anm. 365. Im Tagebuch Dubnows wird Selma Stern nicht erwähnt. 38 Ismar Elbogen, Zu S. Dubnows Geschichtswerk (Rezension), in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 70 (1926), H. 3, 145–155, hier 145.

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boren, lehrte von 1899 bis 1902 am Collegio Rabbinico Italiano in Florenz sowie von 1902 bis 1938 an der Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin und floh 1938 in die Vereinigten Staaten. Als herausragende Persönlichkeit unter den Gelehrten der jüdischen Geschichte während der Weimarer Republik »verkörperte er in seiner Person die Synthese von moderner historisch-kritischer Wissenschaft und Weltoffenheit mit einem ungebrochenen religiösen Traditionsbewusstsein«.39 Auch Michael A.  Meyer betonte die Ausnahmeerscheinung dieses Gelehrten in einer an bedeutenden Wissenschaftlern und Intellektuellen reichen Epoche: »No scholar was more central to the development of Jewish studies in Germany in the early twentieth century than Ismar Elbogen.«40 1913 erschien Elbogens Werk Der jüdische Gottesdienst in seiner geschichtlichen Entwicklung, das sich auf die Pionierarbeit von Leopold Zunz aus der Gründungsphase der Wissenschaft des Judentums im frühen 19. Jahrhundert bezog und den Hauptgegenstand seiner eigenen Arbeit abbildete: die jüdische Liturgiegeschichte. Elbogen gehörte zu Dubnows gelegentlichen intellektuellen Gesprächspartnern in der Berliner Zeit. Im Frühsommer 1924 gründete Dubnow gemeinsam mit anderen russisch-jüdischen Intellektuellen die Jüdische Wissenschaftliche Vereinigung, die er als Zusammenschluss der »osteuropäischen Emigration« verstand, und die als Diskussionsplattform fungieren sollte. Bald schon schlossen sich ihr jedoch auch deutsch-jüdische Gelehrte an, die  – so berichtet es Dubnow in seinen Erinnerungen  – von der Idee eines solchen Zirkels begeistert waren und darauf drangen, »sie rasch in die Tat umzusetzen«.41 Zu ihnen gehörten neben Ismar Elbogen der Leiter der Orientalischen Abteilung der Preußischen Staatsbibliothek Gotthold Weil (1882–1960) sowie der Rabbiner und Historiker Simon Bernfeld (1860– 1940).42 Die Gruppe existierte weniger als ein Jahr und wurde von ihren 39 Christhard Hoffmann, Jüdische Geschichtswissenschaft in Deutschland 1918–1938. Konzepte, Schwerpunkte, Ergebnisse, in: Julius Carlebach (Hg.), Wissenschaft des Judentums. Anfänge der Judaistik in Europa, Darmstadt 1992, 132–152, hier 136. Siehe zu Elbogen auch Michael A. Meyer, »Without Wissenschaft There Is No Judaism«. The Life and Thought of the Jewish Historian Ismar Elbogen, Ramat Gan 2004; Herbert A. Strauss, Das Ende der Wissenschaft des Judentums in Deutschland. Ismar Elbogen und Eugen Taeubler, in: Hartmut Walravens (Hg.), Bibliographie und Berichte. Festschrift für Werner Schochow, München 1990, 280–298; Erwin Rosenthal, Ismar Elbogen and the New Jew­ ish Learning, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 8 (1963), H. 1, 3–28. 40 Meyer, »Without Wissenschaft There Is No Judaism«, 5. 41 Dubnow, Buch des Lebens, Bd. 3, 91. Siehe zur Jüdischen Wissenschaftlichen Vereinigung auch ebd., 246. In den einschlägigen Lexika ist sie nicht verzeichnet, was der Kürze ihres Bestehens zuzuschreiben sein mag. 42 Siehe zu dem heute wenig bekannten Simon Bernfeld als Autor des Sefer ha-demaot (Buch der Tränen) und als Vermittler zwischen Wissenschaft und Öffentlichkeit Arndt Engelhardt, Arsenale jüdischen Wissens. Zur Entstehungsgeschichte der »Encyclopaedia Judaica«, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2014, 87–91.

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Mitgliedern in ironischem Anklang an Goethe »west-östlicher Diwan« genannt, »da das gesamte Komitee auf einem Diwan Platz fand«.43 Obwohl sie demnach weder besonders mitgliederstark noch langlebig war, verkörperte sie dennoch den Anspruch, den intellektuellen Austausch zwischen osteuropäischen und deutschen Juden zu befördern. Bei ihrem Gründungstreffen am 13. Juni 1924 betonte Dubnow den »in der Geschichte sich wiederholenden Austausch geistigen Potentials zwischen Ost- und Westjudentum« und er war sich zugleich sicher: Gegenwärtig kämen die Impulse der modernen jüdischen Wissenschaft, die ihren Ursprung in Deutschland hatte, aus Russland und Polen.44 In einer Sitzung der Vereinigung im Juli 1924 sprach Dubnow über seine »soziologische Konzeption« der jüdischen Geschichte. In seinen Aufzeichnungen notierte er darüber: »Gestern wikucha rabba (großer Disput) anläßlich meines Referats über die Geschichtskonzeption. […] Dutzende Opponenten – unsere wie auch ›Deutsche‹ – waren gekommen und hatten, wie sich herausstellte, vorbereitete Redebeiträge mitgebracht.«45

Bis auf Simon Bernfeld hätten die Anwesenden entschieden gegen seine Geschichtsauffassung argumentiert, woraufhin er die allgemeine Einführung zur deutschen Neuausgabe nochmals redigiert und im Hinblick auf mögliche Einwände ergänzt habe. Seine Entgegnung nach dem Vortrag, so Dubnow weiter, sei »emotional [gewesen] und machte offenbar Eindruck. Der Anstoß war gegeben, das Ferment ausgestreut«.46 Dieser Impulscharakter der wissenschaftlichen Tätigkeit von Simon Dubnow aus seiner Berliner Zeit muss durchaus in Betracht gezogen werden, wenn man die divergente Rezeption seiner Werke kontextualisiert. Ob Elbogen bei ebendieser Sitzung anwesend war, lässt sich nicht mit Sicherheit sagen, doch reagierte er 1926 ebenfalls in der Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums mit einer Rezension auf die gerade erschienenen ersten zwei Bände der Weltgeschichte. Dubnow wird hier als »Meister der Synthese«, als »Künstler des architektonischen Aufbaus« und als »lebendiger, geistvoller Darsteller« beschrieben.47 Elbogen hob vor allen Dingen Dubnows Leistung hervor, »als erster Jude den reichen Ertrag der altorientalischen Ausgrabungen in eine große Geschichtsdarstellung aufgenommen« zu haben. Doch liege, so merkte auch er kritisch an, im Ganzen zu viel Nachdruck auf der »Synthese« und zu wenig auf der »Analyse«, was zu Begriffsunklarheiten und Ungenauigkeiten führe. Zwei wesentliche 43 44 45 46 47

Dubnow, Buch des Lebens, 93. Ebd., 92. Ebd. (Hervorhebung im Original). Ebd., 93. Elbogen, Zu S. Dubnows Geschichtswerk, 145.

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Punkte machten die Rezension Elbogens aus, der nicht – wie zuvor Selma Stern  – die Geringschätzung der Emanzipations- und Akkulturationsgeschichte durch Dubnow kritisierte und doch seinen Einwand mit einer ähnlichen Grundsätzlichkeit vortrug: Er warf Dubnow eine Überschätzung des Nationalen und eine damit einhergehende Unterschätzung des Religiösen vor. Bemerkenswerterweise machte Elbogen also gerade die von Dubnow im Nachgang zur Juli-Sitzung in seinem Tagebuch mit Bedauern erwähnte Kritik an der Säkularisierung der jüdischen Geschichte hier stark.48 Das Werk Dubnows, so Elbogen, erinnere an »Aufklärungsliteratur«, mit der es »die Abneigung gegen die Anerkennung metaphysischer Kräfte im Weltgeschehen« teile. Dubnow zeige kein Verständnis für »die Wirksamkeit religiöser Kräfte im Judentum, damit aber für besonders wertvolle und geschichtlich ungemein stark fortwirkende Erscheinungen der ältesten Geschichte«.49 Sein grundlegender Irrtum liege darin, dass er die gesamte Sphäre des Religiösen ausspare und Konflikte aus dem religiösen Bereich durch solche aus dem nationalen oder politischen ersetze. Während Elbogen die »soziologische Betrachtungsweise« des Autors durchaus schätzte, sah er ihre Verknüpfung mit einer übermäßigen Betonung des Nationalen als hinderlich an. Wenn Dubnow davon ausgehe, dass die »stets lebenskräftige Nation« immer und überall für ihr autonomes Dasein kämpfe, dass das jüdische Volk kontinuierlich über autonome Gemeinden und zentrale Selbstverwaltungsorgane verfüge, dann gieße er »in die antiken Schläuche neue[n] Wein«. Er setze unzugehörige Begriffe gleich und wende zeitgenössische Bedeutungen auf ältere Phänomene an, woraus sich falsche Kausalitäten ergäben. Elbogen argumentierte gleichermaßen begriffsgeschichtlich, wenn er betonte, dass sich der Bedeutungsgehalt von »Autonomie« und »Nationalität« im Verlauf der Geschichte stark gewandelt habe, und er versuchte, auf Differenzierungen hinzuweisen, die er bei Dubnow vermisste: »Geschichtlich betrachtet liegen die Dinge doch so, daß innerhalb des Imperium Romanum wohl die Einzelgemeinden Autonomie hatten, aber nicht die Judenheit als Ganzes, während in Mesopotamien umgekehrt die Judenheit als solche wohl eine Autonomie besaß, aber nicht die einzelne Gemeinde.«50

Darüber hinaus stelle Dubnow religiöse Konflikte als politische dar, ja deute sie ins Nationale um: »Für die Pharisäer gingen die Interessen der Nation 48 Als eine zeitgenössische Stimme zum Zusammenhang von jüdischer Geschichtserfahrung und Säkularisierung siehe Max Wiener, Jüdische Religion im Zeitalter der Emanzipation, Berlin 1933. 49 Elbogen, Zu S. Dubnows Geschichtswerk, 147. 50 Ebd., 148. Siehe auch Elbogens begriffsgeschichtlichen Beitrag: ders., Die Bezeichnung »jüdische Nation«. Eine Untersuchung, in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 63 (1919), H. 2, 200–208.

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denjenigen des Staates voran« – heißt es bei Dubnow. »[E]ine prachtvolle Formulierung«, kommentiert Elbogen, »nur ist es sehr unwahrscheinlich, daß die alten Pharisäer sie verstanden hätten.«51 Zuletzt ging Elbogen auf Periodisierungs- und Übersetzungsfragen ein und in einem kurzen Nachtrag, den er – wie zuvor schon Selma Stern – nach Erscheinen des dritten Bandes dem Text noch anfügte, verschärfte auch er seine Kritik an Dubnows Einteilung der jüdischen Geschichte. Wenngleich Dubnow im Gegensatz zu Graetz zwar recht damit habe, dass die Periodisierung der jüdischen Geschichte sich nach »national-gesellschaftlichen« und nicht nach »religiösen oder literatur-geschichtlichen« Kategorien zu richten habe, lasse sich dies in der historischen Entwicklung nicht einlösen: »Es wird immerhin noch geraume Zeit erforderlich sein, bis der Leser der Geschichte sich unter der ›Epoche der zwei Hegemonien‹ sich [sic] wird ebensoviel denken können wie bisher unter talmudischer und geonäischer Epoche«,52 mokierte sich Elbogen. In einem Punkt setzte er sich allerdings von Selma Sterns Kritik ab: Im Politischen seien die wirtschaftlichen und sozialen Aspekte bei Dubnow im weitesten Sinne aufgehoben; eine Vernachlässigung dieser Bereiche sah er nicht gegeben. Elbogens Kritik war keine Ablehnung der dubnowschen Geschichtserzählung als solcher, im Gegenteil: Aus ihr spricht überall die große Wertschätzung, die er dem Verfasser trotz unterschiedlicher Annahmen entgegenbrachte: »Einem so einzigartigen Phänomen wie das jüdische Volk nun einmal ist, in seiner ganzen langen Geschichte mit einer einzigen Formel gerecht werden zu wollen, heißt die Quadratur des Zirkels zu lösen; sie hat den Vorzug der Konsequenz, scheitert aber an den Tatsachen. So wird man Dubnows grandiosem Bau seine Anerkennung zollen, wenn man auch an der Auffassung mancherlei auszusetzen hat.«53

Dass Elbogen darüber hinaus Dubnows säkularen Anspruch an die jüdische Geschichte auch als einen fundamentalen Angriff auf die deutsch-jüdische Historiografie verstehen musste, ergibt sich zudem aus der Tradition und dem Selbstverständnis der Wissenschaft des Judentums, der er sich verpflichtet fühlte und die bis weit hinein ins 20. Jahrhundert auf eine deutliche Verbindung von Theologie und Historiografie setzte. Mit Leopold Zunz, Isaak Markus Jost und Moritz Steinschneider hatte es zwar innerhalb der Wissenschaft prominente Vertreter gegeben, die für eine Emanzipation von der Theologie plädierten, doch hatte dies – anders als bei Dubnow – stärker der Methode als den unmittelbaren Gegenständen der Geschichtsschreibung ge-

51 Ders., Zu S. Dubnows Geschichtswerk, 151. 52 Ebd., 153 f. 53 Ebd., 153.

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golten. Insbesondere das YIVO führte diese Abgrenzung Dubnows von der »spirituellen« Wissenschaft des Judentums weiter und forcierte eine »materielle Wende«.54 Bei Elbogen scheinen über dieser zentralen Frage der Rolle der Religion die Analogien zu verblassen, die in den Ansätzen beider Autoren durchaus aufscheinen: Die Synthese, die Dubnow gerade auch mit Blick auf die Stärkung eines »lebendigen Judentum[s]« anstrebte, entsprach jener Forderung, die Elbogen wiederholt als Ziel der Wissenschaft des Judentums formuliert hatte. Der Sinn eines eigenständigen Fachs für die Erforschung jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur und eben nicht einer Eingliederung in die verschiedenen bereits etablierten Disziplinen könne sich nur aus dem Verständnis ergeben, dass »das Judentum aller Zeiten und Länder eine Einheit« bilde. Was der Bezeichnung ihre definitorische Berechtigung gebe, sei »die Wissenschaft vom lebendigen, im Strom der Entwicklung stehenden Judentum als soziologischer und geschichtlicher Einheit«.55 Elbogens bereits erwähnte Überzeugung, dass, wenn überhaupt jemand, dann nur Simon Dubnow dazu berufen sei, eine neue jüdische Geschichte zu verfassen, verweist zugleich auf einen grundlegenden Zweifel an Gesamtdarstellungen zu einem so umfänglichen Thema wie der jüdischen Universalgeschichte: Kaum ein einzelner Gelehrter sei dazu imstande, »eine wissenschaftlich fundierte Geschichte der Juden allein zu schreiben«. Sie erfordere eine so umfassende Kenntnis von den unterschiedlichsten Zeiten, Ländern, Kulturen und Sprachen, »daß nur einem Universalgenie eine volle Beherrschung des Stoffes zugetraut werden kann«. Obzwar Elbogen den Vorzug darin erkennt, dass in einem Werk »eine Auffassung, ein Stil« vorherrscht, so sei »kaum zu vermeiden, daß unter der Vielseitigkeit des Stoffes die Originalität leidet«.56 Elbogen selbst wollte diese Aporien durch eine mehrbändige jüdische Weltgeschichte von verschiedenen Autoren methodisch umgehen. Dieses Vorhaben konnte jedoch vor dem Krieg nicht mehr realisiert werden und wurde durch diesen und durch die Vernichtung des europäischen Judentums Makulatur.57 In der Festschrift zu Simon Dubnows 70. Geburtstag veröffentlichte Elbogen bezeichnenderweise den Aufsatz Von Graetz bis Dubnow. Fünfzig Jahre jüdischer Geschichtsforschung, in dem er mit den beiden Historikern die Säulen ebenjener Einzelunterfangen historischer Großerzählungen benannte, deren Zukunft er selbst in wissenschaftlichen 54 Siehe hierzu David N. Myers, Art. »Geschichte«, in: EJGK, Bd. 2, Stuttgart 2012, 437– 450, bes. 448; Joshua M. Karlip, The Tragedy of a Generation. The Rise and Fall of Jewish Nationalism in Eastern Europe, Cambridge, Mass., 2013, bes. 78–91. 55 Elbogen, Ein Jahrhundert Wissenschaft des Judentums, Berlin 1922, 43. 56 Ders., Zu S. Dubnows Geschichtswerk, 145 (Hervorhebungen im Original gesperrt). 57 Siehe Brenner, Propheten des Vergangenen, 182; ders., An Unknown Project of a World Jewish History in Weimar Germany. Reflections on Jewish Historiography in the 1920s, in: Modern Judaism 13 (1993), H. 3, 249–267.

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Gemeinschaftsprojekten ausmachte. Elbogen argumentierte weiter, die Entwicklung von Graetz’ eher »ideologischer« hin zu Dubnows vornehmlich »soziologischer« Auffassung sei zeitgenössisch dadurch befördert worden, dass die Geschichtsforschung sich professionalisiert und den Quellen zugewandt habe und nunmehr in den Händen »von geschulten Fachmännern« liege.58

Hanns Reißner – Jüdische Geschichte im Kontext allgemeiner Geschichte Während Selma Sterns Rezension sich auf Dubnows dreibändige Neueste Geschichte bezog und Ismar Elbogen die ersten drei Bände der Weltgeschichte vorlagen, befasste sich Hanns Reißner 1931 in der Zeitschrift für die Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland mit dem inzwischen abgeschlossenen Werk.59 Der 1926 bei Friedrich Meinecke (1862–1954) über Mirabeau und seine »Monarchie Prussienne«60 promovierte Historiker und spätere Mitherausgeber des Lexikons des Judentums verfasste seine Kritik zehn Jahre nach der Selma Sterns und der zeitliche Abstand erlaubte ihm eine perspektivisch verschobene Kontextualisierung. Reißner floh 1939 vor den Nationalsozialisten nach Indien und emigrierte 1948 in die Vereinigten Staaten, wo er von 1965 bis 1977 als Fellow am New Yorker Leo Baeck Institute tätig war und unter anderem eine bis heute grundlegende Schrift über den liberalen jüdischen Journalisten und Rechtsgelehrten Eduard Gans publizierte.61 In erstaunlichem Maße wird an Reißners Rezension das Ende jener Periode deutlich, in der das Werk Dubnows entstand, ohne dass Reißner selbst schon Abstand zu dieser Zäsur hätte gewinnen können. Im Grunde zeigte er

58 Ismar Elbogen, Von Graetz bis Dubnow. Fünfzig Jahre jüdischer Geschichtsforschung, in: ders./Josef Meisl/Mark Wischnitzer (Hgg.), Festschrift zu Simon Dubnows siebzigstem Geburtstag (2. Tischri 5691), Berlin 1930, 7–23, hier 23. Die im Jüdischen Verlag erschienene Festschrift stellt sich als beeindruckendes Dokument einer verschiedene Wissenschaftstraditionen überwindenden Zusammenarbeit und der intellektuellen Mittlerfunktion Simon Dubnows dar. 59 Hanns Reißner, Dubnows »Weltgeschichte des Jüdischen Volkes« (Rezension), in: Zeitschrift für die Geschichte der Juden in Deutschland 3 (1931), H. 1, 1–18. Für Reißners Namen kursieren unterschiedliche Schreibweisen, hier wird im Fließtext diejenige der Rezension von 1931 verwendet. 60 Hanns Reissner, Mirabeau und seine »Monarchie Prussienne«, Berlin/Leipzig 1926. 61 Hanns Günther Reissner, Eduard Gans. Ein Leben im Vormärz, Tübingen 1965. Siehe zu Reißner Catherine Epstein, A Past Renewed. A Catalog of German-Speaking Refugee Historians in the United States after 1933, Cambridge 1993, 258–264.

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die rasche Abfolge zweier Umbrüche auf, von denen der erste maßgeblich die Grundlagen für Dubnows Weltgeschichte legte und der zweite dessen Rezeption bestimmte. Neue sozioökonomische und kulturelle Bedürfnisse, das sich wandelnde historische Bewusstsein sowie wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Fortschritte in den letzten Jahrzehnten des 19. Jahrhunderts hätten, so der Autor, für die Juden im östlichen Europa gerade auch in Abgrenzung zu Heinrich Graetz eine neue Geschichtsschreibung notwendig gemacht. Dubnow schrieb ausgehend vom und für das russische Judentum, »[e]iner Gruppe mithin, die – darin offenbart das Lebenswerk Dubnows die tiefe Tragik der ganzen jüdischen Gemeinschaft – heute bereits auseinandergesprengt ist und auf neue Fragen eine neue Antwort suchen muß«.62 Reißner gliederte seinen Text in vier klar abgegrenzte Fragen an das dubnowsche Werk. Sie betreffen das Verhältnis von jüdischer Nation und Gott, von Nation und Individuum, von jüdischer Nation und Nachbarnation sowie zuletzt das Verhältnis der Nation zu sich selbst. In Bezug auf den ersten Punkt, die Frage nach der Religion, nahm Reißner selbst eine klare Position ein und nannte markanterweise Leopold von Ranke und Friedrich Meinecke als seine Gewährsmänner: Der Historiker müsse eine »›Vereinigung von religiöser Ehrfurcht und kritischer Behutsamkeit, von metaphysischen und empirischen Motiven‹« anstreben – so zitiert er aus Meineckes Idee der Staatsräson in der neueren Geschichte. Dubnow jedoch lehne dies als »theologische« oder »spiritualistische« Geschichtsschreibung ab. Dies sei auf den Einfluss des westlichen Positivismus, namentlich Auguste Comtes, zurückzuführen  – und dies nicht nur bei Dubnow, sondern bei einer breiten Schicht der jüdischen Intelligenzija im Vorkriegsrussland. »Die Nüchternheit und Gleichgültigkeit der russisch-jüdischen Vorkriegsintelligenz in religiösen Dingen wurde jedoch mehr als aufgewogen durch ihren heiligen Eifer in der Sache des Volkes«,63 bemerkte Reißner in einer scharfsinnigen Wendung. Dieses »weltliche Nationalgefühl« sei durch die bolschewistische Revolution kurz nach seinem Erstarken schon wieder überholt worden. Die Revolution habe die »geistigen Führer« der russischen Judenheit ins Exil gezwungen. Damit bezeichnet Reißner eine Generation, die, aus dem Ansiedlungsrayon kommend, eine säkulare Schul- und Universitätsbildung durchlaufen und ihren Geist an der westlichen Kultur geschärft habe; »das seelische Problem der ›Assimilation‹ jedoch kenne sie nicht. In der Tiefe ihres Gemüts sind sie Juden und nichts als Juden geblieben.«64 Reißner erklärte sich und seinen Lesern Dubnows Unverständnis für die religiöse Wirkmacht innerhalb des Judentums also mit einem Hinweis auf 62 Reißner, Dubnows »Weltgeschichte des Jüdischen Volkes«, 1. 63 Ebd., 3. 64 Ebd., 3 f.

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generationelle Erfahrungen. Ganz ähnlich wie Elbogen kritisierte auch er Dubnows Subsumierung unterschiedlichster Phänomene unter die Kategorie der Nation und die Überbetonung der jüdischen Autonomie: »Man kann eben nicht den Bundesschluss am Sinai willkürlich aus dem Volksbewusstsein ausschalten, ohne den ganzen Geschichtsverlauf innerlich unverständlich zu machen. Spürten wir nicht für uns, welche innere treibende Kraft in der jüdischen Geschichte waltet, so hätten wir aus Dubnows Darstellung nicht begriffen, wie die jüdische Gemeinschaft sich in zweieinhalbtausendjähriger Minderheitsstellung hat erhalten können. […] Weil sie Träger einer Idee war! Blutsgemeinschaft und religiöse Gemeinschaft, Volk, aber – ›Volk Gottes‹.«65

In Bezug auf das zweite Verhältnis – Nation und Individuum – warf Reißner Dubnow vor, dass er im Grunde genommen kein Individualist, sondern vollkommen auf die Idee einer Gemeinschaft, einer kollektiven Zugehörigkeit, fixiert geblieben sei, was dem »Prinzip seines eigenen Lebens« entspreche. Wenn Dubnow im zweiten Band mit Blick auf das Christentum ausführte, dass die neue Lehre dem »Seelenheil jedes Einzelnen« den Vorrang vor dem Kollektiv gebe, dabei aber vernachlässige, dass die Geschichte auch eine »kollektive Seele« auspräge, den um »seine freie Entwicklung kämpfenden Geist der lebendigen Nation«, unterstellte Reißner ihm, den »Terror« zu verteidigen, zu dem Gemeinschaften fähig seien. Zwar bezeichne Dubnow das Judentum als »eine nationale Religion mit einer universalistischen Potenz«, jedoch bleibe dies in seiner Geschichtsschreibung bloß eine leere Formulierung. Sein eigentliches Ideal sei es, »Sohn seines Volkes zu sein, ihm zu dienen, sich seiner Existenz aufzuopfern«.66 Reißner, der Dubnow in den frühen 1930er Jahren las, reagierte offensichtlich verstört auf den dort vorgefundenen »östlichen« jüdischen Volkskollektivismus in Geschichtserzählung und Geschichtsinterpretationen. Vor dem zeitgeschichtlichen Hintergrund dieser Lektüre, die in einer bedrohlichen Krisenzeit der deutsch-jüdischen Geschichte erfolgte, in der die Wahrnehmung des Jüdischen die Juden fast nur noch als einen kollektiv handelnden Akteur zeichnete, ihre je individuellen Ansichten und Überzeugungen dagegen keinerlei Bedeutung beanspruchen konnten, erscheint eine solche Verstörung durch das Werk Dubnows naheliegend. Im Weiteren betonte Reißner dann folgerichtig die immense Bedeutung, die den Beziehungen und Wechselwirkungen zwischen der jüdischen und anderen Nationen zukommt. Ausgehend vom Titel des dubnowschen Werks, formulierte er seinen grundlegenden Einwand, hätte man dies als »dessen Hauptinhalt erwartet«.67 Dafür spreche auch die Periodisierung Dubnows, 65 Ebd., 5 (Hervorhebung im Original gesperrt). 66 Ebd., 7. 67 Ebd.

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die sich auf die jüdischen Siedlungen in ihren jeweiligen Umgebungen beziehe  – und damit im Gegensatz zu Graetz stehe, der nach der geistigen und literarischen innerjüdischen Entwicklung gliedere. Dubnows Konzept der »wandernden Zentren«,68 nach dem er die jüdische Geschichte in die orientalische und die westliche Periode unterteilte, um diese dann wiederum topografisch weiter aufzufächern, schien ihm ein fruchtbarer Ansatz zu sein. Allerdings forderte er eine intensivere Darstellung der mannigfachen Anregungen, die die Juden aus ihrer jeweiligen Umgebungskultur erhalten hätten, sowie – komplementär dazu – eine historiografische Würdigung auch der »Ausstrahlungen jüdischen Geistes in der Welt«.69 Stattdessen habe Dubnow die diasporische Umwelt allzu negativ gezeichnet und sei von einem »wirklichen Verstehen-Wollen all dieser Weltkräfte weit entfernt«. Indes sei, so nahm er seine Kritik am Autor der Weltgeschichte schon wieder halb zurück, dies keine »persönliche Eigenheit« des Verfassers, vielmehr sei es dem »Albdruck der Pogromgegenwart«70 geschuldet, unter dem das Werk verfasst worden sei. Es bleibt Reißners nachdrücklichste Forderung, Individualität als zentralen Wert der Moderne anzuerkennen und zugleich die jüdische Geschichte stärker in die Geschichte der umgebenden Nationen und Kulturen einzugliedern. Deren Einflüsse sowie ihre Teilhabe an der allgemeinen Geschichte müssten besser in das jüdische historische Selbstverständnis integriert werden. Reißners vierter Punkt zielte auf das Verhältnis der »kollektiven Individualität«, die bei Dubnow breiten Raum einnahm. Im Grunde behandelte der Rezensent in diesem Abschnitt die Frage, unter welchen Gesichtspunkten Dubnow die jüdische Nation überhaupt definiert und betrachtet habe. Für seine Antwort bemühte Reißner wiederum den Antagonismus zu Graetz und dessen »Leidens- und innere[r] Geistesgeschichte«, wogegen Dubnow von politischen, sozialen, kulturellen und wirtschaftlichen Aspekten ausgegangen sei. Als besonders aufschlussreich empfand Reißner die Kapitel, in denen Dubnow von den »politischen Formen des jüdischen Gemeindelebens«71 ausging. Wenngleich er den Ausführungen zum Autonomismus nicht folgen mochte – ein Konzept, nach dem die »Westjuden« gezwungen wären, sich »an die Ostjudenheit zu ›assimilieren‹«72 –, habe Dubnow dennoch recht damit, dass das Judentum im religiösen, individualistischen oder territorialen Sinne nicht ausreichend definiert sei. In einer Rezension zur

68 Siehe zu dieser für das Werk Dubnows zentralen Denkfigur Hilbrenner, Diaspora-Nationalismus, bes. 132–147. 69 Reißner, Dubnows »Weltgeschichte des Jüdischen Volkes«, 8. 70 Ebd., 9 (Hervorhebung im Original gesperrt). 71 Ebd., 13. 72 Ebd., 14.

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Propyläen-Weltgeschichte, die Reißner wenige Monate später, im Juni 1931, publizierte,73 betonte er, dass es zunächst völlig gleichgültig sei, »ob die Juden nun eine besondere Rasse, Religion, nationale Minderheit oder was immer sind (oder  – sein sollen)«, da eine einheitliche Auffassung darüber bestehe, dass sie »mehr sind als eine freiwillige bürgerliche Vereinigung mit religiöser Zwecksetzung«.74 Dies hatte zur Konsequenz, dass er, wie auch Selma Stern, für eine systematische jüdische Geschichtsschreibung votierte und konstatierte, sie müsse rechtliche, politische, soziale und wirtschaftsgeschichtliche Aspekte zusammen mit einer Geistesgeschichte behandeln. Reißner führte in diesem Teil seiner Argumentation – im betonten Gegensatz zu Dubnow – weiter aus, dass »mit Ausnahme des alten Rußlands und Palästinas« die Juden jedoch keine nationale Gemeinschaft bildeten: »Staatsbürgerlich sind sie heute in keiner Weise als Gruppe mehr aus der Masse herausgehoben. Nur als Religionsgemeinden führen sie ein teils staatlich, teils freiwillig organisiertes Gruppensonderleben. Als religiöses Bekenntnis aber hat das moderne Judentum, nicht erst seit der Emanzipation, keine irgendwie geartete Aktivität entwickelt.«75

Vor diesem Hintergrund sind auch die scharfen, distanzierenden Ausführungen Reißners zu Dubnows Begrifflichkeiten zu verstehen. Dieser könne »mit der Westjudenheit viel schneller zu einer Verständigung über seine wissenschaftlichen Thesen gelangen«, würde er sich nicht »mit der geistigen Starrheit des osteuropäischen Menschen in Worte [verbeißen], die noch nicht einmal den wirklichen Inhalt der gemeinten Vorstellungen zu fassen vermögen«.76 Das hier in der Kritik aufscheinende Zugeständnis, man könne trotz unterschiedlicher Begrifflichkeiten womöglich ganz ähnliche Dinge meinen, wird durch die Polemik gegen »de[n] osteuropäischen Menschen« überlagert.77 Inwiefern sich das Stereotyp ins Negative wie ins Positive wen-

73 Reißner bezog sich auf die ersten drei Bände des ab Ende der 1920er Jahre erschienenen zehnbändigen Standardwerks, das er auf den dargestellten Zusammenhang von Weltgeschichte und jüdischer Geschichte untersuchte. Dass gerade diese Verbindung zumeist nicht aufschlussreich geschildert worden sei, schrieb er dem »unzulänglichen Unterrichtetsein der Fachgelehrten, keineswegs [jedoch] ihrer Böswilligkeit oder gar ›antisemitischen‹ Neigungen« zu. Siehe Hanns Reißner, Weltgeschichte und jüdische Geschichte, in: Der Morgen. Monatsschrift der Juden in Deutschland 7 (1931), H. 2, 191–197, hier 194. 74 Ebd., 196. 75 Ebd., 194. 76 Ders., Dubnows »Weltgeschichte des Jüdischen Volkes«, 14. 77 Siehe zum Verhältnis deutscher Juden zum »Ostjudentum« u.  a. das Standardwerk von Steven Aschheim, Brothers and Strangers. The East European Jew in Germany and German Jewish Consciousness, 1800–1923, Madison, Wis., 1982; sowie Yfaat Weiss, »Wir Westjuden haben jüdisches Stammesbewußtsein, die Ostjuden jüdisches Volksbewußtsein«. Der deutsch-jüdische Blick auf das polnische Judentum in den beiden ersten Jahrzehnten des 20. Jahrhunderts, in: Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 37 (1997), 157–178.

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den ließ, wird in einem etwa vier Jahre später veröffentlichten Text Reißners deutlich, wenn er in Bezug auf die russisch-jüdische Kultur erläutert: »Aus ihr erwuchsen die Führer der russisch-jüdischen Landespolitik und des Zionismus. Männer wie Simon Dubnow, Schmarjahu Levin, Chajim Weizmann und Chajim Nachman Bialik wurden nicht nur dem Ostjudentum, dem sie entstammen, Führer in geistiger und politischer Hinsicht. Sie sind für uns alle sinnfällige, gültige Verkörperung jüdischer Würde, jüdischer Tradition und jüdischer Erneuerung geworden.«78

Noch unter einem anderen Gesichtspunkt muss die betonte Differenz zum Ostjudentum bei Reißner betrachtet werden. Dies wird im letzten Teil seiner Rezension deutlich, die als Nachtrag darauf eingeht, »wie Dubnow die Entwicklung des deutschen Judentums sieht und beurteilt«.79 Sein Urteil falle durchaus positiv aus, was Reißner mit einer Danksagung Dubnows aus der Jüdischen Rundschau zu den Gratulationen anlässlich seines 70.  Geburtstags belegt, in der dieser anmerkte, er habe das deutsche Judentum stets als »Schutzwehr der jüdischen Kultur an der Grenze von Ost und West betrachtet und ich hoffe, daß es in unserer nationalen Renaissance noch von neuem eine aktive Rolle zu spielen haben wird«.80 Reißner stellte jedoch zugleich heraus, dass Dubnow deutsch-jüdische Kulturleistungen, wie sie etwa Hermann Cohen, Franz Rosenzweig oder Ernst Simon erbracht hätten, nicht verstehen wolle. Diesbezüglich waren sich alle drei hier vorgestellten Rezensenten einig, die sich selbst als Teil einer deutsch-jüdischen Kultur verstanden, deren spezifische und zugleich universalistische Errungenschaften sie bei Dubnow nicht genügend anerkannt fanden. Reißners Kritik sollte auch vor dem Hintergrund von Dubnows eigener, teils scharfer Attacke gegen die westeuropäische Assimilation gesehen werden. Wo der Rezensent ihm vorwirft, im Grunde keine individualistische, sondern eine sich dem Kollektiv unterordnende Ideologie zu vertreten und damit »die geistesgeschichtliche Lage des russischen Judentums der Vorkriegszeit in die jüdische Geschichte rückwärts« zu projizieren, reagierte er auch auf den umgekehrten Vorwurf Dubnows an die westeuropäischen Juden, den Geschichtsverlauf nach ihren Bedürfnissen darzustellen. Diese zum Teil polemisch überformte Gegenüberstellung von »West« und »Ost« lässt sich retrospektiv auf beiden Seiten ebenso als Teil einer Strategie der Differenzierung und Einforderung pluraler Selbstverständnisse deuten, während zur gleichen Zeit der erstarkende Antisemitismus einen alle Unterschiede auflösenden Mythos propagierte. 78 Hanns Reißner, Polen und Litauen, in: Der Morgen. Monatsschrift der deutschen Juden  11 (1935–1936), H. 6–7, 261–267, hier 262. 79 Ders., Dubnows »Weltgeschichte des Jüdischen Volkes«, 15. 80 Dubnow, Gruß an die Redenden und Schweigenden, in: Jüdische Rundschau 35 (1930), Nr. 85, 558.

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Zusammenfassung Am 11. Mai 1933, wenige Monate bevor Dubnow Berlin in Richtung Riga verließ, notierte er in seinem Tagebuch die Nachricht, »daß meine zehnbändige Weltgeschichte, die im Lesesaal der Staatsbibliothek unter den am meisten gelesenen Büchern stand, gemeinsam mit der Geschichte von Graetz von dort entfernt wurde«.81 Gleiches geschah in allen Bibliotheken und Buchhandlungen in Deutschland mit seinem Werk, das überdies öffentlich verbrannt wurde. Doch hatte es, wie Dubnow selbst die grausame Volte der Geschichte dokumentierte, inzwischen neue Leser gefunden: »Jetzt lesen auch jene Intellektuelle – ihrer Arbeit beraubte Anwälte, Ärzte usw. – in ihrer unfreiwilligen Freizeit dieses Buch, die sich früher in unsere nationale Problematik nicht hineindenken konnten.«82 Die Zeitereignisse hatten in jeder Hinsicht Entstehung und Rezeption des dubnowschen Werkes überrollt. Für Intellektuelle in ganz Europa, die sich aufgrund des Antisemitismus mit ihrer jüdischen Zugehörigkeit oder mit entsprechenden Zuschreibungen konfrontiert sahen, wurde die Lektüre Dubnows seit den 1930er Jahren immer mehr zum Fixpunkt der Auseinandersetzung mit ihrer Herkunft und ihrem Selbstverständnis, zum Studienwerk der jüdischen Geschichte, ja sogar zu einer Quelle von Trost und Einsicht. Eindrücklich lässt sich das in den Tagebüchern von so unterschiedlichen Autoren wie dem Romanisten Victor Klemperer (1881–1960), dem Breslauer Historiker Willy Cohn (1888–1941) oder dem rumänischen Schriftsteller Mihail Sebastian (1907–1945) nachlesen.83 Letzterer notierte im September 1939 nach der Lektüre der Weltgeschichte: »Es ist gut zu wissen, dass man einem Volk angehört, das im Laufe der Jahrhunderte viel durchgemacht hat, wobei einiges davon noch schlimmer war als das, was sich heute zuträgt.«84 Keine zwei Jahre später, im Februar 1941, musste Mihail Sebastian diese Einschätzung revidieren: »Nein, ich vermag die Schrecknisse, deren Zeuge ich war, nicht zu vergessen, und ich will sie auch nicht vergessen. Ich schlage in der Geschichte der Juden von Dubnow die Kapitel über die großen Pogrome gegen Ende des Mittelalters nach. Seit Tagen meine

81 Ders., Buch des Lebens, Bd. 3, 167. 82 Ebd., 168. 83 Siehe Victor Klemperer, Ich will Zeugnis ablegen bis zum letzten. Tagebücher 1933–1945, hg. von Walter Nowojski unter Mitarbeit von Hadwig Klemperer, 2 Bde., Berlin ²1995, hier Bd. 2: Tagebücher 1942–1945, 115, 130, 138 und 192 f.; Willy Cohn, Kein Recht, nirgends. Tagebuch vom Untergang des Breslauer Judentums 1933–1941, hg. von Norbert Conrads, 2 Bde., Köln/Weimar/Wien 2006, hier Bd. 2, 463 f.; Mihail Sebastian, »Voller Entsetzen, aber nicht verzweifelt«. Tagebücher 1935–44, Berlin 2005, 337, 431 f. und 483. 84 Ebd., 337.

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einzige Lektüre. […] Was einem aber angesichts des Bukarester Massakers das Blut in den Adern gefrieren lässt, ist die absolute Bestialität des Geschehens. […] Bei Dubnow finde ich nichts Schrecklicheres.«85

Innerhalb kürzester Zeit wandelten sich die politischen und historischen Vorzeichen, unter denen Dubnows diaspora-nationalistische Konzeption einer jüdischen Weltgeschichte gelesen werden konnte. In einer Schwellenzeit multiethnischer Großreiche entstanden, die von Revolutionen und Umbrüchen gekennzeichnet war, hatten sich mit dem Zerfall Österreich-Ungarns und des Zarenreichs sowie mit der Neuordnung Mittel- und Osteuropas nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg ihre grundlegenden Voraussetzungen umgekehrt. Gerade durch diese Ungleichzeitigkeit provozierte das Werk Dubnows die deutsch-jüdischen Rezipienten in der Weimarer Republik zu Stellungnahmen. Angesichts der Krise des traditionellen Judentums und rapide zunehmender antisemitischer Hetze und Gewalt eröffnete Dubnows Perspektive einer »geistigen Nation« eine Alternativkonzeption, der sich die vorgestellten Rezensenten Selma Stern, Ismar Elbogen und Hanns Reißner mit Blick auf ihre historiografische Relevanz stellten. Obwohl alle drei unterschiedliche Stoßrichtungen verfolgten, fallen außer einer grundsätzlichen Nichtübereinstimmung mit seinem Autonomiekonzept drei weitere zentrale Kritikpunkte auf: erstens die Darstellung der jüdischen Emanzipationsgeschichte, die vor allem Selma Stern scharf kritisierte. Neben einer Würdigung der deutsch-jüdischen Kulturleistungen, die in universalistischer und humanistischer Manier die Eingliederung von Juden in den Staatsverbund vorausgesetzt hätten, forderte sie eine intensivere Einbeziehung wirtschaftlicher, politischer und sozialer Faktoren in die Geschichte der jüdischen Minderheit. Zweitens erregte die Rolle der Religion in Dubnows Weltgeschichte Widerspruch. Dies zeigt sich deutlich bei Ismar Elbogen, der ihre Wirkmacht in der jüdischen Geschichte nicht genügend anerkannt sah; die Auswirkungen der Religion subsumiere Dubnow lediglich unter nationalen Kategorien, die er ahistorisch in die Vergangenheit hineinprojiziert habe. Drittens fehle, so betonte es Hanns Reißner ausdrücklich, eine Zusammenschau der jüdischen und der allgemeinen Geschichte, mithin die Berücksichtigung von deren wechselseitiger Beeinflussung. Dementsprechend seien die umgebenden Nationen bei Dubnow in der Regel allzu pejorativ gezeichnet. Ausgehend von der Tradition der deutschsprachigen Wissenschaft des Judentums, die für Stern, Elbogen und Reißner in je unterschiedlicher Weise Gültigkeit hatte, wirkten diese Einwände oftmals wie Rezeptionsblocka-

85 Ebd., 431 f. (Hervorhebung im Original; gemeint ist die Weltgeschichte). Bei dem Pogrom im Zuge eines gescheiterten Putschversuchs der Eisernen Garde gegen Ion Antonescu im Januar 1941 wurden 127 Juden brutal misshandelt und ermordet.

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den.86 Jedoch zeigen die Rezensionen auch, in welcher Weise Dubnows Hauptwerk parallel für Fragen produktiv gemacht werden konnte, die sich während der Weimarer Republik nicht nur im Osten Europas, sondern auch in Deutschland und ganz Mitteleuropa neu stellten. Das Ideal der deutsch-jüdischen Symbiose, das für Sterns frühes Werk so maßgeblich war, erodierte bereits in den zehn Jahren der Publikationstätigkeit Dubnows in Deutschland vor den Augen der Zeitgenossen. Auch die deutschsprachige Wissenschaft des Judentums, die zu Beginn noch als eine mögliche jüdische Theologie konzipiert war, säkularisierte sich zunehmend und das Selbstverständnis der »deutschen Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens« löste sich zusehends von einer zu engen konfessionellen Bestimmung. Für all diese Entwicklungen bildete die Weltgeschichte gewissermaßen ein Prisma, in dem sich die eigenen Fragen und Problemstellungen brachen und neu lesen ließen. Die Debatten um jüdische Autonomie erstreckten sich nicht nur über historiografische Erkenntnisfragen und endeten nicht mit der Weimarer Republik. Ganz im Gegenteil betont Michael Brenner, dass sich gerade um 1933 die »Relevanz des vorher nur für Osteuropa angewandten Dubnowschen Autonomiekonzepts auch für die deutsch-jüdischen Gemeinden«87 zeigte. Gewiss standen diese neuerlichen Debatten über den speziellen Status der Minderheiten- und nationalen Schutzrechte unter völlig veränderten Vorzeichen: Angesichts nationalsozialistischer Ideologen wie Ernst Krieck (1882–1947), die eine Ghettoisierung der Juden erörterten, reagierten jüdische Intellektuelle mit Überlegungen zu einem eigenständigen Erziehungs- und Kulturbereich, sollten sie sich aus der »Mehrheitsgesellschaft« zurückziehen müssen.88 Der deutsch-jüdische Rechtshistoriker Kurt Stillschweig (1905–1955) verfasste auch nach der Machtübertragung an die Nationalsozialisten noch mehrere Artikel zur Entwicklung der jüdischen Autonomie,89 doch als diese schließlich 1937 und 1939 erschienen, bildete der Rückzug auf eine nationaljüdische Autonomie bereits eine viel zu optimistische Zukunftsperspektive: »Die Ausgrenzung war Realität, die Entfaltung einer eigenen Kultur dagegen 86 Eine anregende Perspektive auf den Wandel des wissenschaftlichen Selbstverständnisses vor dem Hintergrund der Sprachenfragen in der Zwischenkriegszeit gibt Henry Soussan, Wissenschaft des Judentums, in welcher Sprache?, in: Michael Brenner (Hg.), Jüdische Sprachen in deutscher Umwelt. Hebräisch und Jiddisch von der Aufklärung bis ins 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2002, 56–67 und 119–121. 87 Brenner, Propheten des Vergangenen, 196. 88 Siehe u.  a. Fritz Friedländer, Grenzen der Kulturautonomie, in: Der Morgen. Monatsschrift der deutschen Juden 10 (1935), H. 11, 492–497; Rudolf Levy, Der Stand des Minderheitenrechts, in: ebd. 11 (1935), H. 5, 203–207. 89 Siehe u. a. Kurt Stillschweig, Zur neueren Geschichte der jüdischen Autonomie, in: Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums  83 (1939), H.  1, 509–532; ders., Minoritätenproblem und Teilungsplan, in: Der Morgen. Monatsschrift der Juden in Deutschland 13 (1937), H. 5, 185–192.

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immer schwieriger geworden.«90 Unter nationalsozialistischer Herrschaft erfuhr die innerjüdische Debatte um eine kulturelle Autonomie angesichts der immer aussichtsloseren Lage dementsprechend eine Zäsur und eine kurzfristige Intensivierung. Die Idee eines Diasporanationalismus als Grundlage der Weltgeschichte, so ließe sich resümieren, war nur von kurzer Dauer und fiel danach für lange Zeit auch in der Historiografie dem Vergessen anheim. Nach 1989 galt es vor allem in Deutschland, das Werk Dubnows aus dieser Versenkung zu holen und seine Gültigkeit erneut in den Blick zu nehmen. Michael A. Meyer konstatierte, dass es in der modernen jüdischen Geschichtsschreibung nur zwei Großnarrative gegeben habe: »das von Graetz und das von Dubnow«. Dabei sei es Ersterem um einen »religiösen ›Volksgeist‹« gegangen, Letzterem um ein »schöpferisches jüdisches ›Volk‹«.91 Paradoxerweise verweisen gerade die kritischen Stimmen unter den deutsch-jüdischen Historikerinnen und Historikern auf den produktiven Kern, den das Werk eines osteuropäischen Gelehrten in der Weimarer Republik und darüber hinaus entwickeln konnte. Ihre Lektüren legen die Reibungsflächen beider Ansätze offen, sie verweisen aber auch auf ähnliche Fragestellungen, mit denen sich die Historiografie jener Zeit konfrontiert sah und denen Dubnow sich mittels einer Verbindung westlicher und östlicher Wissenschaftstraditionen widmete. Kurz nach seinem 70. Geburtstag, am 25. September 1929, vermerkte Dubnow in seinen Aufzeichnungen: »Ich habe ein halbes Jahrhundert lang nicht umsonst gearbeitet, habe Osten und Westen zu einem Gefühl vereint.«92 Nach der Fertigstellung seines Hauptwerkes in Berlin steht diese Äußerung nicht nur als Wunsch paradigmatisch für sein Schaffen insgesamt. Die Auseinandersetzung mit Dubnows Werk während der Zwischenkriegszeit ließ für einen kurzen Moment aufscheinen, was in universalistischer Weise die Verbindung des ost- und westeuropäischen Judentums hätte darstellen können – ohne deren jeweilige Spezifika außer Acht zu lassen, ohne Pluralität und Divergenz blindlings aufzulösen.

90 Brenner, Propheten des Vergangenen, 196. 91 Michael A. Meyer, Streitfragen in der zeitgenössischen jüdischen Historiographie, in: Michael Brenner/David  N. Myers (Hgg.), Jüdische Geschichtsschreibung heute. Themen, Positionen, Kontroversen, München 2002, 36–43, hier 38. 92 Dubnow, Buch des Lebens, Bd. 3, 147. Zu seiner anschließenden Flucht nach Riga und seinem Tod vermutlich am 8. Dezember 1941 im Rigaer Ghetto siehe Nicolas Berg/Anke Hilbrenner, Der Tod Simon Dubnows in Riga 1941. Quellen, Zeugnisse, Erinnerungen, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts 1 (2002), 457–471.

Aus der Forschung

Jan Gerber

Der Funktionswandel des Rechts – Franz Neumann in Nürnberg Anfang 1945 wurde im Office of Strategic Services (OSS), dem amerikanischen Militärgeheimdienst, eine Abteilung für die Vorbereitung der Nürnberger Kriegsverbrecherprozesse gegründet.1 Diese War Crimes Unit sollte das konzeptionelle Gerüst der Prozesse erstellen und nach Beweismitteln für die Anklage suchen. Zu ihrem Leiter wurde der 1933 aus Deutschland geflohene Jurist Franz Neumann (1900–1954) ernannt. Zumindest Kenner der deutschen Emigrantenszene dürften darauf mit Verwunderung reagiert haben.2 Neumann war bekennender Sozialist und galt als Rechtsexperte des emigrierten Frankfurter Instituts für Sozialforschung, das aufgrund seiner – wenn auch kritischen – Parteinahme für die Arbeiterbewegung noch Anfang der 1930er Jahre gern als »Café Marx« bezeichnet worden war.3 Neumanns Ernennung zum Chef der War Crimes Unit dürfte indes weniger aufgrund seiner politischen Orientierung für Verwunderung gesorgt haben. William J. Donovan, Chef des Geheimdiensts und gemeinsam mit Robert H. Jackson zeitweise als amerikanischer Anklagevertreter in Nürnberg vorgesehen, war mit Blick auf den Sieg über Nazideutschland dazu bereit, mit Experten aus fast allen politischen Lagern zusammenzuarbeiten. »Ich würde Stalin auf die Gehaltsliste des OSS setzen, wenn ich glauben würde, dass uns das dabei helfen könnte, Hitler zu besiegen«, äußerte er gegenüber einem Mitarbeiter.4 So hatte die Forschungs- und Analyseabteilung des OSS Neumann schon 1942 vom Institut für Sozialforschung abgeworben. Der Jurist galt, wie sich einer seiner Mitarbeiter erinnerte, aufgrund seines Behe1

Der Aufsatz basiert auf einem Vortrag, den der Autor im Rahmen der Sektion »Nürnberg, 70 Jahre danach. Oder: Der Glaube an das Völkerrecht« beim 51. Deutschen Historikertag im September 2016 in Hamburg gehalten hat. 2 Zu den Irritationen, die es bereits bei Neumanns Eintritt in das OSS gab, siehe Axel Honneth, Vorwort, in: Franz Neumann/Herbert Marcuse/Otto Kirchheimer, Im Kampf gegen Nazideutschland. Die Berichte der Frankfurter Schule für den amerikanischen Geheim­ dienst 1943–1949, hg. von Raffaele Laudani, Frankfurt a. M./New York 2016, 9–20, hier 15. 3 Michael Maaser, Die Frankfurter Studenten im »Dritten Reich«, in: Jörn Kobes/Jan-Otmar Hesse (Hgg.), Frankfurter Wissenschaftler zwischen 1933 und 1945, Göttingen 2008, 235–252, hier 236. 4 Zit. nach Richard Harris Smith, OSS. The Secret History of America’s First Intelligence Agency, Berkeley, Calif./Los Angeles, Calif./London 1972, 9 (Übersetzung des Verfassers). JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 551–573.

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moth (1942/1944), einer der ersten umfangreichen Studien über die Struktur des nationalsozialistischen Regimes,5 als »größte lebende Autorität über Nazi-Deutschland«.6 Dieses Abwerben dürfte dem Geheimdienst nicht schwergefallen sein. Denn das Institut für Sozialforschung befand sich seit einiger Zeit in finanziellen Schwierigkeiten, sodass Neumann am Ende nur noch ein kleines Stipendium gezahlt werden konnte. Andere Mitarbeiter des Instituts folgten ihm in den Staatsdienst: Bald waren sowohl Herbert Marcuse als auch Otto Kirchheimer und Arkadij Gurland für das OSS tätig. Als Mitarbeiter und (ab Anfang 1943) stellvertretender Leiter der Mitteleuropa-Sektion der Research and Analysis Branch war Neumann dafür zuständig, Berichte über das Naziregime zusammenzustellen, Fragen der psychologischen Kriegsführung zu erörtern und die amerikanische Entnazifizierungspolitik vorzubereiten. Verwunderlich war Neumanns Ernennung zum Chef der War Crimes Unit vielmehr deshalb, weil er der Abgabe staatlicher Souveränität an überstaatliche Organisationen, wie sie in Nürnberg zumindest einem Teil der amerikanischen Anklagevertretung für das Völkerrechtssystem der Nachkriegsordnung vorschwebte, überaus kritisch gegenüberstand. Auch die damit verbundene Verkopplung von Recht und Ethik, die im Kontext der Prozesse erörtert wurde, zu deren Vorbereitung er nun beitragen sollte, betrachtete Neumann mit Skepsis.7 In der ersten Auflage des Behemoth hatte er die Rechtsauffassung des späteren Nürnberger Chefanklägers Robert  H. Jackson 1942 sogar in die Nähe des Nationalsozialismus gerückt. Jackson war 1940 zum Attorney General der Vereinigten Staaten ernannt worden, 1941 wurde er an den Obersten Gerichtshof berufen. Schon in dieser Funktion hatte er sich für eine Reform des Völkerrechts ausgesprochen. In einer Rede, die er im März 1941, kurz nach der Verabschiedung des Land-Lease-Gesetzes, vor der International Bar Association hielt, äußerte er vehemente Kritik an denen, die sich seiner Meinung nach den völkerrechtlichen Fortschritten des 20.  Jahrhunderts verweigerten. Durch die Völkerbundskonvention, den 1928 geschlossenen Briand-Kellog-Pakt und andere internationale Abkommen zur Ächtung des Kriegs sei, wie Jackson erfreut erklärte, die aus dem 19.  Jahrhundert

5

Franz Neumann, Behemoth. The Structure and Practice of National Socialism, 1933–1944, New York 1942. Eine erweiterte, mit einem mehr als 200-seitigen Anhang versehene Auflage erschien 1944. Im Folgenden wird nach der deutschen Neuausgabe zitiert: ders., Behemoth. Struktur und Praxis des Nationalsozialismus 1933–1944, neu hg. von Alfons Söllner und Michael Wildt, Hamburg 2018. 6 Zit. nach Tim B. Müller, Krieger und Gelehrte. Herbert Marcuse und die Denksysteme im Kalten Krieg, Hamburg 2010, 46. 7 Siehe zum Folgenden auch Annette Weinke, Gewalt, Geschichte, Gerechtigkeit. Transnationale Debatten über deutsche Staatsverbrechen im 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2016, 132–134.

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stammende Vorstellung zerstört worden, dass alle Kriege gleich seien und die Krieg führenden Parteien das Recht auf gleiche Behandlung hätten.8 Aus diesem Grund seien auch neutrale Staaten dazu verpflichtet, die Nationen zu unterstützen, die einen gerechten Krieg gegen einen Aggressor führten. Insbesondere die letzte Aussage sorgte bei Neumann für Empörung. Sie müsste, wie er monierte, »für die deutsche Rechtsphilosophie eigentlich durchaus akzeptabel sein«.9 Die Unterschiede zwischen demokratischem und autoritärem Staat, amerikanischen und nationalsozialistischen Völkerrechtsvorstellungen verschwammen für ihn. Vor diesem Hintergrund stellt sich die Frage, was Franz Neumann 1945 dazu bewog, die Leitung der War Crimes Unit des OSS zu übernehmen, einen auf einer neuen Vorstellung vom Völkerrecht basierenden Prozess vorzubereiten und dem von ihm heftig kritisierten Robert H. Jackson unmittelbar zuzuarbeiten. Zwar äußerte er sich nie öffentlich dazu und nur wenige Selbstzeugnisse und Briefe sind erhalten. Doch bieten einige der Widersprüche, die sein Werk durchziehen, zumindest ein Interpretationsangebot.

Von Kattowitz nach New York Als Franz Neumann 1936 im New Yorker Exil eintraf, konnte der kaum 36-Jährige bereits auf einen beachtlichen Lebensweg zurückblicken.10 Er war im Mai 1900 in einer jüdischen Handwerkerfamilie im oberschlesischen Kattowitz geboren worden und im deutsch-polnischen Grenzgebiet aufgewachsen. Schon früh schloss er sich der Arbeiterbewegung an. Noch in den letzten Monaten des Ersten Weltkriegs zum Militär einberufen, war er während der Revolution von 1918 im Leipziger Arbeiter- und Soldatenrat aktiv. Im selben Jahr begann er in Breslau mit dem Studium der Rechtswissenschaften. Nach kurzen Zwischenaufenthalten an den Universitäten Leipzig und Rostock wechselte er nach Frankfurt am Main, wo er 1923 bei dem Neu  8 The New York Times, 28. März 1941, zit. nach Neumann, Behemoth, 196.  9 Ebd. 10 Die folgende Darstellung folgt vor allem den von Alfons Söllner erarbeiteten biografischen Aufrissen sowie dem von Rainer Erd herausgegebenen Gesprächsband über Neumann: Alfons Söllner, Franz L. Neumann. Skizzen zu einer intellektuellen und politischen Biographie, in: Franz L. Neumann, Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie. Aufsätze 1933–1954, hg. von Alfons Söllner, Frankfurt a. M. 1978, 7–56; ders., Neumann als Archetypus. Die Formierung des »political scholar« im 20.  Jahrhundert, in: Mattias Iser/David Strecker (Hgg.), Kritische Theorie der Politik. Franz  L. Neumann  – eine Bilanz, Baden-Baden 2002, 39–55; Rainer Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation. Gespräche über Franz L. Neumann, Frankfurt a. M. 1985.

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kantianer Max Ernst Mayer promovierte. Im Anschluss daran absolvierte er in Frankfurt sein Referendariat und war als Assistent bei Hugo Sinzheimer tätig, dem Begründer des deutschen Arbeitsrechts und einem der Autoren der Weimarer Reichsverfassung. Sowohl mit seinem Anschluss an die Arbeiterbewegung als auch mit seinem Jurastudium ging Franz Neumann einen Weg, der keineswegs untypisch für junge Juden dieser Zeit war. Beides, die politische Linke und das Rechtswesen übten eine große Anziehungskraft auf sie aus.11 So war die jüdische Emanzipation nicht nur durch das Recht – die Toleranzpatente Josephs II. im Habsburgerreich, den Code Napoleon oder das preußische Judenedikt von 1812  –, sondern auch vermittels des Rechts erfolgt: Es war zugleich Schutzinstanz und, in Form eines juristischen Berufs, ein zentrales Symbol für die Ankunft in der bürgerlichen Welt. Denn gerade die Sphäre, der die Rolle eines Pioniers und Garanten der Gleichstellung zukam, blieb als professionelle Perspektive Juden lange verwehrt. Die notorischen Zweifel an ihrer staatsbürgerlichen Loyalität sorgten dafür, dass zwischen der offiziellen Zulassung zu juristischen Berufen und der faktischen Öffnung jedes Rechtsamts ein weiter Weg lag. Selbst als Juden alle Berufe offenstanden, blieb ihnen die Akzeptanz oft versagt. Als Neumanns akademischer Lehrer Hugo Sinzheimer 1920 in Frankfurt zum Professor für Arbeitsrecht und Rechtssoziologie berufen wurde, wollten nationalistische Studenten seine Antrittsvorlesung verhindern, weil er Jude war – und wohl auch, weil er der Sozialdemokratie angehörte. Franz Neumann und andere kämpften ihm den Weg zum Hörsaal frei;12 Sinzheimer sah sich jedoch auch weiterhin Anfeindungen ausgesetzt.13 Einen Ausweg aus dieser auf die Herkunft zielenden Diskriminierung schien die Arbeiterbewegung zu bieten. Der Sozialismus versprach nicht nur den Bruch mit dem mal liberalen, mal traditionellen Elternhaus, sondern mit

11 Zur Anziehungskraft des Rechts siehe etwa Jerold S. Auerbach, Rabbis and Lawyers. The Journey from Thora to Constitution, Bloomington/Indianapolis, Ind., 1990. 12 Siehe zu dieser Episode Alfons Söllner (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 32. 13 Zu Sinzheimer siehe Otto Ernst Kempen, Hugo Sinzheimer. Architekt des kollektiven Arbeitsrechts und Verfassungspolitiker, Frankfurt a.  M. 2017; Dan Diner, Der kategorische Imperativ der Erinnerung, in: Hans-Böckler-Stiftung (Hg.), Impulse für eine Ar­ beitswelt in schwierigen Zeiten. Dokumentation der Verabschiedung von Nikolaus Simon, 27.02.2014 in Berlin, Düsseldorf 2014, 28–32.

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jeder Form der Zurücksetzung.14 Die revolutionäre Klasse, so hatten Marx und Engels einst erklärt, »kann ihre eigenen Lebensbedingungen nicht aufheben, ohne alle unmenschlichen Lebensbedingungen […] aufzuheben«; das Proletariat sei nicht dazu in der Lage, sich selbst zu befreien, ohne alle anderen Menschen zu befreien.15 Mit anderen Worten: Der Begriff der Klasse schien die Herkunft, die »Bluturenge«, wie es polemisch bei Marx heißt,16 zu suspendieren. Franz Neumann verband die Auseinandersetzung mit dem Recht und das politische Engagement aufseiten der Linken miteinander und wurde als Jurist für die Arbeiterbewegung tätig. Zu seinen Schwerpunkten machte er in Anlehnung an Sinzheimer das gerade erst in Entstehung begriffene Arbeits- und Sozialrecht. Zugleich vollzog er eine politische Wende: Hatte er während der Novemberrevolution noch der Rätebewegung nahegestanden, engagierte er sich fortan im Zentrum der Sozialdemokratie, teilweise sogar in deren rechtem Flügel. Neumann war, wie Alfons Söllner einmal erklärte, ein »kommender Stern des Reformismus«.17 Seine eigentliche Karriere begann mit der Übersiedlung nach Berlin 1927. In der pulsierenden Hauptstadt der Weimarer Republik eröffnete Neumann gemeinsam mit Ernst Fraenkel  – auch er ein Schüler Sinzheimers  – eine Anwaltskanzlei, die auf Fragen des Arbeits- und Sozialrechts spezialisiert war. Die Aufträge kamen insbesondere von den Gewerkschaften. Während Fraenkel vor allem für den Metallarbeiterverband tätig war, wurde Neumann Syndikus der IG Bau. Er fuhr etwa einmal pro Woche nach Leipzig, wo er Prozesse vor dem Reichsarbeitsgericht führte, schrieb Aufsätze über Fragen des kollektiven Arbeitsrechts und lehrte an der 1920 gegründeten Deutschen Hochschule für Politik, dem heutigen Otto-Suhr-Institut an der Freien Universität Berlin. Zugleich beteiligte er sich an den Diskussionen über das neue Gewerkschaftsprogramm zur Wirtschaftsdemokratie.

14 Zur Anziehungskraft der Arbeiterbewegung auf junge Juden siehe insgesamt Hans Dieter Hellige, Generationskonflikt, Selbsthaß und die Entstehung antikapitalistischer Positionen im Judentum. Der Einfluß des Antisemitismus auf das Sozialverhalten jüdischer Kaufmanns- und Unternehmersöhne im Deutschen Kaiserreich und in der K.u.K.-Monarchie, in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft  5 (1979), H.  4, 476–518; Yuri Slezkine, Das jüdische Jahrhundert, aus dem Engl. übers. von Michael Adrian und Bettina Engels, Göttingen 2006. 15 Karl Marx/Friedrich Engels, Die heilige Familie oder Kritik der kritischen Kritik, in: dies., Marx-Engels-Werke (MEW), 43 Bde., Berlin 1956–1989, hier Bd. 2, Berlin 1957, 7–223, hier 38; Karl Marx, Zur Kritik der Hegelschen Rechtsphilosophie. Einleitung, in: MEW 1, Berlin 1956, 378–391. 16 Ders., Grundrisse der Kritik der politischen Ökonomie, in: MEW 42, Berlin 1983, 15–768, hier 95. 17 Alfons Söllner (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 45.

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Nach dem sogenannten Preußenschlag Franz von Papens 1932 erfolgte ein weiterer Aufstieg: Franz Neumann wurde Syndikus der SPD. In dieser Funktion zog er gegen eine Kampagne, die gegen den preußischen Ministerpräsidenten Otto Braun (SPD) gerichtet war, vor Gericht und trat Hitler und Goebbels persönlich gegenüber.18 Wohl auch deshalb stand er nach der Machtübertragung an den NSDAP-Chef auf einer der ersten Ausbürgerungslisten, die das neue Regime ab August 1933 im Deutschen Reichsanzeiger veröffentlichte. Zwar soll Neumann schon ab 1932 gemeinsam mit Otto Kirchheimer Englisch gelernt haben, um sich auf die Emigration vorzubereiten.19 Dennoch gehörte er, wie Rainer Erd einmal formulierte, zu den letzten links orientierten Anwälten, die erkannten, welche Entwicklung die Weimarer Republik seit Ende 1932 nahm.20 Auch die Texte, die er unmittelbar vor der Ernennung Hitlers zum Reichskanzler schrieb, sind weiterhin vom Legalismus der Sozialdemokratie und vom Vertrauen in die Kraft der linken Arbeiter- und Gewerkschaftsbewegung geprägt.21 Noch 1933, als andere Anhänger des Reformismus bereits von der Notwendigkeit der militanten Verteidigung der Republik sprachen, erklärte er, »innerhalb der Arbeiterschaft das Verständnis für die Bedeutung des Rechts wecken und stärken« zu wollen.22 Im Unterschied zu vielen seiner späteren Mitstreiter aus dem Frankfurter Institut für Sozialforschung emigrierte Neumann dementsprechend nicht sofort nach der Machtübertragung an Hitler oder dem Reichstagsbrand. Er ging stattdessen weiter Tag für Tag in das Hauptquartier der Metallarbeitergewerkschaft in der Alten Jakobstraße, wo die mit Ernst Fraenkel betriebene Anwaltskanzlei ihren Sitz hatte, und übernahm Mandate.23 Zugleich wurde er damit beauftragt, Dokumente und Geld ins Ausland zu schmuggeln – ob vom Parteivorstand oder der Gewerkschaftsführung, lässt sich nicht eindeutig ermitteln.24 Allerdings erhöhte sich der Druck stetig: Als die Gewerkschaftshäuser ab dem 2. Mai 1933 dauerhaft von der SA belagert wurden und er sich aufgrund seiner Tätigkeit für die SPD sowie eines kritischen Kommentars zum Pressenotrecht der Nazis vom Februar 1933 immer stärkeren Bedrohungen ausgesetzt sah – gelegentlich wird sogar von einer 18 Peter Intelmann, Franz Neumann. Weimar, Nationalsozialismus – und was dann?, in: Samuel Salzborn (Hg.), Kritische Theorie des Staates. Staat und Recht bei Franz L. Neumann, Baden-Baden 2009, 57–76, hier 62. 19 Helge Pross (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 59 f. 20 Rainer Erd (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: ebd., 53. 21 Siehe etwa Franz Neumann, Koalitionsfreiheit und Reichsverfassung. Die Stellung der Gewerkschaften im Verfassungssystem, Berlin 1932; ders., Das geschichtliche Verhältnis von Staat und Koalitionen, in: Gewerkschafts-Archiv 9 (1932), 247–253. 22 Siehe Intelmann, Franz Neumann, 61; Franz Neumann, Vorwort, in: Philipp Loewenfeld, Das Strafrecht als politische Waffe, hg. von Franz Neumann, Berlin 1933, 6. 23 Siehe Ella Müller (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 55–58. 24 Söllner, Neumann als Archetypus, 47.

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kurzzeitigen Verhaftung gesprochen25 –, floh er quasi über Nacht, wohl nur mit einem kleinen Koffer ausgestattet, nach Großbritannien.26 Seine Frau Inge (1913–1973) ging ebenfalls ins Exil. Im Vereinigten Königreich stand Neumann vor ganz neuen Herausforderungen. Denn seine deutsche Juristenausbildung erwies sich angesichts des völlig anders gearteten, auf Case Law basierenden angelsächsischen Rechtssystems als nahezu unbrauchbar. So war die Verwandlung vieler emigrierter deutscher Juristen in Politikwissenschaftler nicht nur ihren durch die Erfahrungen der Zeit veränderten Interessen und Überzeugungen geschuldet. Sie ging zugleich auf die Zwänge der physischen Reproduktion zurück, auf die Notwendigkeit also, den eigenen Lebensunterhalt zu bestreiten. Franz Neumann begann jedenfalls bald nach seiner Flucht nach Großbritannien mit der Arbeit an einer zweiten Dissertation, die ihm den Eintritt in den britischen oder amerikanischen Wissenschaftsbetrieb erleichtern sollte. Mithilfe eines Stipendiums promovierte er zwischen 1933 und 1936 in den Political Scienc­es bei Harold Laski, dem großen Theoretiker der Labour Party, an der London School of Economics mit einer Arbeit über die Herrschaft des Rechts: The Governance of the Rule of Law.27 Im krisengeschüttelten Großbritannien der 1930er Jahre ergaben sich dennoch keine Arbeitsmöglichkeiten für ihn. So entschied er sich 1936, in die Vereinigten Staaten zu gehen, wo er auf Vermittlung Laskis eine Stelle am emigrierten Institut für Sozialforschung erhielt. Sein Studienfreund Leo Löwenthal, der schon seit 1930 zu den festen Mitarbeitern des Instituts gehörte, nahm ihn und seine Frau im April 1936 am Hafen von New York in Empfang.28

25 Intelmann, Franz Neumann, 62. 26 Siehe ebd., 57; Franz Neumann, Das gesamte Pressenotrecht vom 4. Februar 1933. Mit Anhang. Das Pressenotrecht vom 28.  Februar 1933. Systematischer Kommentar nebst Wortlaut des Pressegesetzes und der einschlägigen strafrechtlichen und strafprozessualen Bestimmungen und sämtlicher Länderausführungsverordnungen, Berlin 1933. 27 Ders., The Governance of the Rule of Law. An Investigation into the Relationship between Theories, the Legal System, and the Social Background in Competitive Society (unveröff. Diss., London School of Economics and Political Science, 1936). Für die deutsche Ausgabe siehe ders., Die Herrschaft des Gesetzes. Eine Untersuchung zum Verhältnis von politischer Theorie und Rechtssystem in den Konkurrenzgesellschaften, aus dem Engl. übers. von Alfons Söllner, Frankfurt a. M. 1980. 28 Leo Löwenthal (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 86 f.

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Abkehr vom Reformismus Als Franz Neumann im Frühjahr 1936 in Amerika eintraf, hatte er bereits eine politische und rechtstheoretische Wandlung hinter sich gebracht. Bis zu seinem Eintritt in das OSS sollten sich seine Positionen noch weiter verändern. Das betraf zunächst den Reformismus der Sozialdemokratie. In der Weimarer Republik war Neumann fest davon überzeugt, dass der zweite Teil der Reichsverfassung – insbesondere der fünfte Abschnitt über das Wirtschaftsleben – die Möglichkeit eines ebenso friedlichen wie legalen Übergangs zum Sozialismus biete. In der Verfassung, so schrieb er 1930, sei eine »soziale Demokratie« angelegt, deren »sachliches Arbeitsgebiet« in der »Förderung des Aufstiegs der Arbeiterschaft« liege. Sie sichere Freiheit und Eigentum nur insoweit, als sie dem Aufstieg der Arbeiterschaft nicht entgegenstünden.29 Tatsächlich standen die individuellen politischen Grundrechte in der Weimarer Reichsverfassung recht zusammenhanglos neben solchen kollektiver Art, sogenannten sozialen Rechten; das Wirtschaftsleben sollte, wie es in Artikel 151 hieß, den »Grundsätzen der Gerechtigkeit mit dem Ziele der Gewährleistung eines menschenwürdigen Daseins für alle entsprechen«.30 Diese Regelungen gingen nicht zuletzt auf den Kompromiss zwischen bürgerlichen Kräften und der sozialdemokratischen Arbeiterbewegung zurück, auf dem die Verfassung der Weimarer Republik basierte. Zugleich waren sie wohl auch eine Nachwirkung der Idee des Kriegssozialismus, einer Art früher Volksgemeinschaft, die während des Ersten Weltkriegs sowohl linke als auch rechte Kräfte fasziniert hatte.31 Die Verfassung bot dem Staat jedenfalls, wie reformorientierte linke Staatsrechtler seinerzeit immer wieder betonten, die Möglichkeit, Enteignungen und Sozialisierungen vorzunehmen. Neumann sah seine Aufgabe als Gewerkschaftsanwalt vor diesem Hintergrund darin, die »rechtliche Formulierung für eine Situation zu finden, die nicht mehr rein kapitalistisch, aber auch nicht sozialistisch« sei, wie er 1931 schrieb.32 Sein Freund Otto Kirchheimer, der dem sozialdemokratischen Reformismus allerdings kritisch gegenüberstand, bezeichnete die Weimarer Reichsverfassung gleichermaßen als den »zweiten Höhepunkt des bürgerlichen Zeitalters« und die »stärkste Festung des kontinentalen Sozialismus«.33 29 Franz Neumann, Die soziale Bedeutung der Grundrechte in der Weimarer Verfassung (1930), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 57–75, hier 63. 30 Weimarer Reichsverfassung, Art. 151, Abs. 1, Satz 1. 31 Siehe hierzu etwa Willy Huhn, Der Etatismus der Sozialdemokratie. Zur Vorgeschichte des Nazifaschismus, Freiburg im Breisgau 2003. 32 Franz Neumann, Über die Voraussetzungen und den Rechtsbegriff einer Wirtschaftsverfassung (1931), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 76–102. 33 Otto Kirchheimer, Weimar – und was dann?, in: ders.: Recht und Politik in der Weimarer Republik, hg. von Hubertus Buchstein, Baden-Baden 2017, 209–250, hier 247.

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Der Bruch kam 1933: Angesichts der nationalsozialistischen Wahlerfolge, des Zusammenbruchs der traditionellen Arbeiterbewegung sowie der Reichstagsbrandverordnung – laut Ernst Fraenkel die heimliche Verfassungsurkunde des »Dritten Reichs«34 – ging Neumann nun offen und radikal auf Distanz zu seinen bisherigen Vorstellungen. In einem Aufsatz, der 1935 unter Pseudonym in der Zeitschrift für Sozialismus, dem theoretischen Organ der emigrierten SPD-Führung, erschien, erklärte er unter Bezugnahme auf seinen zweiten Doktorvater Harold Laski, es sei undenkbar und widerspreche jeder Erfahrung, dass »ein kapitalistischer Staat sich auf verfassungsmäßige Weise in einen sozialistischen« verwandle. Stattdessen könne der kapitalistische Staat »nur durch eine Revolution« gestürzt und damit zum »Instrument der sozialistischen Gesellschaft gemacht werden«.35 Auch seine eigenen Schriften aus der Weimarer Republik unterzog er einer deutlichen Kritik. In einem anderen Aufsatz, der ebenfalls unter Pseudonym in der Zeitschrift für Sozialismus erschien, schrieb er, dass die »insbesondere von Hermann Heller und Franz Neumann unternommenen Versuche«, die Arbeiterschaft auf der Grundlage des gültigen Rechts zu befreien, mit der Weimarer Verfassung gescheitert seien.36 Mit diesen Aussagen distanzierte sich Neumann zwar deutlich vom sozialdemokratischen Reformismus der Weimarer Zeit, allerdings nicht von der SPD selbst. Denn auch die Sopade, die in die Tschechoslowakei emi­grierte Führung der Partei, hatte angesichts der Erfahrung des Frühjahrs 1933 einen radikalen Kurswechsel vollzogen. In ihrem Prager Manifest erklärte sie Anfang 1934, nach einem Jahr Diktatur, dass mit dem Sieg des Nationalsozialismus die »Frage seiner Überwindung mit grausamer Eindeutigkeit gestellt« worden sei. Die Antwort laute: »totale Revolution, moralische, geistige, politische und soziale Revolution«.37 Rudolf Hilferding, in der Weimarer Repu­ blik und der ersten Zeit des Exils der Cheftheoretiker der Partei und zugleich Autor des Prager Manifests, sprach vom »radikalste[n] Bruch mit dem Reformismus«.38

34 Ernst Fraenkel, Der Doppelstaat, hg. und eingeleitet von Alexander von Brünneck, 2., durchgesehene Aufl., Hamburg 2001, 55. 35 Franz Neumann, Zur marxistischen Staatstheorie (1935), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 134–143, hier 139. 36 Ders., Rechtsstaat, Gewaltenteilung und Sozialismus (1934), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 124–133, hier 126. 37 [O.  A.], Selbstkritik und Ziel. Prager Manifest (1934), in: Hermann Weber (Hg.), Das Prinzip Links. Beiträge zur Diskussion des demokratischen Sozialismus in Deutschland, 1848–1990. Eine Dokumentation, Berlin 1991, 210 f., Zitat: 211. 38 Zit. nach Intelmann, Franz Neumann, 63.

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Vom Kollektiv zum Individuum Neben dieser oft thematisierten Abkehr vom Reformismus der Weimarer Zeit vollzog Franz Neumann in den 1930er Jahren noch einen weiteren, bislang allerdings noch kaum behandelten Wandel.39 Als sozialdemokratischer Korporatist und als Anhänger des Konzepts der Wirtschaftsdemokratie hatte er bis zu seiner Flucht aus Deutschland stets vom Kollektiv ausgehend gedacht.40 Neumanns Kompagnon Ernst Fraenkel und sein akademischer Lehrer Hugo Sinzheimer hatten in Übereinstimmung mit ihm sogar von einer »kollektiven Demokratie« gesprochen, in der nicht nur die Individuen, sondern auch Verbände an der Bildung des Staatswillens beteiligt seien.41 Neumanns Bezugspunkte waren die Klasse oder die »schaffenden Volkskreise«, von denen er 1932 in einem Brief an Carl Schmitt sprach.42 Trotz seines Legalismus verstand er das Recht in diesem Zusammenhang vor allem als Waffe im politischen Kampf – so ähnlich lautete auch der Titel einer Schrift des linken Staranwalts Philipp Loewenfeld, die er herausbrachte: Das Strafrecht als politische Waffe.43 Infolge des Weimarer Verfassungskompromisses galt Neumann das Recht als Medium zur Aufrechterhaltung der bürgerlichen Besitzverhältnisse und zugleich als Mittel zur Unterstützung des politischen Kampfs der Arbeiterbewegung.

39 Zu den Ausnahmen gehört Gerhard Scheit, Der Wahn vom Weltsouverän. Zur Kritik des Völkerrechts, Freiburg im Breisgau 2009, hier bes. 267–287, dem die folgenden Überlegungen viel zu verdanken haben. 40 Siehe exemplarisch Franz Neumann an Carl Schmitt, Berlin, 7. September 1932, in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 79 f. 41 Ernst Fraenkel, Kollektive Demokratie (1929), in: ders., Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Alexander von Brünneck, 6 Bde., Baden-Baden 1999–2011, hier Bd. 1: Recht und Politik in der Weimarer Republik, hg. von Hubertus Buchstein unter Mitarb. von Rainer Kühn, Baden-Baden 1999, 343–357; Hubertus Buchstein, Ernst Fraenkel als Klassiker?, in: Leviathan 4 (1998), H. 4, 458–481. Zu Sinzheimer siehe Heinrich Erdmann, Neopluralismus und institutionelle Gewaltenteilung. Ernst Fraenkels pluralistische Parteienstaatstheorie als Theorie parlamentarisch-pluralistischer Demokratie, Wiesbaden 1988, 92 f. Michael Wildt hat in einem wichtigen Aufsatz über Fraenkel in der Frage der »kollektiven Demokratie« vor einiger Zeit einen Gegensatz zwischen diesem und Neumann konstatiert. Ders., Die politische Ordnung der Volksgemeinschaft. Ernst Fraenkels »Doppelstaat« neu betrachtet, in: Mittelweg 36. Zeitschrift des Hamburger Instituts für Sozialforschung 12 (2003), H. 2, 45–61. In der Tat gab es durchaus Differenzen zwischen den beiden Anwaltskollegen, die, wie Wildt auch ausführt, nicht zuletzt die Anleihen an Carl Schmitt betrafen. Den Glauben an die »kollektive Demokratie« und die Aushandlungsfähigkeit der parlamentarischen Demokratie teilten vor 1933 allerdings beide. Siehe Franz Neumann, Über die Voraussetzungen und den Rechtsbegriff einer Wirtschaftsverfassung (1931), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 76–102. 42 Neumann an Schmitt, Berlin, 7. September 1932, in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 80. 43 Philipp Loewenfeld, Das Strafrecht als politische Waffe, Berlin 1933.

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Sowohl dieses strategische Verhältnis zum Recht als auch der Bezug auf das Kollektiv dürften neben dem beiderseitigen Votum für einen starken, eingreifenden Staat zu der vielfach hervorgehobenen Anziehungskraft beigetragen haben, die Carl Schmitt in der Weimarer Zeit auf Franz Neumann ausübte.44 Beide standen nicht nur im Briefkontakt, sondern kannten sich auch persönlich. Neumanns Freund Otto Kirchheimer hatte seine Dissertation bei Schmitt geschrieben; im Sommersemester 1931 – Neumann war längst promoviert und gehörte zu den bekannten Gewerkschaftsanwälten – nahm er an der Berliner Handelshochschule an einem verfassungstheoretischen Seminar Schmitts teil. Er schrieb eine Seminararbeit über den »Rechtsbegriff einer Wirtschaftsverfassung«, die in seine Broschüre Koalitionsfreiheit und Reichsverfassung einging.45 Durch Neumann und Kirchheimer wurde Schmitt, wie er in seinem breit rezipierten Aufsatz Freiheitsrechte und die institutionellen Garantien der Reichsverfassung schrieb, überhaupt erst auf die Studien Karl Renners aufmerksam, auf dessen Begriff der »konnexen und komplementären Institute« er sich trotz Renners Orientierung am Marxismus ebenso wie Neumann positiv bezog.46 Neumann übernahm von Schmitt dagegen dessen Institutionalismus und das Freund-Feind-Schema, das er links wendete und auf den Gegensatz von Arbeit und Kapital übertrug.47 Die Zeit des Exils ließ Franz Neumann schließlich nicht nur vom sozialdemokratischen Korporatismus, sondern auch von seiner bisherigen Herangehensweise Abstand nehmen: Spätestens seit 1935 argumentierte der frühere Gewerkschaftsanwalt nicht mehr von jenen »schaffenden Volkskreisen« oder »großen gegensätzlichen Gruppen« aus, von denen er noch im September 1932 gegenüber Schmitt gesprochen hatte,48 sondern vom Individuum. Schon in seinem berühmten Aufsatz Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, seinem ersten Text für die von Max Horkheimer herausgegebene Zeitschrift für Sozialforschung, hatte er 1937 die These formuliert, die er 1942 im Behemoth aufgreifen sollte: Die juristische Entwicklung der Gegenwart, so heißt es in dieser deutlich nachjustier44 Zum Verhältnis von Neumann und Schmitt siehe Volker Neumann, Kompromiß oder Entscheidung? Zur Rezeption der Theorie Carl Schmitts in den Weimarer Arbeiten von Franz L. Neumann, in: Joachim Perels (Hg.), Recht, Demokratie und Kapitalismus. Aktualität und Probleme der Theorie Franz L. Neumanns, Baden-Baden 1984, 65–78; ders., Entzauberung des Rechts? Franz Neumann und Carl Schmitt, in: Salzborn (Hg.), Kritische Theorie des Staates, 79–107. 45 Siehe ebd., 80; Neumann, Koalitionsfreiheit und Reichsverfassung. 46 Carl Schmitt, Freiheitsrechte und institutionelle Garantien der Reichsverfassung (1931), in: ders., Verfassungsrechtliche Aufsätze aus den Jahren 1924–1954, Berlin 21973, 140–171, hier 167. 47 Neumann an Schmitt, Berlin, 7. September 1932, in: Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 79. Siehe insgesamt auch die Diskussion in Erd (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 46–53. 48 Ebd.

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ten Kurzfassung seiner Londoner Dissertation, sei vom Verschwinden der Sphäre des rationalen Rechts gekennzeichnet. Allgemeine Gesetze werden durch Maßnahmen, Verwaltungsakte und Generalklauseln ersetzt. Dadurch verliere der Einzelne, wie Neumann nun betonte, seinen Schutz.49 Diese Entwicklung ordnete der frühere Gewerkschaftsanwalt in den allgemeinen ökonomischen Umwälzungsprozess von der Konkurrenz- zur Monopolwirtschaft ein. Im Zeitalter der Konkurrenz, so führte er aus, habe das allgemeine Recht die Berechenbarkeit und Prognostizierbarkeit gewährleistet, von der Klein- und Großunternehmer gleichermaßen abhängig gewesen seien.50 Im Unterschied dazu sei die Monopolwirtschaft nicht mehr auf den damit verbundenen Schutz vor Konkurrenten angewiesen. Im Gegenteil: Allgemeine Gesetze seien für die Monopole sogar hinderlich. Sie würden eher Vorteile aus kurzfristig angelegten Maßnahmen oder weit gefassten Generalklauseln ziehen. »Die irrationale Norm ist für den Monopolisten berechenbar, da er stark genug ist, der formalen Rationalität zu entbehren.«51 Damit, so Neumann, verliere das Recht nicht nur seine sozioökonomische Funktion, die in der Aufrechterhaltung der Produktionsverhältnisse bestehe, sondern verschwinde gänzlich. Denn wenn das »generelle Gesetz die Grundform des Rechts« und »nicht nur voluntas, sondern auch ratio« sei, so das Argument, dann müsse dem neuen Recht, wie es insbesondere im Nationalsozialismus – Neumanns Inbegriff des totalitären Staats – zum Ausdruck komme, der Rechtscharakter abgesprochen werden: »Recht als vom politischen Befehl des Souveräns verschiedenes Phänomen ist nur dann denkbar, wenn sich das Recht im allgemeinen Gesetz manifestiert.«52 Diese Entwicklung sah Neumann gleich in mehrfacher Weise durch die Auflösung staatlicher Souveränität begleitet. Insbesondere das »Dritte Reich« sei, wie er 1942 mit seiner bekannten Anspielung auf Thomas Hobbes und die beiden großen biblischen Ungeheuer schrieb, bereits nicht mehr der Leviathan des Gesellschaftsvertrags, sondern der Behemoth des neuen Naturzustands: ein »Unstaat«.53 Der Staat, so hatte er schon in seinem Aufsatz über den Funktionswandel des Gesetzes geschrieben, werde zu einer Institution, in der ein »Parallelogramm von Kräften« wirksam sei, er werde

49 Franz Neumann, Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Gesellschaft, in: Zeitschrift für Sozialforschung 6 (1937), 542–596, hier 594 f. Siehe auch Mattias Iser/David Strecker, Zerrissen zwischen Marxismus und Liberalismus? Franz L. Neumann und der »liberal turn« der Kritischen Theorie, in: dies. (Hgg.), Kritische Theorie der Politik, 9–38, hier 16. 50 Neumann, Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, bes. 582–588. Siehe auch Iser/Strecker, Zerrissen zwischen Marxismus und Liberalismus?, 16. 51 Neumann, Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, 584. 52 Ebd., 594. 53 Ders., Behemoth, 16 und 531–550.

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zu einer Gemeinschaft, »die sich organisch auf niederen Gemeinschaften« aufbaue. Die Gewalt, die dieser Staat ausübe, sei demzufolge »keine äußere mehr«, sodass die Souveränität entfalle. Sie sei stattdessen »die Gewalt der organisierten Gemeinschaft selbst«.54 Ohne Vermittlung, so die These, mag es zwar noch einen Souverän, aber keine Souveränität mehr geben. Im Behemoth benannte Neumann als Träger des Systems ein wechselndes Bündnissystem jener vier großen Machtblöcke, die er wenige Jahre später ins Zentrum der Ermittlungen der War Crimes Unit stellen sollte: Bürokratie, Partei, Militär und Industrie. Das waren, wie sein Schüler Raul Hilberg gern berichtete, exakt die Kategorien, nach denen wenig später die Akten der Nürnberger Folgeverfahren geordnet wurden: »NG für die staatlichen Dokumente der deutschen Bürokratie; NO für die Partei, inklusive der SS; NOKW – Oberkommando der Wehrmacht –, die gesammelten militärischen Dokumente; NI, die Dokumente der Industrie.«55 Doch nicht nur im nationalen Rahmen, sondern auch auf internationaler Ebene glaubte Franz Neumann, einen neuen Naturzustand zu erkennen. Durch die Anbindung von Fragen des Rechts an moralische Erwägungen und die Schaffung völkerrechtlicher Subjekte jenseits des Staats, so Neumann, würden die staatliche Souveränität und die bisherige völkerrechtliche Ordnung weiter untergraben. Auch gegen diese Entwicklung argumentierte der frühere »Linksschmittianer« nun vom Individuum ausgehend: So sei es gerade die Souveränität des Staats, die dem Einzelnen einen gewissen Schutz bieten könne, weil sie den Radius der Staatsgewalt begrenze.56 Denn Souveränität stelle, wie es im Behemoth heißt, »formale Rationalität in einer anarchischen Welt her«, schaffe »eine klare Abgrenzung der Machtsphären« und unterwerfe der »Gewalt des Staates nur diejenigen, die innerhalb und einige wenige (Staatsbürger), die außerhalb seines Territoriums leben«.57 Bei diesen Ausführungen dürften Neumann vor allem Hitlers berüchtigter Satz »Menschenrecht bricht Staatsrecht«,58 die deutsche Volkstumspolitik und die nationalsozialistische Auflösung des allgemeinen Rechts vor Augen gestanden haben. Dennoch sah er die von ihm beschriebene Entwicklung nicht auf den deutschen Machtbereich begrenzt. Das Naziregime verwirkliche die »juristischen Forderungen der Monopolisten« zwar »am reinsten«, wie er betonte,59 aber es sei nicht die einzige Kraft, die zur Auflösung von 54 Ders., Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, 588. 55 Raul Hilberg, Die bleibende Bedeutung des »Behemoth«, in: Iser/Strecker (Hgg.), Kritische Theorie der Politik, 75–82, hier 82. 56 Neumann, Behemoth, 212. 57 Ebd. 58 Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf. Eine kritische Edition, hg. im Auftrag des Instituts für Zeitgeschichte von Christian Hartmann u. a., 2 Bde., hier Bd. 1, München/Berlin 2016, 104 f. 59 Neumann, Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, 585.

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Souveränität und Recht beitrage. Neumann erinnerte sich in der Zeit, in der er an seinem Behemoth arbeitete, noch deutlich daran, dass die Tschechoslowakei mit Zustimmung Großbritanniens und Frankreichs zerschlagen worden war.60 Zugleich wusste er, dass der einst auch von ihm vertretene rechtswissenschaftliche Institutionalismus, den er spätestens seit Mitte der 1930er Jahre als die »juristische Ideologie des autoritären Staates«61 betrachtete, in Frankreich und Großbritannien ebenfalls überaus beliebt war.62 Kurz: Franz Neumann sah in der westlichen Welt eine ähnliche Entwicklung wie in Deutschland voranschreiten. Mit anderen Worten: Seine Skepsis gegenüber den im Vorfeld von Nürnberg erörterten Plänen einer menschenrechtlich grundierten Reformierung des Völkerrechts ging nicht zuletzt auf die Einordnung der juristischen Entwicklungen in Nazideutschland in den allgemeinen ökonomischen Umwälzungsprozess von der Konkurrenz- zur Monopolwirtschaft zurück. Ausgehend von einer teleologisch imprägnierten Verfallsgeschichte des Rechts beschrieb er jeden Versuch, Gesetz und Moral miteinander zu verbinden und staatliche Souveränität zurückzudrängen, als Ausdruck des gleichen juridischen Niedergangsprozesses, der in Deutschland zu beobachten war. Im Unterschied zu den in die Zukunft gerichteten Ideen, die etwa der Nürnberger Chefankläger Robert  H. Jackson mit dem internationalen Militärtribunal verfolgte, hatten Neumanns Vorstellungen damit einen retrospektiven Charakter. Sie zielten weniger auf die Schaffung einer neuen Völkerrechtsordnung als auf die Verteidigung der liberalen Prinzipien der Vergangenheit – den Schutz von Recht und Souveränität, die er ökonomisch längst ad acta gelegt glaubte. Auch diese könnten, wie er in traditioneller marxistischer Manier festhielt, zwar keine »wahre Allgemeinheit« herstellen.63 Wohl auch deshalb bezog sich der einstige Reformist nach 1933, nach mehr als 15 Jahren der Abstinenz, erstmals wieder positiv auf eine Revolution.64 Allerdings werde den Einzelnen aufgrund der negativen und abstrakten Allgemeinheit zumindest ein »Minimum an Freiheit« gewährt; den Schwachen würden »wenigstens rechtliche Chancen eingeräumt«.65 Das Recht, so betonte er nun gegen den Institutionalismus Schmitts, der insbesondere den verhüllenden Charakter des Rechts kritisierte, gehe nicht in seiner sozialen, ökonomischen oder politischen Form auf. Die Allgemeinheit des Gesetzes 60 61 62 63 64

Ders., Behemoth, 206 f. Ders., Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, 587. Ebd., 593. Ebd., 594. Ders., Zur marxistischen Staatstheorie, 139 f.; ders., Die Gewerkschaften in der Demokratie und in der Diktatur, 217–221. Siehe insgesamt Iser/Strecker, Zerrissen zwi­schen Marxismus und Liberalismus?, 15. 65 Neumann, Der Funktionswandel des Gesetzes im Recht der bürgerlichen Ordnung, 595.

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sei zwar auch, aber eben nicht nur Mittel zur Befriedigung der Bedürfnisse der freien Konkurrenz, sondern transzendiere seinen Klassencharakter. Diese Verweise auf die zwangsläufige Widersprüchlichkeit oder den Doppelcharakter des Rechts waren nicht weit entfernt von Max Horkheimers Bemerkung, das Recht sei ein »Mittel der Herrschaft«, das sich ihr zugleich entgegensetze – »als die Reflexion, an der sie sich entlarvt«.66 Neumanns veränderter Blick auf das Recht hatte zugleich Auswirkungen auf seine Einschätzung des Verhältnisses von Politik und Recht. Hatte er Letzteres mit Blick auf die Arbeiterbewegung bis dahin als Mittel zur Durchsetzung politischer Ziele begriffen, ging es ihm nun verstärkt um dessen Schutz  – durch Bildungsprogramme, die Schule oder die Einrichtung politikwissenschaftlicher Lehrstühle. Aus dem politisch argumentierenden Juristen wurde nicht allein aufgrund der finanziellen Notwendigkeiten des Exils, sondern auch aufgrund der Erfahrung der Zeit ein juristisch argumentierender Politologe. Es war die unmittelbar damit verbundene Verwandlung vom rechtssozialdemokratischen Kritiker des traditionellen bürgerlichen Rechts in seinen linkssozialistischen Verteidiger, die Franz Neumann so strikt auf der Trennung von Moral und Politik beharren ließ.67 Deshalb reagierte er im Vorfeld der Londoner Viermächtekonferenz, bei der die Alliierten das gemeinsame Vorgehen in Nürnberg abzustimmen versuchten, geradezu allergisch auf jeden Versuch, den Kurs der strikten Legalität zu verlassen:68 Winston Churchill hatte bereits im Kontext der Konferenz von Teheran vorgeschlagen, die führenden Nazis zu »Outlaws« zu erklären, Stalin forderte, die Mitglieder des deutschen Generalstabs kurzerhand zu erschießen.69 Auch deshalb empfahl Neumann schon vor seiner Tätigkeit für die War Crimes Unit des OSS, in deren Rahmen er die Londoner Konferenz mit vorbereitete, die Verfahren gegen Kriegsverbrecher nicht allein Militärtribunalen, sondern auch deutschen Gerichten zu überlassen:70 In diesem Vorgehen sah er für seine ehemaligen Landsleute die Möglichkeit, zu beweisen, dass sie sich von den Verbrechen ihrer einstigen Führung distanziert hätten. Er glaubte zugleich, dass auf diesem Weg die 1933 zertrüm66 Max Horkheimer, Die Rackets und der Geist (Aufzeichnungen und Entwürfe zur Dialektik der Aufklärung 1939–1942), in: ders., Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Alfred Schmidt und Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, 19 Bde., Frankfurt a. M. 1985–1996, hier Bd. 12: Nachgelassene Schriften 1931–1949, hg. von Gunzelin Schmid Noerr, Frankfurt a. M. 1985, 287–291, hier 290. 67 Neumann, Behemoth, 513. 68 Siehe Michael Salter, Nazi War Crimes, US Intelligence and Selective Prosecution at Nuremberg. Controversies Regarding the Role of the Office of Strategic Services, Abingdon/ New York 2007, 316. 69 Annette Weinke, Die Nürnberger Prozesse, 2., durchgesehene Aufl., München 2015, 11 f. 70 Franz Neumann, Probleme im Umgang mit Kriegsverbrechern (25. September 1944), in: ders./Marcuse/Kirchheimer, Im Kampf gegen Nazideutschland, 585–593, hier 591.

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merte liberale Staatlichkeit wiederhergestellt werden könne. Dieses Eintreten für die Rekonstruktion des Gesetzes verdeutlicht, dass Neumann trotz seiner Orientierung an einer universellen Verfallstheorie des Rechts sehr wohl zu unterscheiden wusste: zwischen faschistischen und liberalen Angriffen auf die Souveränität, nationalsozialistischer und westlicher Moral, Democratic and Authoritarian State – so der Titel eines 1957 postum von Herbert Marcuse herausgegebenen Bandes mit Neumanns Aufsätzen.71 Es dürfte nicht zuletzt diese allen Postulaten vom allgemeinen Niedergang des Rechts zum Trotz existierende Unterscheidungsfähigkeit gewesen sein, die Neumann entgegen allen Zweifeln dazu brachte, an den Nürnberger Prozessen mitzuwirken. Genau dieser Widerspruch verband ihn mit Adorno und Horkheimer, denen er in seiner Zeit am Institut für Sozialforschung in theoretischen Fragen nie sonderlich nahegestanden hatte: Auch sie sprachen in der Dialektik der Aufklärung, die sie zur selben Zeit beendeten, als im OSS mit der Planung von Kriegsverbrecherprozessen begonnen wurde, vom allgemeinen Verfall der westlichen Zivilisation, ohne zu erwähnen, warum sie diesen Prozess in Amerika und nicht in Deutschland reflektieren konnten. In ihren Handlungen hielten sie jedoch stets das Bewusstsein des Unterschieds fest.72 Historische Erfahrung verschafft sich zunächst oft weniger in direkter als in sekundärer Form Geltung.

Die Speerspitzentheorie Franz Neumanns Beteiligung an der Vorbereitung der Nürnberger Prozesse mag noch durch einen weiteren, weniger offenkundigen Widerspruch seines Werks befördert worden sein. So wurde er schon vor seiner Ernennung zum Leiter der War Crimes Unit des OSS damit beauftragt, ein Konzept für die geplanten Prozesse gegen Naziverbrecher zu erarbeiten. Dabei ging es vor allem darum, rechtswissenschaftliche Argumente für eine Anklage zu entwickeln und, direkt damit verbunden, die schwierige Frage des juristischen Rückwirkungsverbots  – »nulla poena sine lege« (keine Strafe ohne Gesetz) – theoretisch angemessen zu beantworten.73 Unterstützung erhielt er von Otto Kirchheimer, zeitweise auch von John H. Herz, einem 1938 nach

71 Ders., The Democratic and Authoritarian State, hg. von Herbert Marcuse, New York 1957 (dt.: Demokratischer und autoritärer Staat. Beiträge zur Soziologie der Politik, Frankfurt a. M. 1967). 72 Siehe hierzu auch Jan Gerber, Gedichte nach Auschwitz. Die Kritische Theorie und der Holocaust, in: Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 26 (2017), 253–276. 73 Siehe zum Folgenden insgesamt Raffaele Laudani, Einleitung, in: Neumann/Marcuse/ Kirchheimer, Im Kampf gegen Nazideutschland, 38–66.

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Amerika emigrierten Schüler Hans Kelsens. Allein bis Ende Mai 1945 stellte der Kreis um Neumann dem Büro Robert H. Jacksons, dem er als »First Chief of Research« zugeteilt war, 25 Prozessschriftsätze, eine Liste der anzuklagenden Hauptkriegsverbrecher und einen »dry run«, einen Probelauf des Prozesses gegen Hermann Göring, zur Verfügung.74 Mit dessen Hilfe sollte geprüft werden, ob sich die Anklagestrategie umsetzen lassen würde. In Europa, wo Neumann zunächst in London, dann in Paris, Wiesbaden und schließlich in Nürnberg selbst tätig war, trug seine Einheit weitere Akten zusammen, befragte Zeugen und schrieb Dossiers. Wie stark diese Einheit das Konzept der Prozesse letztendlich beeinflusste, lässt sich angesichts der Vielzahl an Beteiligten und des teilweise kollektiven Aushandlungsverfahrens nur bedingt feststellen:75 Neumanns Gruppe war im Grunde nur ein Teil des Anklägerteams um Jackson und ihre Wirkung auf die Prozessführung selbst scheint eher gering gewesen zu sein.76 Die von der War Crimes Unit erstellten Dossiers erschienen der Anklagevertretung, die vor allem an Fragen individueller Schuld interessiert war, aufgrund ihrer weiten historischen, politischen und soziologischen Ausholbewegungen oft als wenig brauchbar. Das erklärte zumindest Jacksons Assistent Telford Taylor, der in den Nürnberger Nachfolgeprozessen als Hauptankläger wirkte, in seinen Erinnerungen.77 Aber auch die Kompetenzstreitigkeiten zwischen Militärgerichtsbarkeit und Geheimdienst, die sich in Auseinandersetzungen zwischen Jackson und William  J. Donovan, Neumanns direktem Vorgesetzten, äußerten, sowie die persönlichen Konflikte zwischen Neumann und Jackson, der den Behemoth sicher gelesen hatte, dürften der Akzeptanz der OSS-Untersuchungen nicht förderlich gewesen sein. Taylor erinnerte sich noch Jahre später daran, dass Jackson die Empfehlungen der Neumann-Gruppe, wer als Hauptangeklagter behandelt werden sollte, mehrfach ohne jeden ersichtlichen Grund unberücksichtigt gelassen hatte.78

74 Ebd., 60; Claire Hulme/Michael Salter, The Nazi’s Persecution of Religion as a War Crime. The OSS’s Response within the Nuremberg Trials Process, in: Rutgers Journal of Law and Religion 3 (2001/02), ˂http://www.lawandreligion.com/sites/law-religion/files/ Nazi-Persecution-HulmeSalter.pdf˃ (5.  Januar 2019). Bei Hulme und Salter findet sich auch ein genauer zeitlicher Abriss von Neumanns Tätigkeit für die War Crimes Unit. 75 Siehe insgesamt auch Joachim Perels, Franz L. Neumanns Beitrag zur Konzipierung der Nürnberger Prozesse, in: Iser/Strecker (Hgg.), Kritische Theorie der Politik, 83–94; Salter, Nazi War Crimes, US Intelligence and Selective Prosecution at Nuremberg; Hulme/Salter, The Persecution of Religion as a War Crime. 76 Siehe auch Perels, Franz  L. Neumanns Beitrag zur Konzipierung der Nürnberger Pro­ zesse, 85. 77 Telford Taylor, Die Nürnberger Prozesse. Hintergründe, Analysen und Erkenntnisse aus heutiger Sicht. 50 Jahre danach, München 21994, 69. 78 Ebd., 117.

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Gerade in der Frage, die Neumann aufgrund seiner Interpretation des Nationalsozialismus als vollendetem Ausdruck monopolistischer Herrschaft am bedeutendsten erschien, blieben die Dossiers seiner Gruppe gänzlich unbeachtet.79 Mehr noch: Die Mitglieder der War Crimes Unit des OSS waren von den Diskussionen über die ökonomischen Ursachen des Nationalsozialismus restlos ausgeschlossen. Es waren nicht zuletzt solche Unstimmigkeiten, die Neumann früher als geplant in die Vereinigten Staaten zurückkehren ließen.80 Am deutlichsten war der Einfluss der War Crimes Unit ausgerechnet in einer inzwischen überaus umstrittenen Frage. So erklärte Robert H. Jackson in seiner großen Eröffnungsansprache vor dem Internationalen Militärgerichtshof am 21.  November 1945, dass der nationalsozialistische Antisemitismus zutreffend als »Speerspitze des Schreckens« (»spearhead of terror«) bezeichnet worden sei: Er habe der Einschüchterung aller anderen Bevölkerungsgruppen gedient.81 Hier war Neumann deutlich zu hören. Der Leiter der War Crimes Unit galt innerhalb des Geheimdiensts durchaus zu Recht als Erfinder der sogenannten Speerspitzentheorie. Die Verfolgung der Juden, so hatte er ab 1943 in diversen OSS-Papieren formuliert, sei »lediglich das Vorspiel zu noch vielen anderen, nicht weniger schrecklichen kommenden Dingen«.82 Auch aufgrund solcher Äußerungen wurde Neumann in den letzten Jahren gelegentlich dafür verantwortlich gemacht, dass der Militärgerichtshof die Tragweite des Holocaust nicht angemessen berücksichtigt habe.83 So war die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden in Nürnberg zwar ein Thema: Auch dank der Lobbyarbeit des Institute of Jewish Affairs, das bald über enge Kontakte zum OSS verfügte,84 enthielt die Anklageschrift einige explizite Verweise auf die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden. Zudem wurde Filmmaterial über die Zerstörung des Warschauer Gettos gezeigt, das Neumanns

79 Siehe hierzu und zum Folgenden Laudani, Einleitung, 63 f. 80 Zur Rückkehr siehe Hulme/Salter, The Persecution of Religion as a War Crime. 81 Robert Jackson, Nuremberg Trials. Opening Address for the United States (1946), (5. Januar 2019). 82 Siehe etwa Franz Neumann, Antisemitismus. Die Speerspitze allumfassenden Terrors (18. Mai 1943), in: ders./Marcuse/Kirchheimer, Im Kampf gegen Nazideutschland, 69–73; ders., Behemoth, 582. 83 Shlomo Aronson, Preparations for the Nuremberg Trial. The O.S.S., Charles Dwork, and the Holocaust, in: Holocaust and Genocide Studies 12 (1998), H. 2, 257–281, hier 269; Richard Breitman, Staatsgeheimnisse. Die Verbrechen der Nazis – von den Alliierten to­ leriert, aus dem Engl. übers. von Ursel Schäfer und Heike Schlatterer, München 1999, 317 f. Siehe auch Laudani, Einleitung, 60. 84 Weinke, Gewalt, Geschichte, Gerechtigkeit, 129. Zur Rolle des OSS bei der juristischen Aufarbeitung der Vernichtung in Nürnberg siehe insgesamt Michael Salter, US Intelligence, the Holocaust and the Nuremberg Trials. Seeking Accountability for Genocide and Cultural Plunder, 2 Bde., Leiden/Boston, Mass., 2009.

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Team besorgt hatte; mehrere Zeugen sagten aus.85 Allerdings wurde dem Holocaust in Nürnberg weder eine herausgehobene Bedeutung zugewiesen, noch wurde dessen besonderer Charakter betont.86 Dennoch führen die postumen Vorwürfe gegen Neumann am Gegenstand vorbei. Zwar ließ seine universalistische Fixierung auf die Allgemeinheit des Gesetzes, die von den Nazis zerstört wurde, tatsächlich nur bedingt die Möglichkeit zu, eine besondere Gruppe und nicht die Allgemeinheit selbst als zentrales Opfer des Nationalsozialismus auszumachen. Sein an den Maßstäben von Rechtsprechung und Gesetzgebung geschultes Denken zielte fast zwangsläufig weniger auf Differenzierung als auf Verallgemeinerbarkeit  – ein Umstand, der auch für den Begriff Genozid gilt, den Neumanns Kollege Raphael Lemkin, der Robert  H. Jackson in Nürnberg ebenfalls assistierte, seit Anfang der 1940er Jahre entwickelte.87 Darüber hinaus existierten in der von der Rationalität des Rechts und der Ökonomie geprägten Gedankenwelt des früheren Gewerkschaftsanwalts – wenn überhaupt – nur in beschränktem Maß Kategorien, mit denen das geradezu gegenrationale Vorgehen der Nazis gefasst werden konnte. Wohl auch deshalb bemühte sich Neumann immer wieder darum, Entwicklungen, die sich gegen das Prinzip der Berechenbarkeit sperrten, in eine höhere Rationalität einzuordnen:88 So galt ihm die Zerstörung der Rationalität des Rechts im Nationalsozialismus, die er im Behemoth akribisch beschrieb, als Ausdruck der ökonomischen Rationalität der Monopolwirtschaft. Als er Jahre später den letzten Teil der Magisterarbeit seines Schülers Raul Hilberg las, in dem dieser über die ausweglose Situation der Juden geschrieben hatte, die von den Nazis zu den Agenten der eigenen Vernichtung gemacht worden waren, reagierte er entsprechend schockiert: »Das kann man nicht ertragen, das müssen Sie herausnehmen«, erklärte er ohne weitere Begründung.89 Er konnte sich mit der Abwesenheit jeglicher Rationalität, die auf der Opferseite ein berechnendes Verhalten aussichtslos machte, nicht abfinden.90

85 Henry  J. Kellerman, Settling Accounts. The Nuremberg Trials, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 42 (1997), 337–355, hier 346 f. 86 Zu dieser Frage siehe bes. Weinke, Die Nürnberger Prozesse, 47–53. 87 Siehe zu diesem Komplex auch Anson Rabinbach, Begriffe aus dem Kalten Krieg. Totalitarismus, Antifaschismus, Genozid, Göttingen 2009, 48. 88 Siehe z. B. Neumann, Behemoth, 194. 89 Raul Hilberg/Alfons Söllner, Das Schweigen zum Sprechen bringen. Ein Gespräch über Franz Neumann und die Entwicklung der Holocaust-Forschung, in: Dan Diner (Hg.), Zi­ vilisationsbruch. Denken nach Auschwitz, Frankfurt a. M. 1988, 175–200, hier 178. 90 Dan Diner, Von »Gesellschaft« zu »Gedächtnis«. Über historische Paradigmenwechsel, in: ders., Gedächtniszeiten. Über jüdische und andere Geschichten, München 2003, 7–15, hier 10 f.

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Trotzdem war Neumanns Urteil über die Verfolgung und Vernichtung der europäischen Juden weniger der déformation professionelle oder idéologique eines Einzelnen als den allgemeinen Grenzen der Wahrnehmung geschuldet, die bereits in der Tat selbst begründet liegen.91 Die geschichtspolitischen Erwägungen der Anti-Hitler-Koalition taten ein Übriges, um den Holocaust nicht ins Zentrum der Argumentation des Militärgerichtshofs rücken zu lassen.92 Nicht zuletzt waren die Alliierten mit Blick auf antisemitische Stimmungen in der Heimat darum bemüht, den Eindruck zu vermeiden, dass der Krieg für Juden geführt worden sei. Zudem war Großbritannien aufgrund der Konflikte, die sich in seinem Mandatsgebiet Palästina abzeichneten, daran gelegen, nicht als Schutzmacht der Juden zu erscheinen. Für Frankreich, das in Nürnberg für die Verhandlung des neuen Tatbestands der »Verbrechen gegen die Menschlichkeit« zuständig war, wäre die Schwerpunktverlagerung auf den Holocaust mit der Gefahr verbunden gewesen, den französischen Anteil an der Deportation von Juden darlegen zu müssen. Bei genauer Betrachtung fällt überdies auf, dass Franz Neumanns Denken keineswegs im Funktionalismus der Speerspitzentheorie aufging. Seine Aussagen über den berechnenden Aspekt der nationalsozialistischen Judenpolitik wurden schon früh von relativierenden, sogar gegenläufigen Erklärungen begleitet. So war neben der Behauptung, dass die Juden »lediglich als Versuchskaninchen« für den allgemeinen Terror dienen würden, bereits 1943 zu lesen, nichts anderes stehe so »beständig im Vordergrund der nationalsozialistischen Weltanschauung und Aktivitäten« wie der Antisemitismus.93 Dem Satz, dass der Antisemitismus genutzt werde, um die »Methoden der Repression zu testen«, reichte er umgehend die Erklärung nach, dass wahrscheinlich nur die Juden diese Rolle einnehmen könnten.94 Die Zweifel, die in Neumanns engstem politischen und persönlichen Umfeld an der These formuliert wurden, dürften seine eigene Unsicherheit verstärkt haben. Es kann ihm nicht entgangen sein, dass sich Herbert Marcuse, mit dem er eng befreundet war, äußerst skeptisch dazu äußerte. In einem Brief an Max Horkheimer erklärte Marcuse schon im Sommer 1943, dass die Speerspitzentheorie dringend überarbeitet

91 Siehe ders., Gestaute Zeit. Massenvernichtung und jüdische Erzählstruktur, in: ders.: Kreisläufe. Nationalsozialismus und Gedächtnis, Berlin 1995, 123–139, hier 127. 92 Siehe hierzu und zum Folgenden Weinke, Die Nürnberger Prozesse, 47–53. 93 Neumann, Antisemitismus. Die Speerspitze des Terrors, 70. 94 Ders., Behemoth, 582. Diese Passage folgt weitgehend den Ausführungen eines OSS-Pa­ piers von 1943, weist dennoch kleinere Unterschiede auf.

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werden müsse.95 Leo Löwenthal war von Neumanns Theorie geradezu entsetzt.96 Die Erosion der Speerspitzentheorie, die sich bei Neumann ebenfalls vor allem in sekundärer Form bemerkbar machte, hatte weitreichende Folgen. Zumindest für seinen engsten Freundeskreis lässt sich zeigen, dass der Argwohn gegenüber den Deutschen in dem Maß wuchs, in dem sich die funktionalistischen Theorien des Antisemitismus als untauglich erwiesen. Denn in der Tat zeigte sich die Integration weiter Teile der Bevölkerung ins Naziregime an kaum einem Verbrechen so deutlich wie an der Verfolgung und Vernichtung der europäischen Juden. Neumanns Freund und ehemaliger Anwaltskollege Ernst Fraenkel zerschnitt nach eigener Aussage 1943, als sich die Gerüchte über die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden zur Gewissheit verdichteten, das Band zwischen Deutschland und sich.97 Ein »sehr erheblicher Teil der deutschen Bevölkerung«, schrieb er in der Zeit des Nürnberger Hauptkriegsverbrecherprozesses, habe das Vorgehen gegen die Juden gebilligt.98 Für Neumann selbst spricht Alfons Söllner, der wohl beste Kenner seines Werks, von einem tiefen »Misstrauen gegen die Deutschen«.99 Ihm war die Vorstellung einer »historischen Kollektivschuld« nach dem Krieg nicht mehr so fremd wie noch zu Beginn.100 Ebenso wie Fraenkel, der seine Entscheidung allerdings 1951 rückgängig machte, beschloss Franz Neumann, auf keinen Fall nach Deutschland zurückzukehren.101  95 Herbert Marcuse an Max Horkheimer, 28. Juli 1943, in: Max Horkheimer, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 17: Briefwechsel 1941–1948, Frankfurt a. M. 1996, 468.  96 Leo Löwenthal an Herbert Marcuse, 29.  Juni 1943, in: Peter-Erwin Jansen (Hg.), Das Utopische soll Funken schlagen … Zum hundertsten Geburtstag von Leo Löwenthal, Frankfurt a. M. 2000, 100–114. Insgesamt Laudani, Einleitung; Tim B. Müller, Herbert Marcuse, die Frankfurter Schule und der Holocaust. Ein Beitrag zur zeitgenössischen Wahrnehmung der nationalsozialistischen Vernichtungspolitik (unveröff. Magisterarbeit, Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg, 2004).  97 Ernst Fraenkel an Otto und Susanne Suhr, 23. März 1946, in: Ernst Fraenkel, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 3: Neuaufbau der Demokratie in Deutschland und Korea, hg. von Gerhard Göhler unter Mitarb. von Dirk Rüdiger Schumann, Baden-Baden 1999, 389–395, hier 391 f. Zu Fraenkels Haltung nach 1945 siehe insgesamt Michael Wildt, Die Angst vor dem Volk. Ernst Fraenkel in der deutschen Nachkriegsgesellschaft, in: Monika Boll/Raphael Gross (Hgg.), »Ich staune, dass Sie in dieser Luft atmen können«. Jüdische Intellektuelle in Deutschland nach 1945, Frankfurt a. M. 2013, 317–344.  98 Ernst Fraenkel an Otto und Susanne Suhr, 23.  März 1946, in: Fraenkel, Gesammelte Schriften, Bd. 3, 389–395, hier 392.  99 Alfons Söllner, Von der Reform zur Resignation? Zur Veröffentlichung vorbereitetes Manuskript. Söllner geht sogar so weit, die Resignation, von der oft für die letzten Le­ bensjahre Neumanns gesprochen wird, als Folge eines »Überlebenskomplexes« zu deuten, der der Einsicht in die Epistemik des Holocaust geschuldet war. Ebd. 100 Ders., Vom Reformismus zur Resignation? Franz  L. Neumann als »political scholar« (Vorwort zur Neuausgabe), in: Neumann, Behemoth, III–XXXVI, hier XXXIII. 101 Siehe ders., Neumann als Archetypus, 51. Alfons Söllner bezieht sich hier auf ein Gespräch mit Susan Rose, Neumanns Schwester.

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Schluss Ohne es offen auszusprechen, revidierte Neumann mit seiner biografischen Entscheidung, nicht ins Land der Täter zu remigrieren, eine der theoretischen Grundannahmen des Behemoth. Denn auch wenn er in seiner großen Studie mit zahlreichen faschismustheoretischen Traditionen gebrochen hatte, war seine Herrschaftsanalyse überaus konventionell: Er war von einem großen Antagonismus zwischen der Führung und der Bevölkerung des »Dritten Reichs« ausgegangen. Diese langjährige Überzeugung war zugleich die Voraussetzung seiner regelmäßig erhobenen Forderung gewesen, Nazi- und Kriegsverbrecher nach der Kapitulation an die deutsche Justiz zu übergeben. Unter Verweis auf das Scheitern der Leipziger Prozesse, mit denen deutsche Kriegsverbrecher nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg auf Wunsch der Alliierten vom Reichsgericht juristisch zur Verantwortung gezogen werden sollten, waren im Kreis um Neumann bereits ab 1943 Zweifel daran geäußert worden, dass die nationalsozialistischen Untaten auf diesem Weg angemessen geahndet werden könnten.102 Mit dem Zerfall des Glaubens an einen tiefen Graben zwischen Deutschen und Nazis verlor die Forderung jedoch allmählich ihre Basis. Vor diesem Hintergrund dürften die Nürnberger Prozesse Neumann als zwar ungenügende, aber einzige Möglichkeit erschienen sein, den nationalsozialistischen Verbrechen in vertretbarer Weise nachzugehen. »Ich bin zum Leiter der War Crimes Unit des OSS in Europa ernannt worden«, schrieb er dementsprechend im Sommer 1945 an Max Horkheimer. »Ich bin nicht begierig auf diese Ernennung«, so ergänzte er, »aber man muss seine Pflicht erfüllen.«103 Wohl auch deshalb sprach Franz Neumann später nie völlig negativ über seine Mitwirkung an den Prozessen: Nachdem Raul Hilberg 1950 seine Magisterarbeit über die Rolle der deutschen Bürokratie an der Vernichtung der europäischen Juden fertiggestellt hatte, reichte ihr Gutachter Neumann den Text an Telford Taylor weiter und kommentierte ihn mit den stolzen Worten, dass es sich um die erste Studie handle, die ganz auf den Nürnberger Prozessen basiere.104 Seine grundsätzliche Kritik an der Konzeption der Prozesse nahm er jedoch nie zurück. Noch 1949 erklärte er in einem Aufsatz nicht

102 Otto Kirchheimer/John Herz, Das »Statement on Atrocities« der Moskauer Dreimächtekonferenz (10.  Dezember 1943), in: Neumann/Marcuse/Kirchheimer, Im Kampf gegen Nazideutschland, 577–583, hier 582. 103 Franz Neumann an Max Horkheimer, 26. Juni 1945, zit. nach Hulme/Salter, The Persecution of Religion as a War Crime (Übersetzung aus dem Engl. vom Verfasser). 104 Hilberg/Söllner, Das Schweigen zum Sprechen bringen.

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ganz zu Unrecht, dass die Arbeit der Militärtribunale ebenso viele Probleme aufgeworfen wie gelöst habe.105 Auch in anderer Hinsicht blieben seine Positionen widersprüchlich. Zwar revidierte er bis zu seinem frühen Unfalltod 1954 einige weitere traditionsmarxistische Aussagen des Behemoth.106 Alfons Söllner vermutet sogar, dass sich Neumann gegen die Übersetzung des Buches ins Deutsche entschied, weil er ahnte, dass seine Analyse insbesondere den nationalsozialistischen Verbrechen, allen voran der Vernichtung der europäischen Juden, nicht gerecht geworden war.107 Zugleich wandte sich der frühere Antifreudianer psychoanalytischen Fragen zu, die er noch Anfang der 1940er Jahre strikt abgelehnt hatte:108 Wenn ökonomische Erklärungen nicht mehr befriedigen, schlägt die Stunde der Psychologie. Insgesamt zeigte sich Franz Neumann in seinem Denken jedoch weiterhin zutiefst zerrissen zwischen Marxismus und Liberalismus, Optimismus und Pessimismus, faschismustheoretischer Verallgemeinerung und erfahrungsgesättigter Differenzierung. Mit dieser Widersprüchlichkeit, die seinen Sohn später davon sprechen ließ, dass er besiegt worden sei  – andere nannten es Resignation109  –, stand er jedoch keineswegs allein. Sie war, wie Ernst Loewy, der Deutschland ebenfalls in den 1930er Jahren verlassen hatte, einmal erklärte, der angemessene Ausdruck »der Not des europäischen Intellektuellen« in der Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts.110

105 Franz Neumann, The War Crimes Trials, in: World Politics 2 (1949), H. 1, 135–147, hier 135. 106 Ders., Angst und Politik (1954), in: ders., Wirtschaft, Staat, Demokratie, 424–459; ders., Ökonomie und Politik im zwanzigsten Jahrhundert (1955), in: ders., Demokratischer und autoritärer Staat, 171–183. 107 Söllner, Vom Reformismus zur Resignation?, XXXIII. 108 Bes. ders., Angst und Politik. 109 Rainer Erd, Vorwort, in: ders. (Hg.), Reform und Resignation, 7–15, hier 12; John Herz (Gesprächsbeitrag), in: ebd., 232. 110 Ernst Loewy, »Lessing und Spira«. Zu einem Romanfragment von Louis Fürnberg, in: ders., Zwischen den Stühlen. Essays und Autobiographisches aus 50  Jahren, Hamburg 1995, 185–212, hier 209.

Literaturbericht

Katharina Stengel

Opferzeugen in NS-Prozessen: Juristische Zeugenschaft zwischen Beweis, Quelle, Trauma und Aporie Im Laufe der Nachkriegszeit sagten Tausende ehemalige KZ-Häftlinge und Holocaustüberlebende in Prozessen gegen die Täter aus, in aller Regel freiwillig und aus Überzeugung. Die Bedeutung, die ihre Aussagen als Beitrag zur strafrechtlichen oder historischen Aufklärung erlangten, und die öffentliche Wahrnehmung ihrer Zeugenschaft variierten je nach Kontext, Zeitpunkt und Sitz der Gerichte erheblich. Ähnlich stark wichen die Be­schreibungen und Einschätzungen der juristischen Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden in der Literatur voneinander ab. Die Zeugenschaft des Holocaust und anderer NS-Verbrechen, im Sinne des Bekundens und Dokumentierens der selbst erfahrenen Gewalt, entstand nicht vor Gericht. Sie hat eine Geschichte, die in die Zeit der Verfolgung und Vernichtung zurückreicht. In der frühen Nachkriegszeit wurde die Arbeit des Bezeugens der nationalsozialistischen Gewaltgeschichte vor allem von den Jüdischen Historischen Kommissionen angestoßen und danach mit den Sammlungstätigkeiten anderer Institutionen wie Yad Vashem, der Wiener Library oder dem Staatlichen Museum Auschwitz fortgesetzt.1 Die Schreibenden und Sammelnden reagierten damit auf die Erfahrung einer präzedenzlosen Verfolgung und Auslöschung, die die Menschen, ihre Gemeinden, Einrichtungen und Archive und damit auch die Fundamente der Erinnerung umfasste. Vom Moment der Befreiung an gab es vielerorts eine Verzahnung von Dokumentation und Strafverfolgung, mit der die Zeugenschaft eine juristische Funktion bekam, die sie in den Augen der Bezeugenden und Sammelnden auch bekommen sollte. Vor allem aber wurde der Gerichtssaal der Ort, an dem diese Zeugenschaft eine öffentlich wahrnehmbare Form erhielt. Der Überlebende im Zeugenstand, der im Angesicht der Täter vor einem um Wahrheit bemühten Gericht und einer schockierten Öffentlichkeit von seinen individuellen Erfahrungen und Erinnerungen spricht, wurde eine prototypi­ sche Figur der Zeugenschaft. Die NS-Prozesse hatten darüber hinaus große Bedeutung für das Bild, das sich die internationale Öffentlichkeit von Krieg und Verfolgung machte. Die Entwicklungen, die die Zeugenschaft der Über1 Siehe Laura Jockusch, Collect and Record! Jewish Holocaust Documentation in Early Postwar Europe, Oxford 2012. JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 577–610.

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lebenden und ihre öffentliche Wahrnehmung durchmachten, sind eng verbunden mit der Geschichte der Strafverfolgung der NS-Täter. Die bekanntesten Verfahren, die für ihre Zeit ein Bild der Zeugenschaft markierten, sind der Nürnberger Hauptkriegsverbrecherprozess 1945/46 (mit einer Margina­ lisierung der Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden), der Eichmann-Prozess 1961 (mit der »Entstehung des Zeitzeugen«2 im israelischen und internationalen Kontext) und der erste Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess 1963–1965 (mit der erstmaligen Sichtbarkeit der Überlebenden im bundesdeutschen Kontext). Es ließen sich weitere Beispiele anfügen, die die Bedeutung der NS-Prozesse für die Wahrnehmung von Opfern, Tätern und Taten in ganz verschiedenen zeitlichen und nationalen Kontexten anzeigen.3 Sie liefern allerdings uneindeutige Ergebnisse hinsichtlich des jeweiligen Ausmaßes öffentlicher Aufmerksamkeit für die Opferzeugen. Mit den 1970er und vor allem den 1980er Jahren setzte ein grundlegender Wahrnehmungswandel der Zeugenschaft des Holocaust ein. Nicht mehr der Prozesszeuge, sondern der »Zeitzeuge« ist nun die dominierende Figur der Zeugenschaft, die damit auch ihre Formen und Funktionen deutlich verändert hat.4 Die Überlebenden waren nun nicht mehr aufgerufen, Beweise für die Verbrechen zu liefern, sondern mit ihrer authentischen Stimme die Vergangenheit zu vergegenwärtigen. Viele Disziplinen haben sich in den vergangenen Jahrzehnten mit der Zeugenschaft der NS-Verfolgten befasst und dabei eine vielgestaltige Forschungsliteratur hervorgebracht, die juristische Zeugenschaft blieb dabei jedoch, von wenigen Ereignissen wie dem Eichmann-Prozess abgesehen, ein vergleichsweise wenig beachteter Aspekt. Die Zeugenschaft vor Gericht wird zunächst selbstverständlich in der kri­ minologischen und juristischen Literatur, in Hand- und Lehrbüchern behandelt, wobei der Schwerpunkt auf strafprozessualen Fragen und Glaubwürdigkeitsprüfungen liegt. Dass sich Rechtswissenschaft oder Rechtsgeschichte dieses Themas annahmen, war eine Ausnahme. In der Geschichtswissenschaft wird die Zeugenschaft in NS-Prozessen in verschiedenen Bereichen diskutiert: Die Holocaustforschung nimmt implizit oder explizit Stellung

2 Siehe Annette Wieviorka, Die Entstehung des Zeugen, in: Gary Smith (Hg.), Hannah Arendt Revisited. »Eichmann in Jerusalem« und die Folgen, Frankfurt a. M. 2000, 136– 159. 3 Siehe etwa für die Sowjetunion: Tanja Penter, »Das Urteil des Volkes«. Der Kriegsverbrecherprozess von Krasnodar 1943, in: Osteuropa 60 (2010), H. 12, 117–131. Für die frühe Bundesrepublik: Kay Boyle, Der rauchende Berg. Geschichten aus Nachkriegsdeutschland, Frankfurt a. M. 1991 (zuerst engl.: The Smoking Mountain. Stories of Postwar Germany, New York 1951); darin eine Reportage über den Prozess gegen Heinrich Baab in Frankfurt a. M. 1950, 15–90. 4 Siehe zur Figur des Zeitzeugen die Beiträge in: Martin Sabrow/Norbert Frei (Hgg.), Die Geburt des Zeitzeugen nach 1945, Göttingen 2012.

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zum Quellenwert der Aussagen. Die zeitgeschichtlichen Arbeiten zur Vergangenheitspolitik und zur juristischen Ahndung der NS-Verbrechen streifen meist auch die Verfolgten und Prozesszeugen und sprechen von den zeitgenössischen Bedingungen der Beschäftigung mit den NS-Verbrechen. Daneben gibt es inzwischen Studien über einzelne Prozesse oder »Tatkomplexe«, in denen die NS-Verfolgten als Akteure stärker im Fokus stehen. Eine Sonderstellung nimmt die Forschung zum Eichmann-Prozess ein, die seit Langem die Rolle der Prozesszeugen ins Zentrum stellt. Zum kommunikativen Setting der Gerichtsverfahren existieren sprachwissenschaftliche, soziologische und diskurstheoretische Arbeiten. Die umfangreiche Literatur zur Zeugenschaft des Holocaust, die aus den Kulturwissenschaften und der Philosophie – mit Übergängen in die Psychoanalyse und Traumaforschung – stammt, behandelt die juristische Zeugenschaft meist als Negativfolie.

Justiz, Kriminologie und Rechtsgeschichte – Zeugenschaft als Problem der Glaubwürdigkeit Für Zeuginnen und Zeugen, die gleichzeitig Verbrechensopfer waren, gab es im bundesdeutschen Strafverfahren bis in die 1980er Jahre keine besonderen Rechte. Streng genommen kannte die Strafjustiz keine Opferzeugen.5 Zeugen gelten im Strafverfahren als ein oft unverzichtbares, aber unzuverlässiges Beweismittel.6 Der juristische Idealfall des Zeugen ist ein neutraler und interessenloser Beobachter, den es gerade in NS-Prozessen fast nie gab. Wenn Zeugen gleichzeitig Opfer der Handlungen des Angeklagten waren, änderte das an ihrem Status vor Gericht nichts, es schränkte aber tendenziell ihre Glaubwürdigkeit ein, da sie als voreingenommen galten.7 Die Glaubwürdigkeit der Zeugen und ihrer Aussagen wird an verschiedenen Kriterien bemessen, die sich teils auf die Person, teils auf deren Berichte beziehen. Geprüft wird zunächst, ob der Zeuge überhaupt in der Lage war, die von ihm beschriebenen Gescheh5

Siehe Thomas Weigend, Viktimologische und kriminalpolitische Überlegungen zur Stellung des Verletzten im Strafverfahren, in: Zeitschrift für die gesamte Strafrechtswissenschaft 96 (1984), H. 3, 761–793. 6 Siehe etwa Rolf Bender/Susanne Röder/Armin Nack, Tatsachenfeststellung vor Gericht, 2 Bde., hier Bd. 1: Glaubwürdigkeits- und Beweislehre, München 1981; Robert Hauser, Der Zeugenbeweis im Strafprozeß mit Berücksichtigung des Zivilprozesses, Zürich 1974; Ursula Panhuysen, Die Untersuchung des Zeugen auf seine Glaubwürdigkeit. Ein Beitrag zur Stellung des Zeugen im Strafprozeß, Berlin 1964. 7 Siehe Hauser, Der Zeugenbeweis im Strafprozeß mit Berücksichtigung des Zivilpro­ zesses, 70; Bender/Röder/Nack, Tatsachenfeststellung vor Gericht, Bd. 1, 72; ebd., Bd. 2: Vernehmungslehre, München 1981, 171.

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nisse wahrzunehmen und zu erinnern. Seine persönliche Glaubhaftigkeit wird anhand seiner Aussagemotive, seiner Biografie und seines Verhaltens vor Gericht beurteilt.8 Bei der Prüfung der Glaubhaftigkeit der Aussagen sind zentrale Kriterien die Eigenständigkeit des Be­richts, die sachliche und psychologische Stimmigkeit, der Detailreichtum, die Übereinstimmung mit anderen Aussagen sowie die Widerspruchsfreiheit und Konstanz (auch im Vergleich mit anderen, Jahre zurückliegenden Aussagen).9 Diese oft unscharfen Kriterien begegnen einem vielfach in den Urteilsbegründungen der NS-Prozesse.10 Die Prüfung der Glaubwürdigkeit des Zeugen obliegt den Richtern, die in »freier Beweiswürdigung« darüber zu entscheiden haben.11 Dass sich hier, auch im Hinblick auf die speziellen Konstellationen der NS-Prozesse, Räume auftun für kaum objektivierbare Entscheidungen und für fragwürdige Beurteilungen der Zeugen, ist offenkundig. Die Interaktions- und Kommunikationsformen vor Gericht, ebenso die richterlichen Glaubwürdigkeitsprüfungen und Urteilsfindungen werden seit vielen Jahren in der Soziologie, Rechtsgeschichte, Linguistik und Psychologie untersucht und problematisiert. Direkte Bezüge zu NS-Prozessen finden sich hier zwar kaum, dafür aber zahlreiche analytische Instrumente, die auf das – je nach theoretischem Hintergrund – diskursive oder kommunikative Setting der Gerichtsverfahren und seine sprachlichen, sozialen und räumlichen Ordnungen zielen.12   8 Siehe Bender/Röder/Nack, Tatsachenfeststellung vor Gericht, Bd. 1, 62–90.   9 Siehe ebd., 90–160; Panhuysen, Die Untersuchung des Zeugen auf seine Glaubwürdigkeit, 34–39. Durch neue Erkenntnisse der Aussagepsychologie haben sich die Kriterien der Glaubwürdigkeit und die Richtlinien für Vernehmungen in den vergangenen Jahrzehnten verändert; hier kommt es jedoch auf das an, was zur Zeit der untersuchten NS-Prozesse Gültigkeit hatte. Siehe zu neuerer Literatur: Rüdiger Deckers/Günter Köhnken (Hgg.), Die Erhebung und Bewertung von Zeugenaussagen im Strafprozess. Juristische, aussagepsychologische und psychiatrische Aspekte, Berlin 2014. 10 Siehe Christiaan F. Rüter/Dick W. de Mildt (Hgg.), Justiz und NS-Verbrechen. Samm­lung (west-)deutscher Strafurteile wegen nationalsozialistischer Tötungsverbrechen, 1945–2012, 49 Bde., Amsterdam/München 1968–2012. 11 Siehe Hauser, Der Zeugenbeweis im Strafprozeß mit Berücksichtigung des Zivilprozes­ ses, 313. 12 Siehe Ludger Hoffmann, Kommunikation vor Gericht, Tübingen 1983; Stephan Wolff, Glaubwürdigkeit von Zeugen und ihren Aussagen als Handlungs- und Darstellungsproblem, in: Hagen Hof u. a. (Hgg.), Recht und Verhalten, Baden-Baden 1994, 21–36; ders./ Hermann Müller, Kompetente Skepsis. Eine konversationsanalytische Untersuchung zur Glaubwürdigkeit in Strafverfahren, Opladen 1997; Sandra Harris, Fragmented Narratives and Mutiple Tellers. Witness and Defendant Accounts in Trials, in: Discourse Studies 3 (2001), 53–74; Gabriele Löschper, Bausteine für eine psychologische Theorie richterlichen Urteilens, Baden-Baden 1999; Thorsten Benkel, Die Paradoxie der Zeugenschaft. Lebensgeschichte als Konstruktionselement der Interaktionspraxis in Gerichtsverhandlungen, in: BIOS. Zeitschrift für Biographieforschung, Oral History und Lebensver­ laufsanalysen 23 (2010), H. 1, 6–27.

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Die Frage nach der Stellung der Opfer im Strafrecht und Strafprozess wurde in der Rechtswissenschaft erst intensiver diskutiert, als die NS-Pro­zesse fast abgeschlossen waren.13 Ausgehend von der Kritik am justiziellen Umgang mit den Opfern sexualisierter Gewalt mehrten sich seit den 1980er Jahren in der Öffentlichkeit und der Strafjustiz Stimmen, die eine stärkere und geschütztere Stellung der Opfer im Strafverfahren forderten, mit einer Tendenz, im gleichen Zug den strafrechtlich garantierten Schutz der Angeklagten einzuschränken.14 Eine bis dahin unbekannte Aufmerksamkeit erfuhr die Stellung der Opferzeugen in der rechtlichen Konzeption des Internationalen Strafgerichtshofs in Den Haag und den vorgelagerten Ad-hoc-Tribunalen zu Jugoslawien und Ruanda. Hier findet sich eine wichtige Vergleichsfolie für die Rolle der Opfer in den bundesrepublikanischen NS-Prozessen.15 Die frühen Publikationen über NS-Prozesse stammen fast ausschließlich von Strafjuristen und interessieren sich für die Opferzeugen allenfalls hinsichtlich ihrer Funktion als Beweismittel.16 Einen ersten knappen Aufsatz, der sich wesentlich mit den Opferzeugen beschäftigt, verfasste Hans Hofmeyer, Vorsitzender Richter im Frankfurter 13 Siehe Weigend, Viktimologische und kriminalpolitische Überlegungen zur Stellung des Verletzten im Strafverfahren; Claus Roxin, Die Stellung des Opfers im Strafsystem, in: Recht und Politik 24 (1988), H. 2, 69–76; Tatjana Hörnle, Die Rolle des Opfers in der Straftheorie und im materiellen Strafrecht, in: Juristenzeitung 61 (2006), H. 19, 950–958. 14 Kritisch zu dieser Debatte: Winfried Hassemer/Jan Philipp Reemtsma, Verbrechensopfer. Gesetz und Gerechtigkeit, München 2002. 1986 wurde das erste Opferschutzgesetz erlassen. 15 Siehe Stefanie Bock, Das Opfer vor dem Internationalen Strafgerichtshof, in: Zeitschrift für die gesamte Strafrechtswissenschaft 119 (2007), H. 3, 664–680; Claus Kreß, Witnes­ ses in Proceedings before the International Criminal Court. An Analysis in the Light of Comparative Criminal Procedure, in: Horst Fischer/Claus Kreß/Sascha Rolf Lüder (Hgg.), International an National Prosecution of Crimes under International Law, Berlin 2001, 309–383; Marie-Bénédicte Dembour/Emily Haslam, Silencing Hearings? Victim-Witnesses at War Crime Trials, in: European Journal of International Law 15 (2004), H. 1, 151–177. 16 Siehe Karl Forster (Hg.), Möglichkeiten und Grenzen für die Bewältigung historischer und politischer Schuld in Strafprozessen, Würzburg 1962; Jürgen Baumann, Die strafrechtliche Problematik der nationalsozialistischen Gewaltverbrechen, in: Reinhard Henkys (Hg.), Die nationalsozialistischen Gewaltverbrechen. Geschichte und Gericht, Stuttgart 1964; Fritz Bauer, Im Namen des Volkes. Die strafrechtliche Bewältigung der Vergangenheit, in: Helmut Hammerschmidt (Hg.), Eine deutsche Bilanz 1945–1965, München 1965, 301–314; Herbert Jäger, Verbrechen unter totalitärer Herrschaft. Studien zur nationalsozialistischen Gewaltkriminalität, Konstanz 1967; Barbara Just-Dahlmann/Helmut Just, Die Gehilfen. NS-Verbrechen und die Justiz nach 1945, Frankfurt a. M. 1988. Eine Ausnahme war ein 1963 erschienenes Buch, mit dem der Auschwitz-Überlebende Hermann Langbein den Versuch einer »Zwischenbilanz« der Strafverfolgung von NS-Verbrechen unternahm. Er akzentuierte die juristische Zeugenschaft der Opfer erwartungsgemäß anders als die Juristen. Ders., Im Namen des deutschen Volkes. Zwischenbilanz der Prozesse wegen nationalsozialistischer Verbrechen, Wien 1963.

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Auschwitz-Prozess (1963–1965).17 Hofmeyer sprach 1966 auf dem Deutschen Juristentag über Schwierigkeiten bei der Durchführung von NS-Prozessen und konzentrierte sich dabei auf die Probleme, die die NS-Verfolgten im Zeugenstand machten. Sein Ausgangspunkt ist ein pro­zessökonomischer: Er fürchtet, die Justiz könnte unter der nun anrollenden »Prozeßlawine«18 in NS-Sachen untergehen, wenn sie keine Wege findet, die Prozesse zügiger und zielgerichteter zu führen und vor allem die Zahl der Opferzeugen einzuschränken. »Die Schwierigkeit und die Schwäche dieser Prozesse liegen doch bekanntlich darin, daß wir bei der Ermittlung der historischen Vorgänge fast ausschließlich auf die Zeugenaussagen angewiesen sind. […] Wenn Zeugenaussagen aber schon ganz allgemein nach kriminologischen Erkenntnissen den schwächsten Beweis darstellen, so gilt dies um so mehr in dem vorliegenden Fall, in dem Zeugen über Dinge Auskunft geben sollen, die sie unter unvorstellbaren Umständen erlebt haben.«19

Die Zeugen des massenweisen Tötens in den KZs seien überfordert, wenn sie Namen von Tätern, Daten, Orte und Umstände von einzelnen Mordtaten wiedergeben sollen; ihre Aussagen seien oft inkonsistent und widersprüchlich, es komme zu Projektionen, Verwechslungen und Übertreibungen, ungeachtet der Fälle, in denen Belastungen nur aus politischen Gründen oder persönlichen Ressentiments ausgesprochen würden. All das zu prüfen sei für die Gerichte eine enorme Herausforderung. Mit Hofmeyers Beitrag wurde erstmals der zwar verständnisvolle, aber zutiefst skeptische Blick der Justiz auf die gesamte Zeugengruppe der NS-Verfolgten öffentlich ausgeführt. Die grundsätzlichen Probleme und Unzulänglichkeiten des Zugriffs der bundesdeutschen Justiz auf die NS-Massenverbrechen werden von Hofmeyer, so wirkt es hier, vor allem auf die Zeugenproblematik verlagert, die als das zentrale Hindernis für eine erfolgreiche Prozessführung erscheint. In den späten 1960er und frühen 1970er Jahren gaben einige Gerichte psychiatrische Gutachten in Auftrag, die ihnen Hilfestellung bieten sollten bei der Beurteilung der Aussagen von NS-Opfern  – eine ungewöhnliche Maßnahme, wurden doch sonst eher Minderjährige oder psychisch Kranke entsprechend begutachtet.20 Das einflussreichste Gutachten stammt von Prof. Walter von Baeyer, Direktor der Psychiatrischen Universitätsklinik in 17 Hans Hofmeyer, Prozessrechtliche Probleme und praktische Schwierigkeiten bei der Durchführung der Prozesse, in: Verhandlungen des sechsundvierzigsten deutschen Juristentages, Bd. 2, Teil C: Sonderveranstaltung des 46. Deutschen Juristentages, Probleme der Verfolgung und Ahndung von nationalsozialistischen Gewaltverbrechen, München/ Berlin 1967, C 38–C 44. 18 Ebd., C 38. 19 Ebd., C 40. 20 Siehe Hauser, Der Zeugenbeweis im Strafprozeß mit Berücksichtigung des Zivilprozes­ ses, 317–322.

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Heidelberg, der unter NS-Verfolgten als Gutachter in Entschädigungsverfahren einen vergleichsweise guten Ruf genoss.21 Er sollte vor allem über die Erinnerungsfähigkeit der meist jüdischen Zeugen sowie über ihre »innere Einstellung« zu einer Zeugenvernehmung in Deutschland, also über das Maß ihrer Hass- und Rachegefühle und über ihre Bereitschaft, wahrheitsgemäße Aussagen zu machen, Auskunft geben. Zur zweiten Frage, die selbst auf Voreingenommenheit seitens der Auftraggeber verweist, äußerte sich der Gutachter eindeutig: Die subjektive Glaubwürdigkeit der Zeugen in Hinblick auf ihre Wahrheitsliebe und ihren Willen zur Objektivität sei nicht zu bezweifeln; von nachhaltigem Hass sei kaum etwas zu bemerken.22 Was die Erinnerungsfähigkeit anging, war der Psychiater skeptischer. Von Traumatisierung wurde damals in der Bundesrepublik noch nicht gesprochen, aber die beschriebenen psychischen Symptome der Zeugen ähneln denen, die heute unter diesem Begriff gefasst werden. Der Gutachter geht zum einen auf die Einschränkungen der menschlichen Wahrnehmungsfähigkeit in Momenten von Todesangst und Schock ein. Zum anderen befasst er sich mit der Wirkung »erlebnisbedingter, psychisch-nervöser Folgeerscheinungen der erlittenen Verfolgungen auf die Genauigkeit und Zuverlässigkeit der Erinnerung«23 sowie allgemein mit den Möglichkeiten, im Abstand von zwanzig Jahren Geschehnisse korrekt wiederzugeben. Von Baeyer stützt sich dabei nicht zuletzt auf die Selbstauskünfte der Zeugen, die in vielen Fällen erstaunlich präzise und reichhaltig seien.24 Die Ergebnisse des Gutachtens sind differenziert – vielleicht zu differenziert für die Strafjuristen, die sich in der Folge oft nur auf einige Schlagworte (zum Beispiel den »Erinnerungskern«, der im Gegensatz zu den Details im Langzeitgedächtnis erhalten bleibe) be­ riefen. Dass die Strafjuristen auf dieses Gutachten, das auf Basis einer recht kleinen und speziellen Zeugengruppe erstellt worden war,25 später vielfach

21 Walter von Baeyer, Psychiatrisches Gutachten über Fragen der Glaubwürdigkeit und Erinnerungszuverlässigkeit bei der Beurteilung von Zeugenaussagen rassisch Verfolgter, die weit zurückliegenden Extrembelastungen ausgesetzt waren, in: Der Nervenarzt 41 (1970), H. 2, 83–89. Ein weiteres Gutachten: Werner Richtberg/Karl-Ludwig Täschner, Zeugen und ihre Aussagen in einem sog. NS-Verfahren, in: Kriminalistik 27 (1973), 201–206. 22 Siehe von Baeyer, Psychiatrisches Gutachten über Fragen der Glaubwürdigkeit und Erinnerungszuverlässigkeit […], 84. 23 Ebd., 85. 24 Siehe ebd., 86. 25 Von Baeyer begutachtete 33 jüdische Zeugen, darunter drei Frauen, die 1941/42 im Ghetto von Kielce gefangen waren. Das Verfahren vor dem Landgericht Darmstadt endete 1971 mit drei Freisprüchen und einer fünfjährigen Freiheitsstrafe, begründet v. a. mit der kritischen richterlichen Einschätzung der Aussagen der Opferzeugen. Siehe Hessisches Hauptstaatsarchiv Wiesbaden (Hg.), »Die historische Wahrheit kund und zu wissen tun«. Die justizielle Aufarbeitung von NS-Verbrechen in Hessen, Frankfurt a. M./Wiesbaden 2014, 62–70.

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Bezug nahmen, dürfte einem homogenisierenden Blick auf die Opferzeugen Vorschub geleistet haben, die hier erstmals im strafrechtlichen Kontext pau­ schal als eine Gruppe psychisch extrem Belasteter vorgestellt wurden. Oberstaatsanwalt Adalbert Rückerl, von 1966 bis 1984 Leiter der Zentralen Stelle der Landesjustizverwaltungen in Ludwigsburg, gab 1971 einen Sammelband heraus, in dem Mitarbeiter seiner Behörde über Möglichkei­ ten und Ergebnisse der NS-Prozesse berichten. Er sieht die bundesdeutschen NS-Prozesse von zwei Seiten gleichermaßen ungerechtfertigt attackiert: »Rechts- und Linksorientierte, Parteigänger der Beschuldigten und ehemalige Verfolgte des NS-Regimes gehen mit der Justiz hart ins Gericht.«26 Dem stellt er die Juristen gegenüber, die sich seit Jahren um eine gewissenhafte Aufklärung und gerechte Beurteilung der NS-Verbrechen bemühten. Auch hier herrscht eine selbstreferenzielle Sicht auf die Ahndung der NS-Verbrechen, bei der die Verfolgungsopfer tendenziell als Störfaktoren wahrgenommen werden. 1979 veröffentlichte Rückerl eine Dokumentation zur Strafverfolgung von NS-Verbrechen.27 Bezüglich der Opferzeugen kommt er zu ähnlichen Ergebnissen wie Hofmeyer und sieht eines der grundsätzlichen Probleme der NS-Verfahren in der Abhängigkeit der Justiz von den Zeugen. Zwar nimmt er die Opferzeugen gegen die Unterstellung in Schutz, wahllose Belastungen auszusprechen, und widerspricht (mit Bezug auf das oben ge­nannte psychiatrische Gutachten) der Annahme, die Erinnerungsfähigkeit der Zeugen sei Jahrzehnte nach den Taten generell überfordert. Aber er rügt die Überlebenden auch für ihre fehlende Einsicht in die rechtlichen Notwendigkeiten der bundesdeutschen Verfahren. Die Staatsanwältin Helge Grabitz legte 1985 auf der Basis ihrer langjährigen Erfahrungen als Ermittlerin eine in der Forschung wenig beachtete Arbeit über NS-Prozesse vor, die den beteiligten Akteuren gewidmet war. Dieses Buch enthält den ersten Versuch einer differenzierten Darstellung der besonderen Situation der jüdischen Opferzeugen in den NS-Prozessen.28 »Diese Zeugen schildern, auch wenn sie über einzelne zur Anklage gekommene Straftaten berichten, in Wahrheit die Zerstörung ihres Lebens.«29 Grabitz wagt einen Perspektivwechsel und berichtet auch über die große Skepsis der jüdischen Zeugen den deutschen Prozessbeteiligten gegenüber, über ihre Widerstände, nach Deutschland zu fahren, über ihre Motive, dennoch auszusagen und über ihre Sicht auf die Prozesse. Differenziert beschreibt 26 Adalbert Rückerl, Einleitung, in: ders. (Hg.), NS-Prozesse. Nach 25 Jahren Strafverfolgung. Möglichkeiten – Grenzen – Ergebnisse, Heidelberg 1971, 9–13, hier 9. 27 Adalbert Rückerl, Die Strafverfolgung von NS-Verbrechen 1945–1978. Eine Dokumentation, Heidelberg/Karlsruhe 1979, 90–96. 28 Helge Grabitz, NS-Prozesse. Psychogramme der Beteiligten, Heidelberg 1985, hier bes. 64–90. 29 Ebd., 66.

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sie die unterschiedlichen Reaktionen und Aussagen der Zeugen. Sie stellt die Überlebenden als Zeugen vor, die vielfach sehr wohl in der Lage seien, objektiv-sachliche Aussagen zu machen – für Grabitz fraglos ein adäquater Maßstab für die Beurteilung auch dieser Aussagen. Viele Jahre später, im Jahr 2001, äußerte sich, um ein weiteres Beispiel zu nennen, der ehemalige Leiter der Zentralstelle in Dortmund, Klaus Schacht, zur Problematik der Zeugenaussagen in NS-Prozessen.30 Er fasst noch einmal die kritische Einschätzung der Zeugenschaft der NS-Verfolgten aus strafjuristischer Sicht zusammen und listet die strengen Kriterien auf, die nach Ansicht des Autors für die Glaubwürdigkeit gerade dieser Zeugengruppe zu gelten hätten. Auch Schacht bezieht sich unausgesprochen auf das Sachverständigengutachten von Baeyers, das in den Augen der Juristen offenbar überzeitliche Gültigkeit besaß.31 Einer der wenigen Rechtshistoriker, die sich mit der Zeugenschaft der NS-Verfolgten vor Gericht befassten, ist Thomas Henne, der in einem Aufsatz aus dem Jahr 2007 zunächst feststellt, dass in juristischen Diskussionen über dieses Thema »seit Jahrzehnten eine Konzentration auf den problematischen Beweiswert der Zeugenaussagen«32 zu beobachten sei. Henne umreißt den schwierigen Status der Opferzeugen in den Prozessen: Vor Gericht waren sie gehalten, lediglich über ihre subjektive Wahrnehmung zu sprechen. Mit dieser Rolle konnten sich die Überlebenden nicht begnügen, die sich oft in der Verantwortung sahen, zunächst einmal wesentliche historische Sachverhalte zu vermitteln. Die »Rituale des Strafrechts« ermöglichten es jedoch den Opfern, ihren Auftritt vor Gericht auch als eine Form der Wie­ dergutmachung zu erleben. »Die Kommunikation vor Gericht bleibt als Ritual […] auch für die Zeugen Teil einer symbolischen Bußhandlung: Die Regelhaftigkeit des Umgangs zwischen Täter und Opfer, die der Täter verletzt hat, wird während der Verhandlung wiederhergestellt.«33 Die Ungleichheit zwischen dem allmächtigen Täter und dem ohnmächtigen Opfer von einst werde vor Gericht »aufgehoben und auf einer symbolischen Ebene kompensiert«34, so Hennes optimistische Einschätzung. Der Gerichtssaal sei bis weit 30 Klaus Schacht, Probleme bei der Beurteilung von Zeugenaussagen in Verfahren wegen NS-Verbrechen, in: Justizministerium des Landes Nordrhein-Westfalen (Hg.), Die Zentralstellen zur Verfolgung nationalsozialistischer Gewaltverbrechen. Versuch einer Bilanz, Geldern 2001, 63–71. 31 Er weist das nicht nach, verwendet aber zentrale Argumente und Begriffe; möglicherweise sind diese Argumente zum strafjuristischen Allgemeingut geworden, ohne dass sich die Nutzer der Herkunft bewusst sind. 32 Thomas Henne, Zeugenschaft vor Gericht, in: Michael Elm/Gottfried Kößler (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft des Holocaust. Zwischen Trauma, Tradierung und Ermittlung, in: Jahrbuch des Fritz Bauer Instituts 11 (2007), Frankfurt a. M. 2007, 79–91, hier 80. 33 Ebd., 87. 34 Ebd.

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in die 1960er Jahre hinein der einzige Ort gewesen, an dem der allgemeine (bundesdeutsche) Schweigekonsens gebrochen wurde. Daher rühre auch die große Bedeutung, die die Strafverfahren für den öffentlichen Diskurs über den Nationalsozialismus hatten.

Holocaustforschung – Zeugenschaft als Quelle Die zeithistorischen Forschungen zum Nationalsozialismus und die Holo­ caustforschung befassen sich zwar nicht unmittelbar mit der juristischen Zeugenschaft der Opfer, nehmen aber Stellung zu dem Wert, den sie ihr als Quelle beimessen. Und diese impliziten oder expliziten Stellungnahmen hatten durchaus Gewicht für die Aufmerksamkeit, die diese Zeugenschaft allgemein erfuhr. Ähnlich wie für die Justiz ist für die Geschichtswissenschaft das Zeugnis vor allem in seiner epistemischen Funktion von Bedeutung. Die Zeugenaussagen sollen Fakten liefern, vergleichbar denen, die Behördenakten entnommen werden können. Der »Beweiswert« der Aussagen wird in der Regel nach Kriterien bestimmt, die denen der Juristen ähneln. Raul Hilberg maß bekanntlich in seinem großen Werk Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden den Erinnerungen der Überlebenden keine große Bedeutung als Quelle bei. Bei Erscheinen der ersten Ausgabe hatten die größeren westdeutschen NS-Prozesse noch nicht stattgefunden. In seinen abschließenden Ausführungen zu seinem Quellenmaterial geht er kurz auf die Überlieferung von Zeugenaussagen aus den Nürnberger Prozessen ein; in zwei Sätzen erwähnt er  – beispielsweise in Yad Vashem gesammelte  – Aussagen von Überlebenden.35 Auch in seinem deutlich später erschienenen Werk Die Quellen des Holocaust behandelt Hilberg die Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden im Allgemeinen und die gerichtliche im Speziellen knapp und hinsichtlich ihres Quellenwerts skeptisch.36 Eine ganz andere Position nahm 1988 Wolfgang Scheffler ein. Sein Aufsatz NS-Prozesse als Geschichtsquellen zehrte von seiner jahrelangen Gutachtertätigkeit für die Prozesse und ist auch als Kommentar zum Historikerstreit zu lesen. Scheffler empfahl seinen bundesdeutschen Kollegen als

35 Siehe Raul Hilberg, Die Vernichtung der europäischen Juden, Frankfurt a. M. 1991, Bd. 3, 1306 f. 36 Siehe ders., Die Quellen des Holocaust. Entschlüsseln und Interpretieren, Frankfurt a. M. 2002, 50–56.

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Gegenmittel zu den »scholastischen Auseinandersetzungen«37 nachdrücklich die Nutzung der Ergebnisse juristischer Ermittlungen für ihre Forschungen – ein Plädoyer für empirisches Arbeiten und für die Hinwendung zu konkreten Tätern und Opfern. Über die zahllosen Vernehmungsprotokolle in den Ermittlungsakten und die Aussagen vor Gericht schrieb er: »Selbst wenn man in Rechnung stellt, daß die juristischen Bedingungen bestimmte Einengungen im historisch verwertbaren Ertrag mit sich bringen […], ist diese Art – im übertragenen Sinne  – einer ›Oral History‹ von kaum zu überschätzender Bedeutung. […] [In] Hunderten von Gerichtssitzungen [sprachen] die in alle Welt verstreuten, überlebenden Opfer über ihr Schicksal […]. Was für Lebensschicksale wurden hier geschildert, der Untergang eines Volkes, die mitunter seltsamen Wege der Überlebenden beschrieben! Kein Forschungsteam, kein Institut der Welt verfügt allein schon über die finanziellen Mittel, so etwas auch nur für bestimmte Bereiche zu wiederholen.«38

Ein derart emphatisches Plädoyer für die Bedeutung der juristischen Zeugenaussagen – und damit auch für eine Verschiebung der Aufmerksamkeit auf die Perspektiven der Opfer – wurde in der bundesdeutschen Geschichtsforschung danach lange Zeit nicht mehr formuliert. In den folgenden Jahrzehnten wurde zwar Schefflers Anregung aufgenommen und in der NS-Forschung immer mehr auf die Ermittlungsakten der Staatsanwaltschaften zurückgegriffen. Während er allerdings, seinem Eindruck aus den Ge­richtssälen folgend, vor allem die Aussagen der Opfer im Blick hatte, hielt die Forschung nun meist die Aussagen der tatbeteiligten SS-, Wehrmachts- oder Polizeiangehörigen für sehr viel aussagekräftiger – bedingt auch durch die Fragestellungen, die in der deutschen Forschung bevorzugt behandelt wurden. Die Zeugenschaft der Opfer ist bis heute in der Bundesrepublik mehr eine Sache der Literaturwissenschaft und Pädagogik, weniger Gegenstand und Quelle der Geschichtswissenschaft. Der US-amerikanische Historiker Jan Tomasz Gross schlug in seinem viel beachteten Buch Nachbarn, das wesentlich auf gerichtlichen Aussagen der Opfer beruhte, ein »neues Herangehen an die Quellen«39 des Holocaust vor: »Wenn es um die Aussagen von Überlebenden geht, wären wir gut beraten, bei der Bewertung ihres Beitrags zur Tatsachenfeststellung nicht von vorneherein eine kritische, sondern eine grundsätzlich positive Haltung einzunehmen.« Er empfiehlt, deren Darstellungen »solange als Tatsachen [zu] akzeptieren, bis wir überzeugende Gegenargumente finden«.40 37 Wolfgang Scheffler, NS-Prozesse als Geschichtsquellen. Bedeutung und Grenzen ihrer Auswertbarkeit durch den Historiker, in: ders./Werner Bergmann (Hgg.), Lerntag über den Holocaust als Thema im Geschichtsunterricht und in der politischen Bildung, Berlin 1988, 13–27, hier 14. 38 Ebd., 18 f. 39 Jan T. Gross, Nachbarn. Der Mord an den Juden in Jedwabne, München 2001, 100. 40 Ebd., 101 (Hervorhebung im Original).

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Einen neuen und wegweisenden Umgang mit den juridischen Quellen stellte der Historiker Christopher Browning vor, ein exzellenter Kenner der Justizakten.41 Die von Gross dargelegten Anforderungen an den Beweiswert der Quellen erschienen ihm zu niedrig.42 Mit einer im Jahr 2010 vorgelegten Studie zeigt er dagegen exemplarisch, wie sich fast allein auf der Basis von Zeugnissen jüdischer Überlebender eine quellenkritisch anspruchsvolle Darstellung schreiben lässt: In seiner Monografie Remembering Survival rekonstruiert er die Geschichte des Zwangsarbeitslagers Starachowice im ehemaligen Distrikt Radom auf der Grundlage eines Samples von etwa dreihundert Zeugnissen.43 Knapp die Hälfte stammt aus den Akten eines Ermittlungsverfahrens der Hamburger Justiz aus den 1960er Jahren. Browning stellt zunächst dar, wie das Gericht in der Hauptverhandlung methodisch die Aussagen der jüdischen Zeugen diskreditierte und schließlich ausnahmslos für unglaubhaft erklärte.44 Diesem pauschalen Urteil entgegentretend, zeigt er, dass sich auf Basis der Aussagen der Überlebenden sehr wohl die Geschehnisse dieses Lagers rekonstruieren lassen. In der Forschung dominierten, so Browning, zwei Perspektiven auf die Zeugnisse der Überlebenden: Die eine betone vor allem den Wert der »Authentizität« der Zeugnisse und interessiere sich für Fragen des Gedächtnisses, der Traumatisierung und der narrativen Strukturen; Fragen nach Überprüfbarkeit und Faktizität würden dabei tendenziell für unangemessen gehalten. Die andere Perspektive sei auf den faktischen Gehalt der Quellen fokussiert, blicke mit großer Skepsis auf die Aussagen der Überlebenden und nutze sie kaum für die Forschung.45 Browning macht auch einen moralisierenden Umgang mit den Holocaustüberlebenden für die Zurückhaltung der Historiker verantwortlich. “Critical judgement of eyewitness testimony […] is emotionally freighted in the study of the Holocaust, where survivors have been transformed into ›messengers from another world‹ who alone, it is claimed, can communicate the incommunicable about an ineffable experience.”46

41 Brownings viel diskutiertes Buch Ganz normale Männer basiert wesentlich auf den Aussagen der Tatbeteiligten. Ders., Ganz normale Männer. Das Reserve-Polizeibataillon 101 und die »Endlösung« in Polen, Reinbek bei Hamburg 1993. 42 Ders., Collected Memories. Holocaust History and Postwar Testimony, Madison, Wis., 2003, 43. 43 Ders., Remembering Survival. Inside a Nazi Slave-Labor Camp, New York 2010. Brow­ ning diskutierte die juristischen Zeugenaussagen der jüdischen Überlebenden als Quellen für die Holocaustforschung bereits zuvor: Ders., Judenmord, Zwangsarbeit und das Ver­ halten der Täter, Frankfurt a. M. 2001, 139–177; ders., Collected Memories, 37–59. 44 Ders., Remembering Survival, 6 f. 45 Siehe ebd., 7 f. 46 Ebd.

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Der Autor stellt sich als Holocaustforscher klar auf die Seite des epistemi­ schen Interesses, hält jedoch die Missachtung dieser Zeugnisse als historiografische Quelle für unangemessen. Implizit bejaht er damit auch die Frage der Darstellbarkeit des Holocaust durch die Überlebenden und durch die Geschichtswissenschaft.47 Saul Friedländer hatte mit seinen Beiträgen zu einer »integrierten Geschichte des Holocaust«48 andere Akzente gesetzt. Mit der großen zweibändigen Monografie Das Dritte Reich und die Juden gab er einen wesent­lichen Impuls für eine Perspektivverschiebung, indem er den Erzählungen der jüdischen Opfer erstmals einen gewichtigen Platz in der Darstellung der nationalsozialistischen Herrschaft einräumte.49 Dabei ging es weniger darum, auch den Zeugnissen der Verfolgten Quellenwert zuzugestehen, als vielmehr um eine Öffnung der Holocaustforschung für die Wahrnehmungen und Reaktionen der jüdischen Opfer und Überlebenden. Diese sollten nicht länger als jüdischer Spezialbereich der Holocaustforschung – oder als »mythische Erinnerung«, wie Friedländer in Anspielung auf seine Kontroverse mit Martin Broszat schrieb – exkludiert, sondern als selbstverständlicher Bestandteil der Geschichte aufgenommen werden.50 In der Folge mehrte sich auch das Interesse der Historikerinnen und Historiker an den frühen Be­richten, Zeugnissen und historischen Arbeiten der jüdischen Überlebenden.51 In den Diskussionen um den Quellenwert der juristischen Zeugnisse der NS-Verfolgten finden die konkreten Umstände dieser Zeugenschaft meist wenig Beachtung. Einige Arbeiten, die sich auch als Anleitung zum wissenschaftlichen Umgang mit diesen Quellen verstehen, gehen jedoch recht detailliert auf das Zustandekommen der Zeugenaussagen in NS-Prozessen ein; die juristische Perspektive droht hier allerdings oft die historische zu

47 Siehe dazu Daniel Fulda, Ein unmögliches Buch? Christopher Brownings Remembering Survival und die »Aporie von Auschwitz«, in: Norbert Frei/Wulf Kansteiner (Hgg.), Den Holocaust erzählen. Historiographie zwischen wissenschaftlicher Empirie und narrativer Kreativität, Göttingen 2013, 126–150. 48 Siehe Saul Friedländer, Eine integrierte Geschichte des Holocaust, in: Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte (APuZ) 14–15 (2007), (18. Januar 2019). 49 Ders., Das Dritte Reich und die Juden, 2 Bde., Bd. 1: Die Jahre der Verfolgung 1933–1939, München 1998; Bd. 2: Die Jahre der Vernichtung 1939–1945, München 2006. 50 Siehe ders., Eine integrierte Geschichte des Holocaust. Die Ansätze von Friedländer und Browning werden instruktiv diskutiert und aufeinander bezogen in: Frei/Kansteiner (Hgg.), Den Holocaust erzählen. 51 Siehe Jockusch, Collect and Record!; Frank Beer/Wolfgang Benz/Barbara Distel (Hgg.), Nach dem Untergang. Die ersten Zeugnisse der Shoah in Polen 1944–1947. Berichte der Zentralen Jüdischen Historischen Kommissionen, Berlin 2014; Regina Fritz/Éva Kovács/ Belá Rásky (Hgg.), Als der Holocaust noch keinen Namen hatte. Zur frühen Aufarbeitung des NS-Massenmordes an den Juden, Wien 2016.

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überblenden. Thomas Köhler knüpfte in einem Aufsatz von 200452 an ältere Debatten an, die sich mit den unterschiedlichen Wahrheitsbegriffen und Wirklichkeitsrekonstruktionen von Historikern und Juristen befassen.53 Sein Interesse gilt der »Nutzbarkeit« der Zeugenaussagen im Majdanek-Prozess (1975–1981) für die historische Forschung, wo sie bis dahin überwiegend ignoriert wurden. Er folgt weitgehend den juristischen Kriterien in der Beurteilung des faktischen Gehalts der Aussagen, erkennt in diesen aber auch etwas, was darüber hinausgeht: Eine persönlich-konkrete, erinnerungsgeschichtliche Ebene, die den Historiker mit der subjektiv erlebten Verfolgungsgeschichte konfrontiert. Irritierend ist, dass die subjektiv erlebte Vergangenheit und die durch die Historiker ermittelte »wirkliche« Vergangenheit für Köhler zwei strikt getrennte Welten bleiben. Der Historiker und Archivar Andreas Kunz, damals Leiter der Außenstelle des Bundesarchivs in Ludwigsburg, veröffentlichte 2008 eine umfangreiche Erläuterung zu den NS-Prozessakten als zeitgeschichtlichen Quellen.54 Hier wird der juristische Kontext der Verfahren ausgeführt, ebenso das Zustandekommen der Vernehmungsprotokolle von Zeugen und Beschuldigten, der »methodisch anspruchsvollsten Quelle innerhalb der Justizaktenüberlie­ ferung«55, die hier, ähnlich wie bei Scheffler, als spezielle Form der Oral History vorgestellt werden. Auch Kunz betont den unmittelbaren Blick auf die Akteure, den die Justizakten ermöglichen. Gleichzeitig können sie, wie er richtig bemerkt, Auskunft geben über die Formen und Schwierigkeiten der justiziellen Ahndung der Verbrechen in der Nachkriegszeit. Allerdings irritiert, wie wenig die Einschätzungen der Zeugen und der Vernehmungsprotokolle vom Autor historisiert und kontextualisiert werden. Bei der Frage der »Erinnerungsverluste« der Opferzeugen bezieht er seine Argumente aus den genannten psychiatrischen Sachverständigengutachten von 1969 und 1971, als wären diese nicht ebenfalls zeit- und kontextgebunden. Eine Pers­pektive auf die Zeugen, die sich von den Kriterien der Justiz lösen würde, wird nicht

52 Thomas Köhler, Historische Realität versus subjektive Erinnerungstradierung? Überlegungen anhand von Zeugenaussagen des »Majdanek-Prozesses«, in: Ralph Gabriel u. a. (Hgg.), Lagersystem und Repräsentation. Interdisziplinäre Studien zur Geschichte der Konzentrationslager, Tübingen 2004, 140–155. 53 Siehe Norbert Frei/Dirk van Laak/Michael Stolleis (Hgg.), »Geschichte vor Gericht«. Historiker, Richter und die Suche nach Gerechtigkeit, München 2000; darin v. a. 46–59: Michael Wildt, »Differierende Wahrheiten«. Historiker und Staatsanwälte als Ermittler von NS-Verbrechen. 54 Andreas Kunz, Justizakten aus NSG-Verfahren. Eine quellenkritische Handreichung für Archivbenutzer, in: Mitteilungen aus dem Bundesarchiv, Die Außenstelle Ludwigsburg – Themenheft 2008, (18. Dezember 2018; nicht paginiert). 55 Ebd., Bl. 18.

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sichtbar. Die »methodischen Anregungen«,56 in denen diskutiert wird, wie Forscherinnen und Forscher den Wahrheitsgehalt von Zeugenaussagen abschätzen können, beschränkt sich im Wesentlichen auf eine Wie­dergabe der Kriterien, mit denen Juristen die Glaubwürdigkeit von Zeugen beurteilten. Eine Historisierung dieser Kriterien wird ebenso wenig ins Spiel gebracht wie Fragen, die sich jenseits der Plausibilitätskriterien an dieses Material richten lassen. Während den tatbeteiligten SS-, Wehrmachts- oder Polizeiangehörigen immerhin zugestanden wird, eigene »Aussagestrategien«57 entwickelt zu haben, erscheinen die ehemaligen Opfer überwiegend als eine passive und potenziell durch Traumatisierung schwer geschädigte Masse von Auskunftspersonen. 2009 erschien ein Sammelband, der den Akten aus NS-Prozessen als zeitgeschichtlicher Quelle gewidmet ist.58 Der Beitrag von Jürgen Finger und Sven Keller stellt umfangreiche und instruktive quellenkritische Überlegungen zu der Frage an, welche Art von Zeugnissen man mit den strafjuristischen Aussagen vor sich hat und wie sie sich bewerten lassen. Auch sie gehen davon aus, dass sich die Glaubwürdigkeit der Zeugen in NS-Verfahren im Großen und Ganzen mit juristischen Kriterien bestimmen lässt, ohne diese zu kontextualisieren.59 Gleichzeitig diskutieren sie eindrücklich und differenziert Situation und Motive der Opferzeugen im Auschwitz-Prozess. Ähnliches hatte bis dahin allein Dagi Knellessen unternommen, die auf der Basis eines Interviewprojekts mit ehemaligen Prozesszeugen die Erfahrungen der Zeugen vor Gericht, ihre Motive und ihre sehr unterschiedlichen Situationen in der Nachkriegszeit miteinander verband.60 Der Historiker Devin O. Pendas hat sich in einem Aufsatz von 2009 mit (überwiegend juristischen) Zeugnissen der Überlebenden als zeithistorischer Quelle befasst und schlägt überzeugend vor, zunächst deren Charakter als prinzipiell mündliches Genre zu beachten, das uns aber meist in verschrift-

56 Ebd., Bl. 17. 57 Ebd., Bl. 18. 58 Jürgen Finger/Sven Keller/Andreas Wirsching (Hgg.), Vom Recht zur Geschichte. Akten aus NS-Prozessen als Quellen der Zeitgeschichte, Göttingen 2009; darin in Bezug auf Opferzeugen v. a. interessant: Jürgen Finger/Sven Keller, Täter und Opfer. Gedanken zu Quellenkritik und Aussagekontext (114–131); Werner Renz, Tonbandmitschnitte von NS-Prozessen als historische Quelle (142–153); Kerstin Brückweh, Dekonstruktion von Prozessakten. Wie ein Strafprozess erzählt werden kann (193–204). 59 Siehe Finger/Keller, Täter und Opfer, 118 f. 60 Dagi Knellessen, Momentaufnahmen der Erinnerung. Juristische Zeugenschaft im ersten Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess. Ein Interviewprojekt, in: Elm/Kößler (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft des Holocaust, 116–138.

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lichter Form überliefert ist.61 Man solle sich diesen Zeugnissen weniger im Modus des Lesens als dem des Hörens nähern, also weniger eine Beziehung zum Text als eine zur Sprecherin oder zum Sprecher suchen. Dabei führt Pendas einen grundsätzlichen Unterschied ein zwischen Hören (hearing) und Zuhören (listening).62 Das seien zwei unterschiedliche Formen der Wahr­nehmung, bei denen es um das Erkennen verschiedener Formen der Wahrheit gehe. Während sich das Hören auf den Gehalt an Fakten, die »forensic truth«, richte, gehe es beim Zuhören um die subjektive Wahrheit und Erfahrung der Sprecher, um eine »experiential truth«. Der Erkenntnismodus sei in einem Fall ein analytischer, im anderen ein hermeneutischer.63 Die Zeugnisse der Überlebenden seien grundsätzlich beiden Fragerichtungen zugänglich, die aber in der Untersuchung differenziert werden müssten. In der Diskussion von Zeugenbefragungen aus dem Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess kommt Pendas zu dem Schluss: “[T]he Frankfurt court privileged hearing to the exclusion of listening. It followed the forensic impulse to its logical conclusion, rejecting all obviously traumatized testimony. Of course, it thereby excluded one of the central experiential truths of the Holocaust – that all Holocaust experience was traumatic.”64

Dieser Ansatz sei für ein Gericht nicht überraschend, müsse aber keineswegs von Historikern übernommen werden – eine Erkenntnis, die vor allem in der bundesdeutschen Forschung jahrzehntelang ausblieb.

Literatur zu NS-Prozessen – von Jerusalem bis in die ­westdeutsche Provinz Die juristische Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden wurde bisher am intensivsten diskutiert im Hinblick auf den Prozess gegen Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem 1961. Hannah Arendt lieferte in ihrem Bericht von der Banalität des Bösen eine erste knappe und sehr kritische Einschätzung des »Zeugenauf­ marschs«65 in Jerusalem. In der Anzahl, Auswahl und den Aussagen der Zeugen sah sie die von ihr scharf kritisierte Tendenz des Prozesses bestätigt, 61 Devin  O. Pendas, Testimony, in: Miriam Dobson/Benjamin Ziemann (Hgg.), Reading Primary Sources. The Interpretation of Texts from Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century History, London/New York, 226–242. 62 Ebd., 231–240. 63 Ebd., 232. 64 Ebd., 236. 65 Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem. Ein Bericht von der Banalität des Bösen, München 1964, bes. 267–276, hier 269.

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nicht in erster Linie Gericht halten, sondern eine Geschichtslektion erteilen zu wollen, eine Tendenz, für die sie vor allem den Anklagevertreter Gideon Hausner verantwortlich machte. Viele der über hundert Zeugen berichteten von ihrer Verfolgungs- und Überlebensgeschichte und von der Auslöschung der jüdischen Gemeinden in ganz Europa, konnten aber über den Angeklagten selbst keinerlei Angaben machen. Arendt verteidigte dagegen grundsätzlich die Täterzentrierung des Strafprozesses, die sich nicht vertrage mit der Rolle, die den Opferzeugen in Jerusalem eingeräumt worden sei: »Ein Prozeß hat mit dem Schauspiel gemein, daß beide mit dem Täter beginnen und enden, nicht mit dem Opfer.«66 Über die später viel diskutierte Zeugenaussage des Auschwitz-Überlebenden und Schriftstellers Yehiel Dinur/ Ka-Tzetnik, der im Zeugenstand in Ohnmacht fiel, schrieb sie mit unverhohlenem Ärger und Spott.67 Allgemein konstatierte sie, dass nur wenige Zeugen »die Gabe [hatten], Geschehenes einfach wiederzugeben«68 und selbst Erlebtes von später Gehörtem zu unterscheiden. Einzig die Zeugenaussage von Zindel Grynszpan, dem Vater Herschel Grynszpans, beeindruckte sie wegen ihrer Nüchternheit so sehr, dass sie schrieb: »Jeder, jeder sollte seinen Tag vor Gericht haben«, eine Empfindung, die sie sofort relativierte: »– ein törichter Gedanke«.69 Die heftige Kritik und Polemik, die sich gegen Arendts Buch richtete, hatte nur am Rande mit ihrer Einschätzung der Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden zu tun, aber auch in dieser Sache wurde ihr fundamental wi­dersprochen. Ihre Fokussierung auf die epistemische und rechtliche Funktion der Zeugenaussagen wurde später nicht mehr geteilt, ihr Blick auf die Zeugen erschien als kalt.70 In der Literatur der letzten beiden Jahrzehnte zum Jerusalemer Prozess nimmt die Rolle der Zeugen einen herausragenden Platz ein, während das Gerichtsverfahren selbst und die damit verbundenen Fragen nach Recht und Gerechtigkeit keine große Aufmerksamkeit mehr erlangten. Der Prozess ist zu einer Chiffre geworden für die plötzliche Sichtbarkeit der jüdischen Überlebenden und ihrer Geschichten im öffentlichen Diskurs. Er gilt als der historische Moment, in dem die israelische Gesellschaft und in der Folge auch die westliche Welt begannen, sich den Erzählungen

66 Ebd., 32. 67 Siehe zur Aussage von Dinur: Hanna Yablonka, As Heard by the Witnesses, the Public, and the Judges. Three Variations on the Testimony in the Eichmann Trial, in: David Ban­ kier/Dan Michman (Hgg.), Holocaust Historiography in Context. Emergence, Challenges, Polemics, and Achievements, Jerusalem 2008, 567–587, hier 569–571; Lawrence Douglas, The Memory of Judgement. Making Law and History in the Trials of the Holocaust, New Haven, Conn./London 2001, 145–149. 68 Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem, 268. 69 Ebd., 274. 70 Siehe Yablonka, As Heard by the Witnesses, the Public, and the Judges, 570.

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der Überlebenden zu stellen, was einen tief greifenden Wahrnehmungswandel des Holocaust zur Folge hatte.71 Wenn die Historikerin Annette Wieviorka schreibt, die »Litanei der Zeugenaussagen war das Wesen des Eichmann-Prozesses«,72 dürften ihr heute nur wenige widersprechen. Der Prozess, so Wieviorka weiter, »befreite die Sprache der Zeugen«; mit ihm errang der Überlebende erstmals »eine soziale Identität als Überlebender, weil die Gesellschaft ihm diese zu­erkannte«.73 Auch die Literaturwissenschaftlerin Shoshana Felman befasste sich mit den Folgen des Prozesses für die Zeugen; ihr zufolge entstand mit dem Prozess und dem Auftritt der Zeugen vor Gericht etwas Neues, die Opfer verwandelten sich in Belastungszeugen, die nun in der Lage waren, ihre eigene Geschichte zu schreiben: »It is this revolutionary transformation of the victim that makes the victims’s story happen for the first time and happen as a legal act of authorship of history.«74 Die Historikerin Hanna Yablonka untersucht in ihrer großen Studie zum Eichmann-Prozess vor allem die Folgen des Prozesses für die israelische Gesellschaft und deren kollektives Selbstverständnis sowie für die Zeugen und Überlebenden und befasst sich dabei unter anderem mit den retraumatisierenden Effekten des Prozesses.75 In der neueren Forschung zum Eichmann-Prozess steht nicht mehr die Fähigkeit oder Unfähigkeit der Zeugen im Mittelpunkt, faktisches und ge­ richtsverwertbares Wissen zu generieren. Im Zentrum des Interesses stehen die Zeugenaussage als sozialer Akt und ihre Folgen; die juristische Bedeutung ist hier – im Gegensatz zu deutschen Forschungsarbeiten über deutsche NS-Prozesse  – gänzlich von der gesellschaftlichen und erinnerungspolitischen überblendet. Die Aussagen werden weniger als zu hinterfragendes Beweismaterial, sondern vielmehr als erschütternde Botschaften aus einer anderen Welt wahrgenommen, die eine je eigene, subjektive und kaum hinterfragbare Wahrheit kundtun. Hier werden zwei völlig konträre Perspektiven auf die juristische Zeugenschaft der NS-Opfer deutlich, die sich freilich vor einem sehr unterschied71 Tom Segev, Die siebte Million. Der Holocaust und Israels Politik der Erinnerung, Reinbek bei Hamburg 1995, 427–506; Douglas, The Memory of Judgement, 97–182; Shoshana Felman, The Juridical Unconscious. Trials and Traumas in the Twentieth Century, Cambridge, Mass., 2002 (mit zwei Kapiteln über den Eichmann-Prozess, 106–166); Hanna Yablonka, The State of Israel vs. Adolf Eichmann, New York 2004 (mit einem Kapitel über die Zeugen, 88–120); Deborah E. Lipstadt, The Eichmann Trial, New York 2011; Annette Wieviorka, The Era of the Witness, Ithaca, N. Y./London 2006, 56–95; dies., Die Entstehung des Zeugen; José Brunner, Trauma in Jerusalem? Zur Polyphonie der Opferstimmen im Eichmann-Prozess, in: Elm/Kößler (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft des Holocaust, 92–115. 72 Wieviorka, Die Entstehung des Zeugen, 150. 73 Ebd., 151 f. 74 Felman, The Juridical Unconscious, 126 (Hervorhebungen im Original). 75 Siehe Yablonka, The State of Israel vs. Adolf Eichmann.

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lichen zeithistorischen Hintergrund und anlässlich verschiedenartiger Pro­ zesse herausbildeten: Bezüglich der bundesdeutschen NS-Prozesse werden die Opferzeugen bis heute überwiegend mit den Augen der Juristen betrachtet und als Beweismittel bewertet, während die Zeugen im Eichmann-Prozess als Katalysatoren einer gesellschaftlichen Transformation angesehen werden und niemand auf die Idee käme, ihre Aussagen nur nach ihrem epistemi­ schen Wert zu beurteilen. Hier mag auch jene »Moralisierung« der Zeugenschaft angelegt sein, die Christopher Browning als eines der Hindernisse für die Holocaustforschung beschrieb, die Zeugenaussagen als Quellen für die Geschichtsschreibung zu nutzen. Viele der jüngeren Arbeiten zum Eichmann-Prozess bewegen sich im Horizont des Traumadiskurses, der die Diskussionen über die Zeugnisse der Überlebenden seit den 1980er Jahren zunehmend bestimmte. Das griff der israelische Wissenschaftshistoriker José Brunner 2007 in seinem Essay Trauma in Jerusalem? auf.76 Brunner bezweifelt, dass »universale Thesen zum Eichmann-Prozess als kollektive Traumatherapie oder Katharsis«,77 wie sie in der jüngeren Literatur üblich seien, diesen Prozess angemessen erfassen können, und kritisiert die Betrachtung des Prozesses allein aus der »heute vorherrschenden Traumaperspektive«.78 Die Vielfalt der Emotionen, die vor Gericht ausgedrückt und durch die Zeugenaussagen hervorgerufen wurden, könne man nicht auf den gemeinsamen Nenner des Traumas redu­zieren. Brunner schlägt dagegen eine an Foucault angelehnte genealogische Betrachtung vor, »die sich noch stärker auf das performative Element der Zeugenaussagen konzentriert«79 und damit ihre Vielgestaltigkeit herausarbeitet. Grundlegend sei die Feststellung, dass Zeugenaussagen immer dialogischen Charakter haben und vor Gericht in einem streng strukturierten Rahmen ablaufen, der aber gleichzeitig viel Raum bietet für ganz unterschiedliche »Taktiken und Strategien der Rede und der Machtausübung«.80 Daraus sei im Eichmann-Prozess eine kaum unter ein Schlagwort subsu­mierbare, nicht selten widersprüchliche Polyphonie entstanden. Selbst für die Forschung zum Eichmann-Prozess, die die Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden seit Langem ins Zentrum stellt, sieht Brunner bei einer stärkeren Hinwendung zu den Formen und Inhalten der Aussagen neue Erkenntnismöglichkeiten. Eine »Genealogie der Zeugenaussagen der Opfer« zeige, »dass im Verlauf des Gerichtsverfahrens im Zeugenstand mehr ge76 Brunner, Trauma in Jerusalem?; Siehe auch José Brunner/Nathalie Zajde (Hgg.), Holocaust und Trauma. Kritische Perspektiven zur Entstehung und Wirkung eines Paradigmas, Göttingen 2011. 77 Brunner, Trauma in Jerusalem?, 103. 78 Ebd., 92. 79 Ebd., 103. 80 Ebd., 104.

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äußert wurde und mehr Gefühle offenbart wurden, als die verschiedenen Urheber des Prozesses vorgesehen hatten und als die Zeugen selbst ausdrücken wollten – und sicher auch mehr, als aus den bisherigen historischen Berichten über diesen Prozess hervor­geht«.81 Die bundesdeutsche »Vergangenheitsbewältigung durch Strafverfahren«82 wurde seit den 1980er Jahren, vor allem aber in den 2000er Jahren in der zeit- und rechtshistorischen Forschung intensiv diskutiert. Es entstanden zahl­reiche Monografien und Sammelbände, die sich mit politischen, gesellschaftlichen und justiziellen Rahmenbedingungen der NS-Prozesse und ihren Ergebnissen befassten.83 Häufig ging es dabei auch um eine Gegenüberstellung von Versäumnissen und Erträgen der NS-Prozesse – verstanden als ein Prüfstein des gesellschaftlichen Umgangs mit der Vergangenheit. Konkreten Verfahrensverläufen widmeten sich diese Arbeiten nur selten und waren meist auf die Urteilssprüche und die Akteure aus den Justizbehörden oder der Politik fokussiert. Die wenigen Ausnahmen, zeitgenössische Berichte über einzelne Prozesse, in denen die Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden ausführlich dargestellt und zum Teil auch diskutiert wurde, stammten durchweg nicht von Zeithistorikern, sondern von Journalisten oder Beteiligten.84 In den vergangenen Jahren wandte sich die Forschung zunehmend einzelnen Verfahren, »Tatkomplexen« oder Gruppen von Verfahrensbeteilig-

81 Ebd., 93. 82 So der Titel des ersten zeithistorischen Sammelbands zum Thema: Jürgen Weber/Peter Steinbach (Hgg.), Vergangenheitsbewältigung durch Strafverfahren? NS-Prozesse in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, München 1984. 83 Eine Auswahl: Michael Greve, Der justitielle und rechtspolitische Umgang mit den NS-Gewaltverbrechen in den sechziger Jahren, Frankfurt a. M. 2001; Marc  v. Miquel, Ahn­den oder Amnestieren? Westdeutsche Justiz und Vergangenheitspolitik in den sechziger Jahren, Göttingen 2004; Annette Weinke, Die Verfolgung von NS-Tätern im geteilten Deutschland. Vergangenheitsbewältigungen 1949–1969 oder: eine deutsch-deutsche Be­ziehungsgeschichte im Kalten Krieg, Paderborn 2002; Kerstin Freudiger, Die juristische Aufarbeitung von NS-Verbrechen, Tübingen 2002. Eine Überblicksdarstellung: Peter ­Reichel, Der Nationalsozialismus vor Gericht und die Rückkehr zum Rechtsstaat, in: ders./Harald Schmidt/Peter Steinbach (Hgg.), Der Nationalsozialismus. Die zweite Geschichte. Überwindung, Deutung, Erinnerung, Bonn 2009, 22–61. 84 Hendrik George van Dam/Ralph Giordano (Hgg.), KZ-Verbrechen vor deutschen Ge­ richten, Frankfurt a.  M. 1962; Hermann Langbein, Der Auschwitz-Prozeß. Eine Dokumentation, 2  Bde., Frankfurt a.  M. 1995 (zuerst 1965); Emmi Bonhoeffer, Zeugen im Auschwitz-Prozess, Wuppertal-Barmen 1965; Bernd Naumann, Auschwitz. Bericht über die Strafsache gegen Mulka u. a. vor dem Schwurgericht Frankfurt, Frankfurt a. M. 1968; Heiner Lichtenstein, Majdanek. Reportage eines Prozesses, Frankfurt a. M. 1979.

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ten zu.85 Auch mediale Resonanz und öffentliche Wirkung der NS-Prozesse wurden untersucht.86 Georg Wamhof drückte die stattfindende Perspektivverschiebung passend im Untertitel eines Sammelbandes aus: Es gehe nun darum, wie der NS-Vergangenheit der Prozess gemacht wurde.87 Während in den allgemeineren Darstellungen zur Geschichte der NS-Prozesse die ehemaligen Verfolgten als Akteure kaum thematisiert wurden, nahmen die kleinteiligeren Studien auch die Rolle der Opferzeugen, jenseits ihres Status als schwieriges Beweismittel, stärker in den Blick. Quer zu dieser Tendenz entstanden vor einigen Jahren im Auftrag des ­Instituts für Zeitgeschichte zwei Arbeiten von Andreas Eichmüller und Edith Raim, die sich auf die beiden ersten Perioden der juristischen Ahndung der NS-Verbrechen konzentrierten.88 Sie arbeiteten auf der Basis eines um­ fangreichen Quellenbestands, der erstmals auch die Ermittlungsakten systematisch berücksichtigte. Beide Studien beziehen gesellschaftliche, politische und justizinterne Debatten und Entwicklungen ein, beschreiben zahlreiche Verfahren und begeben sich noch einmal auf das Terrain einer allgemeinen Bewertung bundesdeutscher Aufarbeitungsleistungen, in diesem Fall mit einer Verteidigung der Anstrengungen der Justiz gegen deren Kritiker. Eichmüller widmet den Prozesszeugen ein eigenes Kapitel, subsu­miert unter »Die besonderen Schwierigkeiten bei den Ermittlungen«,89 eine Zuordnung, die in der Arbeit eines Historikers etwas verwundert. Konsequent beschreibt Eichmüller die Probleme der Opferzeugen und ihrer Aussagen aus dem Blickwinkel der Justiz und übernimmt dabei überwiegend die richterlichen Beurteilungskriterien aus den 1950er und 1960er Jahren. Er

85 Beispielhaft: Claudia Kuretsidis-Haider u. a. (Hgg.), Das KZ Lublin-Majdanek und die Justiz. Strafverfolgung und verweigerte Gerechtigkeit. Polen, Deutschland und Öster­reich im Vergleich, Graz 2011; Georg Wamhof, Geschichtspolitik und NS-Strafverfahren. Der Essener Dora-Prozess (1967–1970) im deutsch-deutschen Systemkonflikt, in: Helmut Kramer/Karsten Uhl/Jens-Christian Wagner (Hgg.), Zwangsarbeit im Nationalsozialismus und die Rolle der Justiz, Nordhausen 2007, 186–208; Katrin Stoll, Die Herstellung der Wahrheit. Strafverfahren gegen ehemalige Angehörige der Sicherheitspolizei für den Bezirk Białystok, Berlin 2012; Merle Funkenberg, Zeugenbetreuung von Holocaust-Überlebenden und Widerstandskämpfern bei NS-Prozessen (1964–1985), Gießen 2016. 86 Siehe Sabine Horn, Erinnerungsbilder. Auschwitz-Prozess und Majdanek-Prozess im westdeutschen Fernsehen. Essen 2009; Jörg Osterloh/Clemens Vollnhals (Hgg.), NS-Pro­ zesse und deutsche Öffentlichkeit. Besatzungszeit, frühe Bundesrepublik und DDR, Göttingen 2011. 87 Georg Wamhof (Hg.), Das Gericht als Tribunal, oder: Wie der NS-Vergangenheit der Pro­ zess gemacht wurde, Göttingen 2009. 88 Andreas Eichmüller, Keine Generalamnestie. Die strafrechtliche Verfolgung von NS-Verbrechen in der frühen Bundesrepublik, München 2012; Edith Raim, Justiz zwischen Diktatur und Demokratie. Wiederaufbau und Ahndung von NS-Verbrechen in Westdeutschland 1945–1949, München 2013. 89 Siehe Eichmüller, Keine Generalamnestie, 377–403.

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bekräftigt das grundsätzliche Unvermögen der Zeugen, den gerichtlichen Anforderungen gerecht zu werden; die Anforderungen selbst und ihre richterliche Umsetzung werden als zeitlos gegeben angenommen.90 Selbst wenn es um Abraham Sutzkever geht, einen der lediglich drei jüdischen Belastungszeugen, die im Nürnberger Hauptkriegsverbrecherprozess aussagten, übernimmt Eichmüller den Blick des Strafjuristen und sieht in ihm allein ein Beispiel dafür, dass Opferzeugen sich bereits wenige Jahre nach den Taten bei der Benennung von Tätern irren konnten.91 Alle weiteren Bedeutungs­ ebenen dieser wichtigen Aussage bleiben unerwähnt. Die Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden geht hier allein als juristisches Problem in die Geschichte der NS-Prozesse ein. Auch Edith Raim kommt in ihrem umfangreichen Werk über die frühen NS-Prozesse in Westdeutschland in einem knappen Kapitel unter der Überschrift »Probleme bei den Ermittlungen« auf die Prozesszeugen zu sprechen.92 Ganz anders als Eichmüller betrachtete wenige Jahre zuvor der bereits genannte Historiker Devin O. Pendas in seiner Monografie über den Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess die Rolle der Opferzeugen.93 Die Orientierung am Blickwinkel der Justiz, zu der bundesdeutsche Arbeiten über die NS-Prozesse lange neigten, fehlt Pendas und ebenso seiner kanadischen Kollegin ­Rebecca Wittmann, die fast zeitgleich über den Auschwitz-Prozess arbeitete.94 Diese beiden Monografien waren die ersten umfassenden historischen Deutungen dieses Prozesses, beide beziehen auch die mediale Resonanz auf das Pro­zessgeschehen ein. Entgegen der verbreiteten Auffassung, das Verfahren sei ein Meilenstein der beginnenden gesellschaftlichen Auseinandersetzung mit den NS-Verbrechen gewesen, resümiert Pendas, »dass der Auschwitz-Pro­zess als rechtliche und historische Erzählung gesellschaftlich gescheitert ist«.95 Es sei insgesamt nicht gelungen, den Völkermord in Auschwitz als das zentrale Verbrechen herauszuarbeiten und dessen gesellschaftliche Bedingungen zu konkretisieren.96 Pendas Arbeit ist geprägt von einer kritischen Wahrnehmung der rechtlichen Grundlagen der bundesdeutschen NS-Pro­zesse und deren Konzentration auf die subjektiven Faktoren der Täterschaft, die auch die Rolle der Zeugen präformierten. Die Zeugen

90 Siehe ebd., 382 f. 91 Sutzkever hatte irrtümlich Martin Weiß als Verantwortlichen für die ersten Aktionen gegen die Juden in Wilna benannt. Siehe ebd. 92 Siehe Raim, Justiz zwischen Diktatur und Demokratie, 1020–1029. 93 Devin O. Pendas, Der Auschwitz-Prozess. Völkermord vor Gericht, München 2013 (zuerst engl.: The Frankfurt Auschwitz Trial, 1963–1965. Genocide, History, and the Limits of the Law, Cambridge 2006). 94 Siehe Rebecca Wittmann, Beyond Justice. The Auschwitz Trial, Cambridge, Mass., 2005. 95 Pendas, Der Auschwitz-Prozess, 322 (Hervorhebung im Original). 96 Siehe ebd., 320.

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beschreibt er als eine Gruppe von Akteuren, die für den Prozess in mancherlei Hinsicht die wichtigste Rolle spielten.97 Die Spannung zwischen dem Bedürfnis der Überlebenden, ihre Geschichte zu erzählen, und dem Bedarf des Gerichts, exakte Angaben über die Taten einzelner Angeklagter zulasten identifizierbarer Opfer zu erhalten, habe »wie ein Leitmotiv […] die Beweisaufnahme im Auschwitz-Prozess« bestimmt.98 Mit den Aussagen der Überlebenden brachte der Prozess »einen Grad emotionaler Wahrheit ans Licht, der für diesen öffentlichen Ort erstaunlich und zugleich unerträglich war […]; gleichzeitig aber klammerte er diese Wahrheit augenblicklich wieder ein«,99 indem er die Aussagen auf ihren faktischen Gehalt reduzierte. Pendas sieht in der Bereitschaft der Überlebenden, zu sprechen, in ihrem Willen, sich mitzuteilen, ein »Zeichen höchster Großmut und Solidarität«100 den Toten und Lebenden gegenüber, das höher hätte bewertet werden müssen, wozu aber das Gericht per se unfähig war. Auch seine Betrachtung der Opferzeugen ist dominiert von ihrer gerichtlichen Funktion, aber er verortet ihre Schwierigkeiten sehr viel präziser in den Bedingungen der Rechtsprechung, als das Eichmüller und viele andere Autoren getan haben. Pendas veröffentlichte 2013 gemeinsam mit Laura Jockusch und Gabriel Finder einen größeren Aufsatz über die »Jüdische Dimension« der Auschwitz-Prozesse.101 Sie untersuchen die Bedeutung, die der Massenmord an den jüdischen Deportierten in Auschwitz in den strafrechtlichen Auseinandersetzungen hatte, anhand dreier denkbar unterschiedlicher Prozesse: dem Britischen Militärtribunal in Lüneburg 1945, dem Prozess gegen den langjährigen Kommandanten von Auschwitz, Rudolf Höß, in Warschau 1947 und dem Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess 1963–65. In allen drei Prozessen seien die großen Anstrengungen der jüdischen Zeuginnen und Zeugen klar erkennbar, ihre spezifischen Verfolgungserfahrungen zu Gehör zu bringen; ihre Erzählungen  – von den Selektionen an der Rampe, der Auslöschung ganzer Familien und Gemeinschaften, der Arbeit in Sonderkommandos  – wurde bald Teil der Ikonografie von Auschwitz. Wie sehr die Gerichte auf ihre Erzählungen eingingen, sei weniger vom Zeitpunkt oder Ort des Pro­zesses als von (erinnerungs)politischen und rechtlichen Konstellationen be­stimmt gewesen, die dazu führten, dass sich die Briten 1945 kaum für das Schicksal der Juden in Auschwitz interessierten, während sowohl in Warschau als auch in Frankfurt intensiv darauf eingegangen wurde.

 97 Siehe ebd., 104.  98 Ebd., 107.  99 Ebd., 176. 100 Ebd., 178. 101 Devin O. Pendas/Laura Jockusch/Gabriel N. Finder, Auschwitz Trials. The Jewish Dimension, in: Yad Vashem Studies 41 (Herbst 2013), H. 2, 139–171.

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Katrin Stoll analysiert in ihrer 2012 erschienenen Dissertationsschrift ein Verfahren am Landgericht Bielefeld 1966/67 gegen vier Angeklagte, denen vorgeworfen wurde, im Bezirk Białystok Deportationen organisiert und Morde an Juden ausgeführt oder befohlen zu haben.102 Sie sucht hier nach einer neuen Form der Historisierung von NS-Prozessen. Für dieses Verfahren liegen  – wie für den 1. Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess  – Tonbandaufzeichnungen vor, es eignet sich also besonders gut für eine Analyse der Kommunikation vor Gericht, wie Stoll sie unternimmt. Ausgehend von der Beobachtung, dass die Staatsanwaltschaften und Gerichte in vielen Tatkomplexen zunächst die Arbeit von Historikern übernehmen mussten, fragt sie nach den Bedingungen, Formen und Ergebnissen der »juristischen Wirklichkeitsrekonstruktion«.103 Im Zentrum der Arbeit stehen die Untersuchung des Verfahrens sowie eine theoriegeleitete Analyse der »forensi­schen Interaktionsdynamik« und der Herstellung von Wahrheit vor Gericht. Stoll blickt dabei weit über den geschichtswissenschaftlichen Tellerrand und präsentiert linguistische, semiotische, rechtssoziologische und diskurstheoretische Ansätze zur Analyse der Interaktionsvorgänge und der Kommunikation vor Gericht. Sie bleibt zwar die Antwort auf die Frage schuldig, inwieweit diese theoretischen Ansätze den Besonderheiten der NS-Prozesse gerecht werden können,104 bietet aber wichtige Hinweise für eine Auseinandersetzung mit dem Gericht als einem Kommunikationsort, an dem nach bestimmbaren Regeln Sprechpositionen vergeben, Erzählungen interpretiert und kohärente Sachverhaltsdarstellungen sowie eine gerichtliche Wahrheit geschaffen werden. Neben den Aussagen der Beschuldigten befasst sich die Autorin ausführlich mit den Aussagen der Opferzeugen, ihrer gerichtlichen Zurichtung und Interpretation und ihrer rechtlichen und historischen Bedeutung. Der Monografie fehlt eine durchgearbeitete Synthese, aber sie zeigt – wie zuvor in anderer Form Pendas – einen Weg für eine zeithisto­rische Auseinandersetzung mit den NS-Prozessen, die die Geschehnisse in den Vernehmungsräumen und Gerichtssälen als Untersuchungsgegenstand ernst nimmt und für eine Analyse des zeitgenössischen Sprechens über die NS-Verbrechen zu nutzen weiß. Die Soziologin Kristin Platt arbeitete für ihre Studie Bezweifelte Erinnerung, verweigerte Glaubhaftigkeit105 mit einem sehr viel jüngeren Quellenmaterial: den Entschädigungsakten jüdischer Überlebender in den sogenann­

102 Katrin Stoll, Die Herstellung der Wahrheit. Strafverfahren gegen ehemalige Angehörige der Sicherheitspolizei für den Bezirk Białystok, Berlin/Boston, Mass., 2012. 103 Ebd., 9. 104 Siehe ebd., 450. 105 Kristin Platt, Bezweifelte Erinnerung, verweigerte Glaubhaftigkeit. Überlebende des Holocaust in den Ghettorenten-Verfahren, München 2012.

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ten Ghettorentenverfahren. Diese Renten konnten ab 2002 beantragt werden. Bis zu einer Grundsatzentscheidung des Bundessozialgerichts im Juni 2009 wurden 90  Prozent der Anträge abgelehnt, vielfach weil die Angaben der Überlebenden als unglaubhaft galten. Platt geht akribisch der Frage nach, wie die Behörden und Gerichte mit den Angaben und Erzählungen der Überlebenden umgingen, wie diese Angaben erhoben und nach welchen Kriterien sie beurteilt wurden – unter anderem mit einem ausführlichen Rückblick auf die gerichtlichen Bewertungen der Aussagen von Holocaustüberlebenden in den NS-Prozessen.106 Die Frage der Glaubhaftigkeit wird hier aus ihrer behaupteten rechtlichen Neutralität herausgelöst und in Bezug gesetzt zu den personellen und institutionellen Konstellationen der Entschädigungs- oder Strafverfahren. In der Diskussion der Glaubwürdigkeitsprüfungen und des Status der Überlebenden als Zeugen im weiteren Sinne bezieht sich Platt auf Theorien aus der Rechtswissenschaft, Sozialpsychologie, Geschichte und Traumaforschung – eine intensive und theoretisch fundierte Auseinandersetzung damit, wie Gerichte, Behörden und schließlich auch die Öffentlichkeit auf die Angaben der Überlebenden reagierten und wie ein anderer Umgang mit diesen Erzählungen aussehen könnte. Georg Wamhof stellte 2009 in einem längeren Vorwort zum Sammelband Das Gericht als Tribunal einen historiografischen Zugang zu den NS-Pro­ zessen vor, der sich ebenso für das konkrete Geschehen vor Gericht wie für dessen öffentliche Rezeption interessiert.107 Die Auseinandersetzung mit der NS-Vergangenheit sei in den 1950er und 1960er Jahren in einem Maße durch die Strafprozesse geprägt und dominiert worden, dass man von einer »Juridifizierung« dieser Auseinandersetzung sprechen könne.108 Die Ge­richte versorgten die öffentlichen Debatten mit Namen, Bildern und Tatorten, gleichzeitig aber auch mit juristisch geprägten Kategorien und Deu­ tungsmustern. Der öffentliche Prozess sei ein »Aufarbeitungsmodus, der Aspekte der Vergangenheit unter spezifischen Vorzeichen, nach bestimmten Regeln und Kriterien organisiert«.109 Entgegen den zeithistorischen Ansätzen, die Verfahrenskritik betrieben und danach fragten, was ein Prozess aus »der Geschichte« gemacht habe, wie Geschichte vor Gericht repräsentiert,

106 Siehe ebd., 208–279. 107 Georg Wamhof, Gerichtskultur und NS-Vergangenheit. Performativität  – Narrativität  – Medialität, in: ders. (Hg.), Das Gericht als Tribunal, 9–37. 108 Siehe auch die Arbeit der Literaturwissenschaftlerin Mirjam Wenzel, Gericht und Gedächtnis. Der deutschsprachige Holocaust-Diskurs der sechziger Jahre, Göttingen 2009. 109 Wamhof, Gerichtskultur und NS-Vergangenheit, 13.

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gespiegelt, verformt oder verschleiert würde,110 schlägt Wamhof ähnlich wie Katrin Stoll vor, genauer darauf zu blicken, wie die Ahndung und die justizielle Wirklichkeit »gemacht« werden.111 Ausgangspunkt einer solchen Untersuchung sei »der Gerichtssaal, dessen Stellenwert als konkreter Ort der Produktion und Konstruktion von Wissen und Vorstellungen, von Begriffen und Erzählungen, mithin schließlich von kollektivem Gedächtnis und Historie näher zu bestimmen ist«.112 Insbesondere die performativen und die narrativen Aspekte der Gerichtsverfahren, die »Aufführung der Aufklärung« und die mit und in den Verfahren geschaffenen Erzählungen, das »legal storytelling«,113 seien in der Zeitgeschichte bisher vernachlässigt worden. Hier kommen nicht zuletzt die Zeugnisse der Überlebenden, ihre gerichtliche »Aufführung« und ihre Rezeption ins Spiel. Anhand des Eichmann-Prozes­ ses verweist Wamhof auf die entscheidende Rolle von Gerichtsverfahren bei der »Entstehung des Zeugen«114 als einer neuartigen, öffentlichen Figur. Mit welchen Abstrichen das auf die bundesdeutschen Prozesse übertragbar ist, wird noch zu untersuchen sein. Aus einer kultur- und rechtshistorischen Perspektive hat Cornelia Vismann einen genauen Blick auf die Formen und Medien der Rechtsprechung geworfen.115 Ihre Monografie ist im engeren Sinn kein Beitrag zur Forschung über NS-Prozesse (obwohl es auch ein Kapitel über die Rolle des Films im Nürnberger Prozess und den Nürnberger Prozess im Film gibt); der erste Teil, der den »Dispositiven der Rechtsprechung« gewidmet ist, kommt ohne Verweis auf NS-Prozesse aus. Es finden sich hier jedoch zahlreiche Anregungen, wenn man fragt, was vor Gericht eigentlich vor sich geht. Vismann untersucht die Theatralität der Verfahren, die Unterschiede zwischen Ge­ richt und Tribunal, die Prinzipien der Mündlichkeit und Öffentlichkeit, die Zeitlichkeit vor Gericht, das Sprechen »zur Sache«, die architektonischen und symbolischen Ordnungen, die alten und neuen Medien der Rechtsprechung. Die Gerichtsverhandlung beschreibt Vismann als ein »Zeremoniell

110 Ebd., 15 f. Als Beispiele nennt Wamhof u. a. Pendas’ o. g. Arbeit über den Auschwitz-Pro­ zess und Donald Bloxhams Monografie über die Nürnberger Prozesse: Ders., Genocide on Trial. War Crimes Trials and the Formation of Holocaust History and Memory, Oxford/ New York 2001. 111 Siehe Wamhof, Gerichtskultur und NS-Vergangenheit, 17 f. 112 Ebd., 18. 113 Ebd., 29; Wamhof verweist hier auf die »Law-and-Literature«-Bewegung in den Vereinigten Staaten, etwa Guyora Binder/Robert Weisberg, Literary Criticism of Law, Princeton, N. J., 2000. 114 Siehe Wamhof, Gerichtskultur und NS-Vergangenheit, 31. Der Autor bezieht sich damit auf eine Formulierung von Wieviorka. Siehe dies., Die Entstehung des Zeugen. 115 Cornelia Vismann, Medien der Rechtsprechung, Frankfurt a. M. 2011; Vismann ist vor der Drucklegung verstorben.

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der Sprachwerdung«,116 als die Verwandlung einer unaussprechlichen Tat in Sprache und eine erzählbare Handlung. Im gerichtlichen Nachspielen »erhält die Tat eine Fassung in der Sprache, sie wird handhabbar, erträglich oder doch zumindest justiziabel«.117 Insofern sei das Gericht eine Szene der Umwandlung, an der alle Akteure in verschiedenen Rollen beteiligt seien. Durch die Abgeschlossenheit des Gerichtssaals, die »Einheit von Raum, Zeit und Handlung«, schließe das Gericht die weiterlaufende Zeit aus. Es werde eine neue Zeitebene geschaffen, in der das »bedrohlich Weiterwuchernde der Dinge«118 gebannt und in eine abgeschlossene Vergangenheit transformiert werden könne. Diese wenigen Stichworte aus Vismanns Arbeit verweisen auf ihre Virulenz für eine Untersuchung der Geschehnisse in den NS-Pro­zessen. Die »Sprachwerdung« unaussprechlicher Taten und ihre Verwandlung in Vergangenheit waren gewiss eine der großen Herausforderungen dieser Verfahren. Es wäre spannend zu prüfen, wie die von Vismann herausgearbeite­ ten Formen und Funktionen der abendländischen Rechtsprechung sich zu den spezifischen Konstellationen und Anforderungen der NS-Prozesse ver­ halten, ob also beispielsweise die versprochene »Befriedung«119 der durch die Tat erschütterten Ordnung gelingen konnte oder hier per se scheitern musste. Die zahlreichen Monografien und Sammelbände, die im letzten Jahrzehnt über die Nürnberger Prozesse120 und andere Verfahren der Alliierten121 erschienen sind, können hier nicht im Einzelnen vorgestellt werden. Im Nürnberger Hauptkriegsverbrecherprozess spielte die Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden bekanntlich eine marginale Rolle.122 Seit etlichen Jahren wird – zum Teil durchaus kontrovers  – die Bedeutung diskutiert, die die Nürnberger

116 Ebd., 20. 117 Ebd., 32. 118 Ebd., 37. 119 Ebd. 120 Siehe Bloxham, Genocide on Trial; Herbert R. Reginbogin/Christoph J. Safferling/Walter R. Hippel (Hgg.), Die Nürnberger Prozesse. Völkerstrafrecht seit 1945, München 2006; Patricia Heberer/Jürgen Matthäus (Hgg.), Atrocities on Trial. Historical Perspectives on the Politics of Prosecuting War Crimes, Lincoln, Nebr., 2008; Kim Christian Priemel/ Alexa Stiller (Hgg.), NMT. Die Nürnberger Militärtribunale zwischen Geschichte, Ge­ rechtigkeit und Rechtsschöpfung, Hamburg 2013. 121 Siehe Ludwig Eiber/Robert Sigl (Hgg.), Dachauer Prozesse. NS-Verbrechen vor amerikanischen Militärgerichten in Dachau 1945–1948, Göttingen 2007; John Cramer, Belsen Trial 1945, Göttingen 2011. 122 Siehe Donald Bloxham, Jewish Witnesses in War Crimes Trials of the Postwar Era, in: Bankier/Michman (Hgg.), Holocaust Historiography in Context, 539–553; Douglas, The Memory of Judgement, 78  f. Der Jurist Douglas befasst sich in diesem Buch mit dem Nürnberger Prozess, dem Eichmann-Prozess sowie den Verfahren gegen Klaus Barbie in Frankreich, John Demjanjuk in Israel und Ernst Zündel in Kanada.

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Prozesse für die Wahrnehmung des Holocaust hatten.123 In den vergangenen Jahren kommen vermehrt jüdische Akteure in Nürnberg in den Blick, ebenso die jüdische Rezeption der Prozesse.124 Akteure wie der Jüdische Weltkongress und das Institute of Jewish Affairs arbeiteten später auch mit bundesdeutschen Ermittlungsbehörden in NS-Prozessen zusammen und beteiligten sich vor allem an der Suche nach jüdischen Zeugen.

Zeugnis und Zeugenschaft – zwischen epistemischer und ­ethischer Funktion Die Publikationen zur Zeugenschaft und Zeugnisliteratur der Überlebenden aus der Philosophie, den Literatur-, Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften und gelegentlich der Geschichtswissenschaft sind zu zahlreich, um hier auch nur annähernd vollständig vorgestellt zu werden. Die folgenden Ausführungen konzentrieren sich auf einige Arbeiten, die sich auch der Problematik des juristischen Zeugnisses zuwenden. Der Sozialwissenschaftler Michael Pollak hat sich in den 1980er Jahren mit der Zeugenschaft von KZ-Überlebenden (am Beispiel der Zeugnisse weiblicher Häftlinge aus Auschwitz-Birkenau) befasst.125 Er untersucht und vergleicht systematisch die Anliegen der Autorinnen beziehungsweise Sprecherinnen, den sprachlichen Ausdruck sowie die Erzähl- und Erinnerungsstrukturen in verschiedenen Formen von Zeugnissen – von der ge­richtlichen Aussage bis zum Oral-History-Interview. Pollak etabliert noch nicht jene 123 Zwei wichtige Opponenten sind Donald Bloxham und Michael Marrus: Siehe Bloxham, Genocide; Michael Marrus, The Nuremberg War Crimes Trial 1945–46. A Documentary History, Boston, Mass./New York 1997; ders., Holocaust at Nuremberg, in: Yad Vashem Studies 26 (1998), 5–41. 124 Siehe Douglas, The Memory of Judgement; Laura Jockusch, Justice at Nuremberg? Jewish Responses to Nazi War-Crime Trials in Allied-Occupied Germany, in: Jewish Social Studies 19 (2012), H. 1, 107–147; dies., Ein Anwalt der Opfer? Der Jüdische Weltkongress und das Problem einer jüdischen Interessenvertretung bei den Nürnberger Prozessen, in: Jahrbuch für Antisemitismusforschung 22 (2013), 13–34; dies., Das Urteil der Zeugen. Die Nürnberger Prozesse aus der Sicht jüdischer Holocaustüberlebender im besetzten Deutschland, in: Priemel/Stiller, NMT, 653–683; David Bankier/Dan Michman (Hgg.), Holocaust and Justice. Representation and Historiography of the Holocaust in Post-War Trials, Jerusalem 2010; darin u. a.: Boaz Cohen, Dr. Jacob Robinson, the Institute of Jewish Affairs and the Elusive Jewish Voice in Nuremberg (81–100); Annette Weinke, Gewalt, Geschichte, Gerechtigkeit. Transnationale Debatten über deutsche Staatsverbrechen im 20. Jahrhundert (116–144). 125 Michael Pollak, Die Grenzen des Sagbaren. Lebensgeschichten von KZ-Überlebenden als Augenzeugenberichte und Identitätsarbeit, Frankfurt a. M./New York 1988.

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grundsätzliche Dichotomie zwischen juristischem und ethischem Zeugnis, die spätere Arbeiten zu dem Thema prägen wird, hebt aber die unterschiedlichen Sagbarkeits-Regeln der jeweiligen Genres hervor: »Nur die Sprachen von Justiz, Politik oder Wissenschaft verleihen den Aussagen über das KZ konsistente Sprachregeln, sind aber natürlich ganz ungeeignet, um diesen Erfahrungen als persönlichen, d. h. direkt die Identität betreffenden Erfahrungen gerecht zu werden.«126

Bedeutende Arbeiten zur Geschichte der Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden hat die bereits zitierte französische Historikerin Annette Wieviorka vorgelegt.127 Sie analysiert in historischer Perspektive die Entstehungsbedingungen und sozialen Kontexte der Zeugenschaft, deren eminente Veränderungen im Laufe der Nachkriegszeit, das je nach Zeit und Verfolgtengruppe stark variierende öffentliche Interesse und dessen Folgen für die Zeugen, die verschiedenen Formen der Rezeption, die unterschiedlichen Rollen und Funktionen der Zeugen im öffentlichen Diskurs und die sich verändernden Medien der Zeugenschaft. Ausführlich befasst sie sich in The Era of the Witness mit der juristischen Zeugenschaft und ihren Veränderungen: »The Nuremberg trials marked the triumph of the written over the oral.«128 Der Eichmann-Prozess hingegen habe »das Erscheinen des Zeugen«129 eingeläutet und den Überlebenden eine neue soziale Rolle und ein neues Selbstverständnis verschafft. Während bis dahin alle Versuche gescheitert seien, die Erinnerung an den Genozid im öffentlichen Gedächtnis zu verankern, wurde dies nun möglich.130 Die »Explosion«131 der Zeugnisse seit den 1980er Jahren sei mit einem allgemeinen Bedürfnis der Öffentlichkeit und der Medien nach Authentizität, Identifikation und Emotion zusammengefallen und habe Historiker und Zeugen in eine eigentümliche Konkurrenzsituation gebracht. Vom ehemaligen Auschwitz-Häftling Primo Levi stammen grundsätzliche und skeptische Überlegungen zur Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden, die später vielfach aufgegriffen wurden: »Nicht wir, die Überlebenden, sind die wirklichen Zeugen. […] Wir Überlebenden sind nicht nur eine verschwindend kleine, sondern auch eine anormale Minderheit: wir sind die, die aufgrund von Pflichtverletzungen, aufgrund ihrer Geschicklichkeit oder ihres Glücks den tiefsten Punkt des Abgrunds nicht berührt haben. Wer ihn berührt, wer das

126 Ebd., 163 f. 127 Annette Wieviorka, On Testimony, in: Geoffrey Hartman (Hg.), Holocaust Remembrance. The Shapes of Memory, Oxford/Cambridge, Mass., 1994, 23–32; dies., Die Entstehung des Zeugen; dies., The Era of the Witness. 128 Ebd., 67. 129 »The advent of the witness«; ebd., 56. 130 Siehe ebd., 88. 131 Ebd., 140.

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Haupt der Medusa erblickt hat, konnte nicht mehr zurückkehren um zu berichten, oder er ist stumm geworden. Vielmehr sind die ›Muselmänner‹, die Untergegangenen, die eigentlichen Zeugen, jene, deren Aussagen eine allgemeine Bedeutung gehabt hätte.«132

Giorgio Agamben und andere postmoderne Autoren nahmen dieses Zitat mehrfach zum Ausgangspunkt ihrer Thesen zur Aporie der Zeugenschaft der Vernichtung. Im Zentrum des Zeugnisses stehe, so Agamben, etwas Unbezeugbares, eine Lücke, die die Zeugen ihrer Autorität beraube; sie könnten letztlich nur Zeugnis ablegen »von der Unmöglichkeit, Zeugnis abzulegen«.133 Einige Jahre vor dem Erscheinen von Levis Text befasste sich der französische Philosoph Jean-François Lyotard mit der Aporie der juristischen Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden, die im Fall des Todes in den Gaskammern einen Beweis antreten müssten, den sie als Lebende per se nicht erbringen könnten.134 Die Unmöglichkeit des Beweises verwandle die Überlebenden von Klägern in Opfer: »Opfer sein bedeutet, nicht nachweisen zu können, daß man ein Unrecht erlitten hat. Ein Kläger ist jemand, der geschädigt wurde und über Mittel verfügt, es zu beweisen.«135 Lyotard beschreibt hier, sicherlich zugespitzt, die Situation von Überlebenden, de­ren Darstellungen vor deutschen Gerichten jederzeit als falsch zurückge­wiesen oder abgebrochen werden konnten und denen es so unmöglich gemacht wurde, das erlittene Unrecht zu Gehör zu bringen. Hier liege kein »Rechts­streit« vor, sondern ein »Widerstreit«. »Zwischen zwei Parteien entspinnt sich ein Widerstreit, wenn sich die ›Beilegung‹ des Konflikts, der sie miteinander konfrontiert, im Idiom der einen vollzieht, während das Unrecht, das die andere erleidet, in diesem Idiom nicht figuriert.«136 Damit ist eine grundsätzliche Frage nach der Darstellbarkeit der Erfahrungen der Überlebenden im juristischen Rahmen angesprochen, der bisher selten nachgegangen wurde. Die Literaturwissenschaftlerin Sigrid Weigel griff unter anderem Lyotards Text auf, als sie im Jahr 2000 in einem Aufsatz die Sphären des Bezeugens und der (juristischen oder historiografischen) Zeugenschaft scharf gegeneinander abgrenzte. Die Überlebenden zeugten mit ihren Erinnerungen von einem »anders nicht tradierten Wissen«,137 von den Erfahrungen derer, die zur Vernichtung bestimmt waren; ihre Worte seien immer auch Klage und Totenklage. Vor Gericht jedoch würde das Zeugnis zum Beweismittel re132 Primo Levi, Die Untergegangenen und die Geretteten, München 1990, 83 f. 133 Giorgio Agamben, Was von Auschwitz bleibt. Das Archiv und der Zeuge, Frankfurt a. M. 2003, 30. 134 Siehe Jean-François Lyotard, Der Widerstreit, München 1987, 17 f. 135 Ebd., 25. 136 Ebd., 27. 137 Sigrid Weigel, Zeugnis und Zeugenschaft, Klage und Anklage. Die Geste des Bezeugens in der Differenz von »identity politics«, juristischem und historiografischem Diskurs, in: Zeugnis und Zeugenschaft, Berlin 2000, 111–135, hier 119.

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duziert, des Moments der Klage beraubt und der Logik der Anklage unterstellt. Die Justiz gehe von der Norm einer neutralen, weitgehend affektfreien Zeugenaussage aus, die es aufseiten der Überlebenden per se nicht geben könne. Das »System der Endlösung« habe den neutralen, unabhängigen Zeugen, der seiner Wahrnehmung und seiner Person sicher sein konnte, zerstört; so gesehen sei der Holocaust ein Ereignis ohne Zeugen.138 Die Prozesse, in denen die Zeugen mit dem verfahrensimmanenten Zweifel am Beweischa­ rakter ihrer Aussagen konfrontiert wurden, führten nicht selten zu erneuter Traumatisierung, statt den Opfern Gerechtigkeit widerfahren zu lassen. Die juristische Zeugenschaft ist für Weigel das Beispiel für die am stärksten ­reglementierte, von fremden Zwecken und Beweisanforderungen beherrschte Form der Zeugenschaft, die den Erfahrungen und Anliegen der Überlebenden nicht ge­recht werden könne. Von der Literaturwissenschaftlerin Aleida Assmann stammt eine häufig diskutierte Typologie der Zeugenschaft, die sprachgeschichtlich und semantisch argumentiert und die verschiedenen institutionellen Rahmenbedingungen der Zeugenschaft ausleuchtet.139 Sie unterscheidet als Idealtypen den juridischen, den religiösen, den historischen und den moralischen Zeugen. Die Letztgenannte sei eine neue, nach dem Holocaust entstandene Form, die Züge aller anderen in sich aufgenommen habe. Sie beziehe ihre Autorität daraus, dass der Zeuge die Gewalt am eigenen Leib erfahren habe, und setze eine »moralische Gemeinschaft« voraus, die eine »sekundäre Zeugenschaft« annehme.140 Dieses auf den US-amerikanischen Psychoanalytiker Dori Laub zurückgehende Konzept der »sekundären Zeugenschaft« des Traumas141 ist inzwischen mehrfach als fragwürdige Aneignungspraxis kritisiert worden.142 Die beiden Philosophinnen Sibylle Schmidt und Sybille Krämer diskutierten 2011 in einem gemeinsam herausgegebenen Sammelband die Zeugenschaft als eine soziale Wissenspraxis.143 Sie leiten die Figur des Zeugen historisch als ein Medium des Wissens her, dessen epistemologischer Status in den verschiedenen Epochen und Kontexten der abendländischen Geschichte schwankend war. Die Zeugenschaft des Holocaust wirkt hier als 138 Ebd., 121. 139 Aleida Assmann, Vier Grundtypen der Zeugenschaft, in: Elm/Kößler (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft des Holocaust, 31–51. 140 Siehe ebd., 42 f. 141 Siehe Dori Laub, Zeugnis ablegen oder die Schwierigkeiten des Zuhörens, in: Ulrich Baer (Hg.), »Niemand zeugt für den Zeugen«. Erinnerungskultur nach der Shoah, Frankfurt a. M. 2000, 68–83. 142 Siehe etwa Christian Schneider, Trauma und Zeugenschaft. Probleme des erinnernden Umgangs mit Gewaltgeschichte, in: Elm/Kößler (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft des Holocaust, 157–175. 143 Sibylle Schmidt/Sybille Krämer/Ramon Voges (Hgg.), Politik der Zeugenschaft. Zur Kritik einer Wissenspraxis, Bielefeld 2011.

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ein Ex­trembeispiel, an dem sich die allgemeinen Thesen bewähren müssen. ­Sibylle Schmidt konstatiert in der gegenwärtigen Diskussion zwei scheinbar unvereinbare Perspektiven auf die Zeugenschaft: eine epistemologi­sche, die das Zeugnis als Wissensquelle und Beweismittel thematisiert, und eine ethische oder moralische, die an der Zeugenschaft des Holocaust ent­wickelt wurde und im Zeugnis einen Ausdruck subjektiver und singulärer Erfahrung und Erinnerung sieht, der sich nicht auf seine Beweisfunktion reduzieren lasse und nicht falsifizierbar sei.144 Eine mögliche Vermittlung zwischen diesen beiden dichotomen Perspektiven sieht Schmidt in einer Wahrnehmung der Zeugenschaft als einer sozialen Praxis, an der Zeugen wie Rezipienten gleichermaßen beteiligt sind und die immer auf Verantwortung, Vertrauen und Glauben angewiesen und daher per se ethisch fundiert ist. Auch Sybille ­Krämer geht von einer Ambivalenz des Zeugnisses zwischen epistemischen und ethischen Bedeutungen aus.145 Sie analysiert die juristische Zeugenschaft als einen paradigmatischen Fall, an dem diese Ambivalenzen offenkundig würden. Der Zeuge fungiere vor Gericht als depersona­lisiertes Aufzeichnungsorgan oder als Spur eines vergangenen Verbrechens, gleichzeitig lasse sich die Glaubwürdigkeit seiner Aussage nur über seine Glaubwürdigkeit als Person herstellen. Die Kluft zwischen der Evidenzkraft und der Bezweifelbarkeit einer Aussage müsse immer, auch vor Gericht, durch Vertrauen überbrückt werden. Daher sei die gerichtliche Zeugenschaft hochgradig »moralisiert«, etwa durch Zeugenbelehrung und Vereidigung. Personalisierung und Depersonalisierung seien hier eng miteinander verschränkt. Krämer folgt den Thesen von Lyotard, Agamben und anderen über die Aporien der »Überlebenszeugenschaft«, sieht aber in einer aktiven, verantwortungsvollen Haltung der Rezipienten sowohl die Möglichkeit ei­ner »Rehumanisierung«146 des Zeugnisablegens als auch eine Bedingung für Zeugenschaft als produktive Wissensvermittlung. Auffällig an den hier vorgestellten literaturwissenschaftlichen und philosophischen Arbeiten zur Zeugenschaft ist ihre große Distanz zum empirischen Material und den real existierenden Zeugen. Das Interesse gilt eher den Rezipienten und den theoretischen Modellen; die Zeugen, ihre Anliegen und Erzählungen bleiben meist ein Abstraktum. Problematisch wird das vor allem dort, wo die apriorischen Setzungen, etwa über die Unmöglichkeit der Zeugenschaft der Vernichtung, in Widerspruch stehen zu den vielfachen Be-

144 Sibylle Schmidt, Wissensquelle oder ethisch-politische Figur. Zur Synthese zweier Forschungsdiskurse über Zeugenschaft, in: dies./Krämer/Voges (Hgg.), Politik der Zeugenschaft, 47–66. 145 Sybille Krämer, Vertrauen schenken. Über Ambivalenzen der Zeugenschaft, in: Schmidt/ dies./Voges (Hgg.), Politik der Zeugenschaft, 117–139. 146 Ebd., 136.

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mühungen der Überlebenden, genau das zu tun: ihre Augenzeugenschaft als beweiskräftiges Zeugnis der Vernichtung zu etablieren.147 Liest oder hört man die Zeugenaussagen der Auschwitz-Überlebenden vor Gericht, wird offenkundig, dass die Zeugen selbst zunächst keineswegs von der Vergeb­lichkeit ihrer Bemühungen überzeugt waren. Das Gefühl der Vergeblichkeit stellte sich oft erst als Folge konkreter Erfahrungen vor bundesdeutschen Gerichten ein, die sich nicht in der Lage sahen, adäquate Praktiken der Verfahrensgestaltung und Rechtsprechung für die Vernichtungsverbrechen zu finden. Eine erneute Hinwendung zum empirischen Material gehört auch zu den Anregungen der Literaturwissenschaftlerin Aurélia Kalisky. In einem Aufsatz von 2015, der sich unter anderem mit den oben genannten Arbeiten von Assmann, Weigel und Lyotard befasst, plädiert sie dafür, die Zeugenschaft als ein vielschichtiges Phänomen wahrzunehmen, das in seinen konkreten historischen Entstehungsbedingungen und Kontexten untersucht werden müsse.148 Auch sie konstatiert die allgegenwärtige scharfe Gegenüberstellung zweier »Sphären« der Zeugenschaft in der jüngeren Literatur: einerseits der Sphäre des Beweises und der epistemologischen Verwertbarkeit, ande­ rerseits der Sphäre der singulären Erfahrung und »ethischen« Wahrheit.149 Diese Gegenüberstellung diene, so Kalisky, hauptsächlich dazu, »dass einige Formen und Dimensionen der Zeugenschaft von ihrer Instrumentalisierung und Indienstnahme von Seiten des Rechts und der Historiographie geschützt werden«.150 Die vielfältigen Versuche der Typologisierung der Zeugenschaft könnten zwar ein wichtiges heuristisches Instrument sein, allerdings liege in ihnen auch die Gefahr erstarrter Oppositionslinien zwischen verschiedenen Zeugenschafts-Konzepten. Laut Kalisky sollten Typologien als »heuristische Instrumente konzipiert und reflektiert werden, die sich durch die Analyse von konkreten Zeugnissen als unzureichend erweisen können, um sogar manch­mal vom singulären Zeugnis widerlegt oder überwunden zu werden«.151 Die Autorin schlägt unter anderem vor, die juridische Zeugenschaft selbst zu historisieren,152 die Gegenüberstellung von epistemischen und ethischen Aspekten der Zeugenschaft in ihrer kulturhistorischen Entstehung zu analysieren und sich den Zeugnissen mit einem »radikalen Empiris-

147 Auch der Skeptiker Primo Levi hat sich mehrfach als Gerichtszeuge angeboten. Siehe ders., So war Auschwitz. Zeugnisse 1945–1986, München 2017. 148 Aurélia Kalisky, Jenseits der Typologien. Die Vielschichtigkeit der Zeugenschaft, in: Claudia Nickel/Alexandra Ortiz Wallner (Hgg.), Zeugenschaft. Perspektiven auf ein kulturelles Phänomen, Heidelberg 2015, 193–211. 149 Siehe ebd., 197. 150 Ebd., 198. 151 Ebd., 200 (Hervorhebungen im Original). 152 Wichtige Anregungen dafür finden sich in: Michel Foucault, Die Wahrheit und die juristischen Formen, Frankfurt a. M. 2003.

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mus«153 und einer gewissen Distanz zur Theorie zuzuwenden. Es seien nicht zuletzt die zu Schriftstellern oder Historikern gewordenen Zeugen selbst gewesen, die immer wieder den von der Theorie gezogenen scharfen Oppositionslinien widersprachen und deren Werke auf die Multidimensionalität des Zeugnisses verwiesen. Die Opposition zwischen zwei gegensätzlichen Formen und Auffassungen der Zeugenschaft der Überlebenden prägt die jüngere Literatur zum Thema. Ob in der Literaturwissenschaft und Philosophie oder in der Holocaustforschung: Das Zeugnis als Wissensquelle einerseits und als Ausdruck einer subjektiven ethischen Wahrheit andererseits scheinen zwei unvereinbare Perspektiven zu sein. Gerade das juristische Zeugnis der Überlebenden wird aus beiden Blickwinkeln mit großer Skepsis betrachtet: Die Juristen und Historiker misstrauen ihm als Beweismittel oder Quelle, die Kulturwissenschaft und Philosophie sieht darin meist eine entfremdete und retraumatisierende Form der Zeugenschaft, die den Möglichkeiten der Überlebenden nicht ge­ recht werden könne. Als weiterführend erweisen sich Ansätze, die das Wie der juristischen Zeugenschaft genauer in den Blick nehmen und als histo­ risches Phänomen untersuchen oder die im juristischen Kontext entstandene Zeugnisse auf ihre vielfältigen, teils widersprüchlichen Bedeutungsebenen hin befragen und nicht allein entlang kriminologischer Kriterien oder binärer Zuordnungen wahrnehmen. Dazu gehört, die Geschichte der NS-Prozesse als Geschichte einer konflikthaften Begegnung höchst unterschiedlicher Akteure zu untersuchen, die zwar gemeinsam, aber mit sehr ungleichen Mitteln und Motiven an der Herstellung der gerichtlichen Wahrheit beteiligt waren. Das Prozessmaterial kann über sehr Verschiedenes Auskunft geben: etwa über die Geschehnisse an den Tatorten, über die Selbstwahrnehmung und Motive der Zeugen, über die Formen, Bedingungen und Kontexte der Erinnerung und des Sprechens in verschiedenen Nachkriegsjahrzehnten und Erinnerungsgemeinschaften, über die schwierigen Versuche einer gemeinsamen Sprachfindung von Juristen und Überlebenden und die Probleme der juristischen Ahndung der Verbrechen. Dafür sind eine historische Perspektive auf die Prozesse und ihre Akteure sowie eine Hinwendung zum empirischen Material aus den Verfahren notwendig.

153 Ebd., 206, mit Verweis auf Catherine Coquio, Finzione, poesia, testimonianza. Dibattiti teorici e approcci critici, in: Marina Cattaruzza/Marcello Flores/Levis Sullam Simon (Hgg.), Storia della shoah. La crisi dell’Europa, lo sterminio degli ebrei e la memoria del XX. secolo, Torino 2010, 186–238.

Abstracts Nicolas Berg Biografische Projektionsräume – Emil Ludwig im deutsch-jüdischen Wissenskontext One of the most famous biographers of the early twentieth century has by today been virtually forgotten: Emil Ludwig. His biographies – for example of Goethe, Napoleon, and Rembrandt – which circulated in their tens of thousands in the 1920s and were translated into many languages, are today no longer part of the canon of literary modernity. The article by Nicolas Berg argues that the genre of literary biography existing at that time was an expression of a specific context of German Jewish knowledge that was destroyed in the Holocaust. This context decisively shaped the emergence, success, and not least of all the critique – including negative portents – of this genre. The frequent discussion of so-called “historical fiction” in German literary studies and historical research may not have focused solely on Jewish authors, but many biographers in particular – in fact the most renowned and successful of them – were of Jewish origin, including Stefan Zweig, Lion Feuchtwanger, Jakob Wassermann and, finally, Emil Ludwig. The fact that these biographers were all exposed to the criticisms of a fundamental and politically charged debate in the academic historical discipline was not only due to the provocative status of their books beyond the traditional order of knowledge, scholarship, and judgment: It began with their Jewish authorship. A methodologically sound reflection of the genre of biographical writing, so the hypothesis of the author, can today only be achieved when this social positioning of Jewish biographers is taken into account. Alina Bothe Forced over the Border: The Expulsion of Polish Jews from Germany in 1938/39 The persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship within Nazi Germany has only been discussed in regard to the first mass deportation of 28 October 1938. This article argues for a broader scope from March 1938 to at least September 1939 – from the Polish March Laws until the second Polenaktion. Based on unpublished sources and intensely researched biographies of those affected by the persecution, this article reconstructs the events and experiences during this period. It focuses on three case studies from Berlin, Saxony, JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 611–621.

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and Braunschweig, no prior research about which has been conducted and published. Therefore, the article tackles the crucial question of citizenship in 1938 in an integrated history, combining victim and perpetrator documents as well as the central and local/regional level. Michal Frankl No Man’s Land: Refugees, Moving Borders, and Shifting Citizenship in 1938 East-Central Europe This article examines the large-scale expulsions of Jews in East-Central Europe in 1938 and the dramatic interplay between Nazi Germany and the states to its east, Poland and Czechoslovakia. Looking at the proliferation of the “no man’s land” between state borders in which refugees were caught, often in open fields and along roads, the article analyzes the transformation of refugee policy towards the ethnic categorization and exclusion of Jewish refugees as well as the relationship of no man’s land to territorial revisions and the destabilization of the nation states in this region. Furthermore, the article explores the connection between the restrictive refugee policies and changing concepts of citizenship and provides a first short comparative analysis of the Polish and Czechoslovak revisions of citizenship in 1938 and 1939. It argues that the negative approach towards refugees led to the destabilization of the status of local Jews and constituted an important step toward the exclusion of Jews from the respective societies. Jan Gerber Der Funktionswandel des Rechts – Franz Neumann in Nürnberg This article examines the work of Franz Neumann, a legal expert from the emigrated Frankfurt Institute for Social Research, on behalf of the International Military Tribunal in Nuremberg in 1946. Of central interest is the question of why Neumann decided to undertake this work. In 1942, he had still spoken critically of the relinquishment of state sovereignty to supranational organizations in the form that parts of the American prosecution counsel in Nuremberg envisioned a system of international law taking in the postwar order. The same can be said for the coupling of law and ethics as expounded by the court. The article shows how the labor movement Marxist Neumann distanced himself from his previous legal and ideological tenets due to the experiences of the time, without however renouncing them completely. His

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work for the International Military Tribunal was the result not least of all of the conflicts in which he found himself due to the contradictory nature of the time. Despite his work in Nuremberg, Franz Neumann’s thinking remained torn between Marxism and liberalism, optimism and pessimism, generalizations drawn from theories of fascism and differentiation based on ample experience. Anna Holzer-Kawalko Lost on the Island: Mapping an Alternative Path of Exile in the Life and Work of Ernst Grumach This article offers an intellectual portrait of Ernst Grumach (1902–1967), a German Jewish scholar who specialized in classical and German philology. A graduate of the University of Königsberg, Grumach worked at his alma mater until 1933. During the era of Nazi rule in Germany, he taught at the Higher Institute for Jewish Studies and directed a group of Jewish forced laborers who worked with the collections of Nazi-looted Jewish libraries in the Reich Security Main Office in Berlin. Following the end of the war, Grumach decided to remain in Berlin and accepted an academic nomination at the Humboldt University and the East German Academy of Sciences, where he worked until 1959. Relying entirely on archival documentation, the article examines the main factors that influenced Grumach’s path through the Nazi and then communist regimes, illuminating their impact on his scholarship and relations with German and German Jewish circles. Finally, it demonstrates that Grumach’s biography  – although different from the stories of Jewish migrants, refugees, and repatriates that proliferated during his lifetime – represents an alternative path of exile, not necessarily rooted in geographical changes or physical displacement. Martin Jost A Battle against Time: Salomon Adler-Rudel’s Commitment at the Évian Conference The Évian Conference was organized in the summer of 1938 in reaction to the Jewish refugee crisis and as a result of the annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany. Salomon Adler-Rudel, an emissary of various Jewish organizations, and many of his Jewish colleagues hoped that the invitation to the conference by US President Franklin D. Roosevelt would signal an organized and long-term mass emigration of German and Austrian Jews. The Évian Conference did effect the establishment of the Intergovernmental Committee

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on Refugees, intended to negotiate and implement such an emigration project between Nazi Germany and potential host countries. In the immediate aftermath of the conference, Adler-Rudel considered the establishment of the committee a clear expansion of existing refugee policies. However, negotiations were protracted, and when they could finally have begun, international political conditions no longer allowed for a long-term emigration project. Adler-Rudel became increasingly disappointed by the activities of the committee in early 1939. This article contextualizes Adler-Rudel’s shifting assessments, showing that the progressive initiative of Évian ultimately failed due to the dynamics of the Nazi politics of expansion and displacement and the resulting differences in temporal perception. David Jünger Beyond Flight and Rescue: The Migration Setting of German Jewry before 1938 This article analyzes the choices and challenges for German Jews regarding the question of emigration in the 1930s against the background of the global migration regime at that time. The main argument is that migration questions for German Jews in the 1930s were more complex than many studies on the subject have suggested to date. In order to understand the predicaments of the Jews in Nazi Germany, the issue of their migration is analyzed within a larger setting of international migration problems of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Therefore, the article refers not only to debates of the German Jewish public – as published in articles, books, and pamphlets – and to memoirs of German Jews, but also includes a cross-reading of secondary sources on Jewish history in different regions. First, the German Jewish situation of the 1930s is presented as part of an even bigger crisis which affected centers of Jewish life such as Poland, Palestine, and the United States. Second, the responses of German Jews to the Nazi onslaught are analyzed within the framework of the entire era of emancipation. Magnus Klaue Das untergehende Ich: Zur Biografiekritik der Kritischen Theorie This article examines the epistemological, aesthetic, and political implications of critiques of biographical writing in early critical theory from a historical perspective. Of central interest here are the texts by Siegfried Kracauer and Leo Löwenthal directed against the popular bourgeois biographical

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writing of the interwar period, the hermeneutical reflections of Walter Benjamin and Theodor W. Adorno concerning the nexus of history, biography, and corpus, and Max Horkheimer’s return to the biographical genre in his later years as he searched in vain for a biographer to chronicle his life. The different aims of critiques of biographical writing and the various relations established between biographical experience and aesthetic form are here related to the significance that the experience of the Jewish bourgeoisie held for the authors and their works. Enrico Lucca Biography and Institutional History: Hugo Bergman’s First Journey as Rector of the Hebrew University (1937) This article focuses on Hugo Bergman’s first mission as rector of the Hebrew University. His journey took place on two continents and in three different countries (Czechoslovakia, Poland, and the United States) between February and May 1937. By illustrating a forgotten episode in the early history of the Hebrew University, the article brings to the fore also Bergman’s take on relevant issues, such as the self-projection of the university vis-à-vis the Zionist Yishuv and its relation to diaspora Jewish communities. Finally, an account of the political and intellectual network gravitating around Bergman’s mission serves to prove his central role within twentieth-century (Jewish) intellectual history. Daniel Mahla Richtungskämpfe um rabbinische Autorität und nationale Selbstverwirk­ lichung: Mosche Amiel, Judah Maimon und der religiöse Zionismus der Zwischenkriegszeit Moshe Avigdor Amiel (1883–1946) and Judah Maimon (1875–1962) were among the most important leaders of the Religious Zionist movement (Mizrahi) during the first half of the twentieth century. Born in Eastern Europe, both received extensive religious education at the large yeshivot in the region and later emigrated to Palestine, where they assumed important positions in the public life of the Jewish settlements. While Maimon became an eminent Mizrahi politician, Amiel evolved into a widely acknowledged rabbinic figure – a development that resulted in different and sometimes contradictory ideas about their movement, reflecting deep tensions between political activism and spiritual authority. Tracing the debates between the two protagonists during the 1920s and 1930s, this article argues that these tensions were

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of central significance for the development of the Mizrahi movement and strongly impacted its outlooks and affiliations. Dan Miron The “Sholem Aleichem” Tonality – Rhythm, Mobility, Humor This article sheds light on Sholem Aleichem’s tonality and the use of Yiddish in his literary work. Although he evaded the topics his best contemporaries considered essential, Sholem Aleichem (1859–1916) represented the new Jewish literary culture which emerged in the 1880s. As the article argues, his uniqueness and his genius inhered somewhere else: It was through the tonality and the music of his writing rather than its mimetic and social contents that Sholem Aleichem conveyed something like a pure, distilled essence of the Zeitgeist and that tonality, not the sociological portrayal, incorporated what was culturally and psychologically new and overwhelmingly urgent in the collective Jewish-Ashkenazi mood during the hectic decades between the 1880s and World War I. The article points out that the humor for which Sholem Aleichem is widely known drew its lifeblood from language, from the ebullient Yiddish on which the author forever embossed his signature. He believed Yiddish was an inherently “funny” language, which by its very lexicon and syntax produced a comic view of reality. In this way, Sholem Aleichem’s humor entails a clash between self-serving language and the harsh reality it tries to hide or soften. Katharina Prager Erinnerungsorte und jüdische Auto/Biografien des Exils – Überlegungen zu vier Intellektuellen aus Wien This paper discusses whether Pierre Nora’s concept of lieux de mémoire is a useful method for analyzing and constructing autobiographies of Jewish exiles in the twentieth century. While the interconnections between this text genre and memory are quite obvious, they are seldom discussed in any depth and included in analyses of auto/biographies. Following the lives and autobiographical practices of four exiles from Vienna – Hermann Broch, Gerda Lerner, and Berthold and Salka Viertel – this article examines the correlations between gender, Jewish identity, exile, and the creation of auto/biographical lieux de mémoire.

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René Schlott Raul Hilberg (1926–2007): Eine jüdische Biografie im 20. Jahrhundert The Holocaust scholar Raul Hilberg, born in 1926 in Vienna to an Eastern European Jewish couple, never highlighted the “Jewishness” in his life. The remarks in his autobiography on this matter are very short. He mentioned some visits to the synagogue during his childhood and his Jewish school but he declared himself an “atheist,” renouncing his Bar Mitzwa for that reason. He fled Vienna in 1939 and began to study the destruction of the European Jews in 1948 in New York City after many family members had been murdered in the Holocaust. In the “hiding” of his Jewish background, he tried to prevent any suspicion of emotional influence on his research. However, what he concealed was at the same time underlined: Hilberg’s affiliation to Jewry. Some months before he died, in August 2007, he gave his last public lecture at his local synagogue in Burlington, Vermont, summing up his scholarly life in one sentence: “I did it for my people.” Katrin Steffen Transnational Parallel Biographies: The Lives of Ludwik Hirszfeld and Jan Czochralski and Their Contribution to Modern European Science The article focuses on the transnational lives of the bacteriologist Ludwik Hirszfeld (1884–1954), who came from a Warsaw Jewish family and converted to Catholicism in 1919, and the metallurgist Jan Czochralski (1885–1953), who was born into a small-town Polish Catholic milieu. Both contributed significantly to their research fields  – while Ludwik Hirszfeld discovered the inheritance of blood groups, Jan Czochralski developed a method for obtaining single silicone crystals for microelectronics. They had received their education in German-speaking milieus in Würzburg, Berlin, Heidelberg, and Zurich before World War I, continuing their research during the war, and transferring their knowledge into the newly established Polish state where they both settled after 1918. The parallel biographical approach adopted in this article reveals that the two scientists represent a specific experience of space and time, namely the imperial and the post-imperial space of transition, of mobility and migration, border crossing, and of a circulation of knowledge that can be interpreted as being quite typical for the region of East-Central Europe in the first half of the twentieth century. Their expertise crossed borders and challenged the principle of territoriality, since the personal and cognitive legacy of the empires overlapped with the process of

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nation-building. In this constellation, the circulation of ideas and models had a potential not only for innovation, but also for conflict. Katharina Stengel Opferzeugen in NS-Prozessen: Juristische Zeugenschaft zwischen Beweis, Quelle, Trauma und Aporie Over the past decades, many disciplines have dedicated themselves to testimony of Holocaust survivors and others persecuted by the Nazis. Apart from the Eichmann trial, survivor testimony at trial has nevertheless remained a relatively neglected topic. This article explores various approaches to and perspectives on this topic, ranging from legal practice and scholarship through Holocaust studies and historical research to literary scholarship and philosophy. On the one hand, it demonstrates the extent to which historical work about the (West) German Nazi trials and the witnesses involved has been dominated by criminal-law criteria and perspectives up to the most recent period. On the other hand, it can be seen that the literature on survivor witness testimony is shaped by a dichotomous perception that can hardly be conveyed. The testimony is considered either as a source of knowledge and evidence (and accordingly as falsifiable), or as an expression of a subjective, ethical truth. Legal witness testimony is viewed with scepticism from both perspectives: Lawyers and historians distrust it as a source while cultural studies and philosophy regard it as an estranged and retraumatized form of witnessing. Furthermore, this article explores approaches that understand legal witness testimony as a historical phenomenon, examining the manifold dimensions of meaning of the testimony emerging in this context and not solely according to criminological criteria or binary attributions. Miriam Szamet The Zikhroynes of Glikl bas Judah Leib: Interpreting the Concept of Koved in Early Modern History This article focuses on the meaning of “honor” in Glikl bas Judah Leib Pinkerle’s (1645–1724) famous Zikhroynes (Memoirs). Based on an in-depth exploration of the words koved, khoshev, and er and their derivatives in the text of the critical edition by Chava Turniansky from 2006, it introduces Glikl’s world and explains the significance of the consolidation of the German Jewish elite before the dawn of modernity. The article shows that Glikl’s understanding of “honor” stems from the historical circumstances under which she and others of her social group lived: “honor” was closely linked to econom-

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ic survival, indicating the rising impact of the capitalist value system and of Jews finding themselves in a precarious position as mediators between non-Jewish rulers and the generally impoverished Jewish community. Thus, the article points out that wealthier Jews, to whose circle Glikl belonged, were not among the adherents of the new ethos, but were rather rooted in the world of a much older conviction. This era was unique for the Jewish elite in that they were living economically integrated lives on the one hand and yet maintained a particularly devout Jewish praxis on the other. The normative preoccupation of Glikl’s social group with wealth and “honor” as desired qualities was derived from their tenuous position between the two spheres and reflected existential anxieties. Tamás Turán “As the Christians Go, so Go the Jews” – Hungarian Judaism in Its Denominational Matrix in the Mid-Nineteenth Century Since the Enlightenment, Jews in Hungary found themselves increasingly entangled in the conflict between Hungarian nationalist aspirations and Habsburg imperial policies. Social and cultural circumstances gave way to two different patterns in responding to these challenges, which led to the consolidation of two separate Jewish movements in the wake of the Jewish Congress in 1868/69: the conservatives (“Orthodox”) and the progressives (“Neologs”). This article attempts to break some new ground by examining the conflict between these two Hungarian Jewish “parties.” Utilizing printed primary sources and manuscript sources, it surveys the impact and implications of the Christian denominational environment on the ideological formation and political tactics of these parties in three key areas of their external and internal political struggles: Hungarian nationalism, organizational issues, and the role of religious-dogmatic declarations. Alex Valdman Usable Past for an Uncertain Future: On the Historiographical Impulse of the Jewish Intelligentsia in Post-1905 Imperial Russia This article explores the social and ideological contexts of Jewish Russian historiography in Late Imperial Russia. Instead of focusing solely on the most known and documented Jewish historical association of the period – the Jewish Historical-Ethnographic Society – it discusses in a synoptic view such

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lesser known groups as the editorial circles of the Jewish historical almanac Perezhitoe and of the multi-volume History of the Jewish People. Drawing on a variety of primary sources, including the little explored personal archives of Saul Ginsburg and Pesakh Marek, it suggests that some important players in the field of Jewish Russian historiography were not committed to either national, meta-historical agendas or to emancipationist, integrationist views. Rather, they saw historiography as an essential and integral component of Jewish public activism, intended to promote the welfare of the Jewish public in Russia and to ensure the existence of a committed and sustainable Jewish Russian elite. In this context, the practice of Jewish history did not have any short-term political or apologetic implications. Marija Vulesica Yugoslavia as a Hub for Migration in the 1930s: Local Zionist Networks and Aid Efforts for Jewish Refugees In the early 1930s, the Zionists in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia could still react belligerently and proudly to the politics of Nazi Germany. They appealed to German and European Jewry to become aware of their national Jewishness and to fight decisively against antisemitism. Simultaneously, they created a broad network of aid infrastructure for Jewish refugees from Germany. The domestic political situation in Yugoslavia changed dramatically through the 1930s and, at the latest by 1938, an anti-Jewish atmosphere predominated. Nevertheless, the Zionists were able through 1938 to expand their extensive aid network, mobilize numerous members, and help the persecuted Jews of Central Europe. This network was made up of Jewish individuals at home and abroad as well as various Zionist associations and unions. The uptake, provision, and further transit of the refugees was enabled by the diverse, often financial engagement of numerous men and women. Personal connections to politicians, consuls, and bureaucrats helped in the acquisition of immigration permits and visas. While Nazi and antisemitic politics expanded in Central Europe, the aid network of Yugoslav Zionists succeeded in helping several thousands of Central European Jews to flee from persecution.

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Annette Wolf Simon Dubnow und seine Kritiker: Die Rezeption der Weltgeschichte des jüdischen Volkes in der Weimarer Republik Simon Dubnow’s World History of the Jewish People, his magnum opus, was first published in German in the 1920s, even before the publication of the Russian-language original. This article interprets this circumstance as deeply symbolic for his work, which dedicated itself to mediation between Eastern and Western European Jewries and in which Dubnow stylized himself as both successor to and heretic within the German Jewish tradition of knowledge. During the ten years that Dubnow lived and published in Berlin, his World History was critically discussed in the German Jewish press. This discussion is here appraised by reference to the works of Selma Stern (1890– 1981), Ismar Elbogen (1874–1943), and Hanns Reißner (1902–1977). They demonstrate that the radical shift in the Russian context in which Dubnow’s works emerged and the continuous exacerbation of the situation for German Jews in the Weimar Republic led to Dubnow’s World History becoming a significant projection screen for reflection on the assumptions and questions underlying German Jewish historiography. Mirjam Zadoff Shades of Red: Biografik auf den Barrikaden The biographies of Jewish revolutionaries constitute an embattled field: Are we dealing here with heroes of the labor movement or with Jewish renegades? This article demonstrates that a theoretically informed reading of biographies enables new understandings of the life stories of Jewish revolutionaries. Equipped with the theoretical tools of “new biography” on the one hand and with an innovative understanding of “Jewishness” from the perspective of the twenty-first century on the other, this article offers alternative approaches. It moreover discusses various forms of memory among Jewish revolutionaries in the cases of Gershom Scholem, Jacob Talmon, and Isaac Deutscher, while offering exemplary insights into a revolutionary biography: the life story of the Weimar Trotskyist Werner Scholem.

Contributors Nicolas Berg is a historian. Working at the Dubnow Institute as a research associate since 2001, he is heading the research unit “Knowledge.” His research interests encompass the texts, figures of thought, concepts, and metaphors of Jewish authors in the fields of cultural theory, ethnopsychology, sociology, historiography, and literature of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Further focal points of his research include modern antisemitism and ethnic nationalism as well as the treatment of the Holocaust in German historical research and general memorial culture since 1945. Publications: Die Russische Revolution (focal point), in: Jüdische Geschichte & Kultur. Magazin des Dubnow-Instituts  1 (2017), 4–35 (ed. with Jan Gerber); Textgelehrte. Literaturwissenschaft und literarisches Wissen im Umkreis der Kritischen Theorie, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2014 (ed. with Dieter Burdorf); Luftmenschen. Zur Geschichte einer Metapher, 2nd revised edition, Göttingen 2014; Kapitalismusdebatten um 1900. Über antisemitisierende Semantiken des Jüdischen, Leipzig 2011 (ed.); Der Holocaust und die westdeutschen Historiker. Erforschung und Erinnerung, 3rd revised edition including an index, Göttingen 2004 (Engl. 2015). Alina Bothe received her PhD from the Freie Universität Berlin with a study on the digital turn in Shoah history. From 2012 to 2015, she was a research fellow at the Center for Jewish Studies Berlin-Brandenburg. She was awarded the post-doctoral fellowship of the Fondation pour la Mémoire de la Shoah 2016–2018 for her postdoctoral research into the persecution of Jews with Polish citizenship in Germany from 1938 to 1942. Since the fall of 2018, she has been a postdoctoral Claims Conference Saul Kagan Fellow in Advanced Shoah Studies. Publications: Die Geschichte der Shoah im virtuellen Raum. Eine Quellenkritik, Berlin 2019; Ausgewiesen! Berlin, 28.  Oktober 1938. Die Geschichte der “Polenaktion”, Berlin 2018 (with Gertrud Pickhan; exhibition catalogue). Michal Frankl studied political science and modern history in the Faculty of Social Sciences at the Charles University in Prague, where he received his PhD in 2006. His research interests include the history of modern antisemitism, refugee policies of nation states in East-Central Europe, and the Holocaust. Since 2016, he has been a research fellow at the Masaryk Institute and Archives of the Czech Academy of Sciences. Publications: Buˇ dování státu bez antisemitismu? Násilí, diskurz loajality a vznik Ceskoslovenska [Building of a State without Antisemitism? Violence, Discourse of JBDI / DIYB • Dubnow Institute Yearbook 16 (2017), 623–635.

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Loyalty and the Creation of Czechoslovakia], Prague 2015 (with Miloslav Szabó); Prejudiced Asylum. Czechoslovak Refugee Policy, 1918–60, in: Journal of Contemporary History  49 (2014), no.  3, 537–555, (9  April 2019); The Sheep of Lidice. The Holocaust and the Construction of Czech National History, in: JohnPaul Himka/Joanna Beata Michlic (eds.), Bringing the Dark Past to Light. The Reception of the Holocaust in Postcommunist Europe, London 2013, 166–194; Jan Neruda a Židé. Texty a kontexty [Jan Neruda and Jews. Texts and Contexts], Prague 2012 (ed. with Jind rˇich Toman); Unsichere Zuflucht. Die Tschechoslowakei und ihre Flüchtlinge aus NS-Deutschland und Österˇ reich 1933–1938, Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 2012 (with Kateˇ rina Capková); “Prag ist nunmehr antisemitisch.” Tschechischer Antisemitismus am Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts, Berlin 2011. Elisabeth Gallas received her PhD from Leipzig University in 2011 with a historical study on Jewish cultural property restitution after 1945. From 2012 to 2015, she was a research fellow at the Vienna Wiesenthal Institute for Holocaust Studies and has held a Minerva Research Fellowship at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She joined the Dubnow Institute in 2015, where she is heading the research unit “Law.” Publications: A Mortuary of Books. The Rescue of Jewish Culture after the Holocaust, trans. by Alex Skinner, New York 2019 (Germ.: “Das Leichenhaus der Bücher.” Kulturrestitution und jüdisches Geschichtsdenken nach 1945, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 22016); The Struggle for a Universal Human Rights Regime. Hannah Arendt and Hermann Broch on the Paradoxes of a Concept, in: S:I.M.O.N. 4 (2017), no. 2, 123–131; Locating the Jewish Future. The Restoration of Looted Cultural Property in Early Post-War Europe, in: Naharaim. Zeitschrift für deutsch-jüdische Literatur- und Kulturgeschichte/Journal of German-Jewish Literature and Cultural History 9 (2015), no. 1–2, 25–47. Jan Gerber is a historian, political scientist, and media scholar. He has worked at the Dubnow Institute since 2009, where he became chief research associate in 2010. He heads the research unit “Politics” as well as the research group “Eine neue Geschichte der Arbeiter- und Gewerkschaftsbewegung.” He completed his PhD in 2010 at the University of Halle with a study on the reactions of West German Leftists to German unification. In 2016, he received his habilitation from the University of Leipzig with a study on the 1952 Slánský trial in Prague (Venia Legendi: Modern and Contemporary History). His research interests include the aftermath of the Holocaust, the history of the political left, and questions of intellectual history. Publications: Karl Marx in Paris. Die Entdeckung des Kommunismus, Munich 2018; Ein Prozess in Prag. Das Volk gegen Rudolf Slánský und Genossen,

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2nd revised edition, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2017; Das letzte Gefecht. Die Linke im Kalten Krieg, Berlin 22016; Nie wieder Deutschland? Die Linke im Zusammenbruch des „realen Sozialismus“, Freiburg i. Br. 2010; Verborgene Präsenzen. Gedächtnisgeschichte des Holocaust in der deutschsprachigen Arbeiter- und Gewerkschaftsbewegung, Düsseldorf 2009. Philipp Graf studied history and German literature at Leipzig University. He was a doctoral student at the Dubnow Institute from 2003 to 2006 and an Ernst C. Stiefel Global Fellow at New York Law School from 2006 to 2007. From 2007 to 2015, he was a research associate in the Academy Project “European Traditions – Encyclopedia of Jewish Cultures” at the Simon Dubnow Institute, where he now holds a position as a research associate. His latest research project explores the political biography of the Communist jurist Leo Zuckermann (1908–1985). Publications: Ein Paradigma der Moderne. Jüdi­sche Geschichte in Schlüsselbegriffen. Festschrift für Dan Diner zum 70. Geburtstag, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2016 (ed. with Arndt Engelhardt, Lutz Fiedler, Elisabeth Gallas, and Natasha Gordinsky); Erinnerungskultur in der DDR. Das Beispiel Anna Seghers, in: Andreas H. Apelt/Maria Hufenreuter (eds.), Antisemitismus in der DDR und die Folgen, Halle (Saale) 2016, 139–154; Ante el Holocausto. El exilio comunista germano-parlante en la Ciudad de México, 1941–1946 [Before the Holocaust. German-Speaking Communist Exiles in Mexico City, 1941–1946], in: Michaela Peters/ Giovanni di Stefano (eds.), México como punto de fuga real o imaginario de la cultura europea en la víspera de la Segunda Guerra Mundial [Mexico as a Real or Imaginary Vanishing Point of European Culture on the Eve of World War II], Munich 2011, 239–259; Die Bernheim-Petition 1933. Jüdische Politik in der Zwischenkriegszeit, Göttingen 2008. Anna Holzer-Kawalko is a PhD student in the Department of History of the Jewish People and Contemporary Jewry at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, under the supervision of Professor Yfaat Weiss. Her doctoral dissertation deals with German Jewish book collections and nation-building in Czechoslovakia between 1918 and 1948. Since 2016, she has been a fellow of the Baroness Ariane de Rothschild Doctoral Program and a doctoral research fellow in the project “The Historical Archives of the Hebrew University. German-Jewish Knowledge and Cultural Transfer (1918–1948),” which is funded by the Gerda Henkel Foundation. Publications: East Meets East. Polish-German Coexistence in Lower Silesia through the Memories of Polish Expellees, 1945–1947, in: Jan Fellerer/Robert Pyrah (eds.), Parallel Cities. Wrocław and Lviv in the XX Century (forthcoming 2019); Double Dynamics of the Postwar Cultural Restoration. On the Salvage and Destruction of the Breslau Rabbinical Library, in: Anna Holzer-Kawalko/Elisabeth

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Gallas/Caroline Jessen/Yfaat Weiss (eds.), Contested Heritage. Jewish Cultural Property after 1945, Göttingen 2019; Jewish Intellectuals between Robbery and Restitution. Ernst Grumach in Berlin, 1941–1946, in: Leo Baeck Institute Yearbook 63 (2018), 273–295; From Breslau to Wrocław. Transfer of the Saraval Collection to Poland and the Restitution of Jewish Cultural Property after WWII, in: Naharaim. Zeitschrift für deutsch-jüdische Literatur und Kulturgeschichte/Journal of German-Jewish Literature and Cultural History 9 (2015), no. 1–2, 48–72. David Jünger has been DAAD Lecturer in Modern European History and Deputy Director of the Centre for German-Jewish Studies at the University of Sussex (Brighton, UK) since 2017. He studied history and philosophy at Leipzig University, where he received his PhD in 2013. From 2007 to 2012, he worked at the Dubnow Institute in Leipzig and from 2013 to 2017 as research assistant at the Freie Universität Berlin and the Selma Stern Center for Jewish Studies in Berlin. He is currently working on his second book, a study of the life and times of the German American rabbi Joachim Prinz (1902–1988). Publications: In the Presence of the Past. Rabbi Joachim Prinz, Holocaust Memory and the Fight for Jewish Survival in Postwar America, in: Eliyana R. Adler/Sheila E. Jelen (eds.), Reconstructing the Old Country. American Jewry in the Post Holocaust Decades, Detroit, Mich., 2017, 297– 318; Jahre der Ungewissheit. Emigrationspläne deutscher Juden 1933–1938, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 22017; Am Scheitelpunkt der Emanzipation. Die Juden Europas und der Berliner Kongress 1878, in: Arndt Engelhardt et al. (eds.), Ein Paradigma der Moderne. Jüdische Geschichte in Schlüsselbegriffen. Festschrift für Dan Diner zum 70. Geburtstag, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2016, 17–38; “Bilanz der deutschen Judenheit.” Nekrolog auf das deutsche Judentum an der “Zeitenwende” 1929–1942, in: Christina von Braun (ed.), Was war deutsches Judentum? 1870–1933, Berlin/Munich/Boston, Mass., 2015, 134–146. Martin Jost studied history, political science, and sociology at the Goethe University Frankfurt. He completed his MA in November 2014 with a thesis on Jewish cultural life in Frankfurt in the 1930s. He worked as a student assistant at the Goethe University from April 2011 to December 2014 and then as an academic assistant at the Fritz Bauer Institute until September 2015. From 2015 to 2016 he was a member of the research group “The Diaries of Anne Frank. Research – Translations – Critical Edition.” Since October 2015, he is conducting his PhD thesis at the Dubnow Institute, funded by the German National Academic Foundation. His project historicizes the Évian Conference by placing it into processes of refugee and migration policy in the interwar period and by highlighting the Jewish involvement in the event.

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Magnus Klaue has been a research associate at the Dubnow Institute since 2015. He studied German literature, philosophy, as well as film and theater studies at the Freie Universität Berlin, where he wrote a dissertation on Else Lasker-Schüler. He was a teaching fellow in the Department of German Literature from 2003 to 2008. From 2008 to 2014, he wrote and worked as an editorial journalist for a German weekly newspaper in Berlin. His research interests include modern German and Austrian literature, especially the history and poetics of German Jewish literature, and the early Frankfurt School. Publications: “Der wahre Konservative.” Max Horkheimer und der Konservatismus der frühen Bundesrepublik, in: Sebastian Liebold/Frank Schale (eds.), Konservative Intellektuelle und Politik in der frühen Bundesrepublik, Baden-Baden 2017, 155–177; Bruchlinien. Deutsch-israelische Wissenschaftsbeziehungen seit 1959 (focal point), in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 15 (2016), 309–444 (with Jörg Deventer); Jargon und Idiom. Anmerkungen zur Geschichte einer folgenschweren Verwechslung, in: Max Beck/Nicholas Cooman (eds.), Sprachkritik als Ideologiekritik. Studien zu Adornos Jargon der Eigentlichkeit, Würzburg 2015, 119–136; Mit doppeltem Blick. Max Horkheimers bürgerliche Gelehrsamkeit und wissenschaftliches Unternehmertum, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 13 (2014), 437–460; Poetischer Enthusiasmus. Else Lasker-Schülers Ästhetik der Kolportage, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 2011; Unterwegs. Zur Poetik des Vagabundentums im 20. Jahrhundert, Cologne/Weimar/Vienna 2008 (with Hans Richard Brittnacher). Dagi Knellessen studied educational sciences, political science, and psychology at the Technical University of Berlin, where she completed her MA in 2001. From 2001 to 2005, she was a research associate at the Fritz Bauer Institute in Frankfurt; from 2005 to 2015, she worked as a freelance researcher in Berlin, including from 2011 as a freelance research assistant for Professor Raphael Gross. Since 2015, she has been working at the Dubnow Institute on her current research project on the witnessing of Jewish survivors in German Nazi trials on the Sobibor extermination camp. Publications: Novemberpogrome 1938. “Was unfassbar schien, ist Wirklichkeit.” Pädagogische Materialien Nr. 03, Frankfurt a. M. 2015; From Testimony to Story. Video Interviews about Nazi Crimes. Perspectives and Experiences in Four Countries, Berlin 2015 (ed. with Ralf Possekel); Rudolf Vrba, Ich kann nicht vergeben. Meine Flucht aus Auschwitz, Frankfurt a. M. 2010 (ed. with Werner Renz); art. “Auschwitz-Prozess,” in: Enzyklopädie jüdischer Geschichte und Kultur. Im Auftrag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig ed. by Dan Diner, vol. 1, Stuttgart 2011, 202–207; Zeugen im ersten Frankfurter Auschwitz-Prozess, in: Alexander von Plato/Almut Leh/Christoph Thonfeld

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(eds.), Hitlers Sklaven, Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 2008, 371–388; “Momente der Wahrheit.” Überlebende als Zeugen im Auschwitz-Prozess. Rudolf Vrba und seine Aussage gegen den Angeklagten Robert Mulka, in: Im Labyrinth der Schuld. Täter – Opfer – Ankläger, im Auftrag des Fritz Bauer Instituts ed. by Irmtrud Wojak and Susanne Meinl, Frankfurt a. M. 2003, 195–232. Enrico Lucca is a research associate at the Dubnow Institute. He holds a PhD in Philosophy from the University of Milan (2012) and a post-graduate specialization in cultural studies from the Scuola Alti Studi in Modena. From 2012 to 2017, he was affiliated with the Franz Rosenzweig Minerva Research Center at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. From 2016 to 2017, he was working as a postdoctoral researcher on the project “The Historical Archives of the Hebrew University 1918–1948. German-Jewish Knowledge and Cultural Transfer” (a cooperation between the Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach and the Franz Rosenzweig Minerva Research Center). He is currently preparing an intellectual biography of Hugo Bergman. Publications: Gerusalemme 1936. Leggere Franz Rosenzweig in Palestina [Jerusalem 1936. Reading Franz Rosenzweig in Palestine], in: Intersezioni. Rivista di storia delle idee [Intersections. Journal of the History of Ideas] 36 (2016), no. 2, 245–256; Réception [Reception], in: Salomon Malka (ed.), Dictionnaire Rosenzweig. Une étoile dans le siècle [Rosenzweig Dictionary. A Star in the Century], Paris 2016, 305–313 (with Ynon Wygoda); Sotto il segno della Gnosi. Un’approssimazione ad alcune poesie scholemiane [Under the Sign of Gnosis. An Approximation to Scholem’s Poetry], in: Tamara Tagliacozzo (ed.), Walter Benjamin, Gershom Scholem e il linguaggio [Walter Benjamin, Gershom Scholem, and Language], Milan 2016, 167–184; Vom Gott der Aufklärung zum Gott der Religion. Franz Rosenzweigs Kampf gegen die Geschichte als Theodizee und sein Brief an Rudolf Ehrenberg vom September 1910, in: Naharaim. Zeitschrift für deutsch-jüdische Literatur und Kulturgeschichte/Journal of German-Jewish Literature and Cultural History 10 (2016), no. 2, 303–319 (with Roberto Navarrete Alonso). Daniel Mahla studied history, Jewish studies, and political science at the Humboldt University and the Freie Universität Berlin, as well as at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He received his PhD from Columbia University in 2014. From October to May 2015, he taught and conducted research as postdoctoral fellow of the Israel Institute in Washington, D. C. at the Center for Research on Antisemitism at the Technical University of Berlin. Since April 2015, he has been a junior faculty member at the Institute of Jewish History and Culture at the Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich and the coordinator of the university’s Center for Israel Studies. Publications: Die Orthodoxie und der Staat Israel, in: Stefan Fischer/Gerd  F. Thomae

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(eds.), Glaube und Obrigkeit, Neustadt an der Aisch 2018, 11–24; “Diejenigen, welche Brüder entzweien.” Über die Anfänge politischer Organisation orthodoxer Juden in der Zweiten Polnischen Republik, in: Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung  66 (2017), no.  1, 41–69; Yet Another “Special Relationship”? Some Reflections on Israeli-Polish and Israeli-German Relations, in: Trumah. Zeitschrift der Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg 23 (2016), 47–63; Wider den Nationalismus, zum Wohle der Nation. Jacob Rosenheim und die Auseinandersetzung der jüdischen Orthodoxie mit dem Zionismus, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften 63 (2015), no. 10, 849–868; No Trinity. The Tripartite Relations between Agudat Yisrael, the Mizrahi Movement, and the Zionist Organization, in: Journal of Israeli History  34 (2015), no.  2, 117–140; Between Socialism and Jewish Tradition. Bundist Holiday Culture in Interwar Poland, in: Jonathan Frankel/Ezra Mendelsohn (eds.), The Protestant-Jewish Conundrum, New York 2010, 177–189. Frank Mecklenburg studied modern German history, ancient history, and philosophy at the Technical University of Berlin. He received his PhD in 1981. He moved to the United States that same year and has been working at the Leo Baeck Institute since 1984, until 1996 as the archivist and since then as Director of Research and Chief Archivist. Publications: Nächstes Jahr in Worms. Deutschjudentum und Antizionismus vor 1933, in: Christina von Braun (ed.), Was war deutsches Judentum? 1870–1933, Berlin/ Munich/Boston, Mass., 2015, 39–49; Als deutsch-jüdisch noch deutsch war. Die digitalisierten Sammlungen des LBI Archivs bis 1933, in: Elke-Vera von Kotowski (ed.), Das Kulturerbe deutschsprachiger Juden. Eine Spurensuche in den Ursprungs-, Transit- und Emigrationsländern, Berlin/Munich/Boston, Mass., 2015, 500–510; Leipzig. Profile of a Jewish Community during the First Years of Nazi Germany, in: Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 42 (1997), 166–188 (with Fred Grubel); Deutsche Juristen im amerikanischen Exil (1933–1950), Tübingen 1991 (with Ernst C. Stiefel). Dan Miron is Professor emeritus at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and Leonard Kaye Professor emeritus of Hebrew and Comparative Literature at Columbia University in New York City. A literary critic and a historian of modern Jewish writing, he is the author of about a thousand articles, studies, and monographs, and of more than forty books of literary scholarship and criticism covering much of Jewish literary writing throughout the last 200 years. Publications: The Focalizing Crystal. Vladimir Jabotinsky as a Novelist and a Poet, Jerusalem 2011 (Heb.); The Prophetic Mode in Modern Hebrew Poetry, New York 2010; From Continuity to Contiguity. Toward a New Jewish Literary Thinking, Stanford, Calif., 2010; Verschränkungen.

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Contributors

Über jüdische Literaturen, Göttingen 2007 (Heb. 2005); The Image of the Shtetl and Other Studies of Modern Jewish Literary Imagination, Syracuse, N. Y., 2000; H. N. Bialik and the Prophetic Mode in Modern Hebrew Poetry, Syracuse, N.  Y., 2000 (Heb. 2000); Ashkenaz. Modern Hebrew Literature and the Premodern German Jewish Experience, New York 1989. Felix Pankonin studied medieval and modern history and philosophy at Leipzig University, where he received his MA with a thesis on Ruth Fischer in October 2013. Since October 2014, he has been a doctoral candidate at the Dubnow Institute, where he is preparing his thesis on Richard Löwenthal and the Social Democratic Party of Germany (SPD). Publications: Vom Kommunisten zum Labour-Man. Richard Löwenthal im britischen Exil, in: Arndt Engelhardt et al. (eds.), Ein Paradigma der Moderne. Jüdische Geschichte in Schlüsselbegriffen. Festschrift für Dan Diner zum 70.  Geburtstag, Göttingen/Bristol, Conn., 2016, 137–156; Profil einer Renegatin. Ruth Fischers exemplarische Biografie, in: Jahrbuch des Simon-Dubnow-Instituts/Simon Dubnow Institute Yearbook 13 (2014), 491–521. Katharina Prager studied contemporary history and theater, film and media studies at the University of Vienna. She conducted her research at German Literature Archive Marbach, in Los Angeles, Berlin, and Lviv. Her dissertations in both fields addressed fin-de-siècle Vienna, gender, and memory studies. She has worked as a researcher for the Ernst Krenek Institute, the Danube University Krems, and the Institute for the Danube Region and Central Europe. She is currently a researcher at the Ludwig Boltzmann Institute for the History and Theory of Biography and the Vienna City Library, where she is working on the reorganization of the Karl Kraus Archive, as well as on the creation of an online biography of Karl Kraus. Publications: Berthold Viertel. Eine Biografie der Wiener Moderne, Vienna 2018; Biografien und Migrationen, in: Österreichische Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften, Innsbruck 2018 (ed. with Johanna Gehmacher and Klara Löffler); Berthold Viertel. A Migration Career and No Comeback in Exile, in: Günter Bischof (ed.), Quiet Invaders Revisited. Biographies of Twentieth Century Immigrants to the United States, Innsbruck 2017, 103–113; Bilderbuch-Heimkehr? Remigration im Kontext, Wuppertal 2017 (ed. with Wolfgang Straub); Gendered Lives in Anticipation of a Biographer?, in: Tijdschrift voor Genderstudies [Journal for Gender Studies]  19 (2016), no.  3, 337–353 (with Vanessa Hannesschläger); “Exemplary Lives”? Thoughts on Exile, Gender and Life-Writing, in: Charmian Brinson/Andrea Hammel (eds.), Exile and Gender I: Literature and the Press, Leiden 2016, 5–18; “Ich bin nicht gone Hollywood!” Salka Viertel. Ein Leben in Theater und Film, Vienna 2007.

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René Schlott studied history, political science, and communication at the universities of Berlin and Geneva. He received his PhD from the University of Gießen in 2011. Since 2014, he has been a researcher at the Centre for Contemporary History (Leibniz-Zentrum für Zeithistorische Forschung) in Potsdam, where he is working on a biography of Raul Hilberg for his second book. Publications: Raul Hilberg and His “Discovery” of the Bystander, in: Christina Morina/Krijn Thijs (eds.), Probing the Limits of Categorization. The Bystander in Holocaust History, New York 2019, 36–51; Der Typus des Schreibtischtäters in der Holocaustforschung. Raul Hilbergs Blick auf die Bürokratie des Judeozids, in: Dirk van Laak/Dirk Rose (eds.), Schreibtischtäter. Begriff – Geschichte – Typologie, Göttingen 2018, 265–276; Ein Exilant unter Exilanten. Raul Hilbergs frühe Jahre in den USA 1939–1961, in: Jahrbuch für Exilforschung 34 (2016), 93–107; Lost in Alexandria. Zur Genese des Holocaustmodells von Raul Hilberg, in: Frank Bösch/Martin Sabrow (eds.), ZeitRäume. Potsdamer Almanach des Zentrums für Zeithistorische Forschung 2016, Göttingen 2016, 153–162; Raul Hilberg, Anatomie des Holocaust. Essays und Erinnerungen, Frankfurt a.  M. 2016 (ed. with Walter Pehle). Katrin Steffen studied modern history, the history of Eastern Europe, and Slavic languages, and received her PhD in 2002 from the Freie Universität Berlin. From 2002 to 2007, she was a faculty member of the German Historical Institute in Warsaw and from 2007 to 2008 of the University of Halle-Wittenberg. Since 2008, she has been a faculty member of the Nordost-Institut in Lüneburg (University of Hamburg), where she directs a Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG) research project entitled “Jews and Germans in Polish Collective Memory.” Her current research project focuses on the transnational lives of two scientists, on knowledge transfer, and migration in Central Europe in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Publications: Juden. Bilder von einem imaginierten Kollektiv, in: Hans Henning Hahn/ Robert Traba (eds.), Deutsch-Polnische Erinnerungsorte, vol.  1: Geteilt/ Gemeinsam, Paderborn 2015, 741–778; Nordost-Archiv. Zeitschrift für Regionalgeschichte  23 (2014) [2015]: Historische Zäsur und biographische Erfahrung. Das östliche Europa nach dem Zerfall der Imperien 1918–1923 (ed.); Lebenswelt Ghetto. Alltag und soziales Umfeld während der nationalsozialistischen Verfolgung, Wiesbaden 2013 (ed. with Imke Hansen and Joachim Tauber); To Stay or Go? Jews in Europe in the Immediate Aftermath of ˙ the Holocaust, in: Kwartalnik Historii Zydów [Jewish History Quarterly] 2 (246), June 2013 (ed. with Helena Datner and Katrin Stoll), 185–196; Expert Cultures in Central Eastern Europe. The Internationalization of Knowledge and the Transformation of Nation States since World War I, Osnabrück 2010, (9 April 2019; ed. with Martin Kohlrausch and Stefan Wiederkehr); Jüdische Polonität. Ethnizität und Nation im Spiegel der polnischsprachigen jüdischen Presse 1918–1939, Göttingen 2004. Katharina Stengel studied medieval and modern history, sociology, and political science at the Goethe University Frankfurt. She completed her PhD at the Ruhr University Bochum in 2012. She worked as a research associate at the Fritz Bauer Institute in Frankfurt on projects relating to the Auschwitz trials, on expropriation, compensation, and restitution, and on the activities of victim organizations and camp committees. Since 2004, she has been curating the traveling exhibition “Legalisierter Raub” (Legalized Theft). She has also conducted local historical research projects on the Nazi period. Following three years as a research associate at the Dubnow Institute, she joined the Fritz Bauer Institute in the spring of 2019, working on the research project “Opfer-Zeugen in NS-Prozessen” (Victim Witnesses in Nazi Trials). Publications: Ausgeplündert und verwaltet. Geschichten vom legalisierten Raub an Juden in Hessen, Berlin 2018 (with Bettina Leder and Christoph Schneider); Nationalsozialismus in der Schwalm 1930–1939, Marburg 2016; Die ausgebliebene Entschädigung von Sinti und Roma, in: Winfried Nerdin­ ger/NS-Dokumentationszentrum München (eds.), Die Verfolgung von Sinti und Roma in München und Bayern 1933–1945, Berlin 2016, 228–239; Die schwierige Rolle der Verfolgten in den NS-Prozessen. H. G. Adler und Hermann Langbein, in: Rückkehr in Feindesland? Fritz Bauer in der deutsch-jüdischen Nachkriegsgeschichte, ed. by Katharina Rauschenberger on behalf of the Fritz Bauer Institute, Frankfurt a.  M./New York 2013, 65–84; Hermann Langbein. Ein Auschwitz-Überlebender in den erinnerungspolitischen Konflikten der Nachkriegszeit, Frankfurt a.  M./New York 2012; Opfer als Akteure. Interventionen ehemaliger NS-Verfolgter in der Nachkriegszeit, ed. on behalf of the Fritz Bauer Institute, Frankfurt a. M./New York 2008 (with Werner Konitzer). Miriam Szamet studied modern history and Jewish studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, where she received her PhD in 2018. Her dissertation reconstructs the emergence of Zionist education in the Hebrew language in pre-state Palestine between 1880 and 1935. In 2017/18 she served as a visiting research scholar at the Dubnow Institute and as a junior fellow of the thematic network “Principles of Cultural Dynamics” at the Freie Universität Berlin. Since the summer of 2018 she has been a postdoctoral fellow in the DFG research project “Jewish National Youth Movements Education in Germany and Palestine in the Interwar Period” at the Technical University of Braunschweig and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Publications: Before the “War of Languages.” Locals, Immigrants and Philanthropists at

Contributors

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the Hilfsverein’s Teachers’ Seminar in Jerusalem, 1907–1910, in: Naharaim. Zeitschrift für deutsch-jüdische Literatur und Kulturgeschichte/Journal of German-Jewish Literature and Cultural History  12 (2018), no. 1–2, 173– 195; Zvi Lamm. His Thought and Its Importance to the Historical Study of Hebrew-Zionist Education, in: Gilui Daat. Interdisciplinary Journal of Education, Society and Culture 13 (2018), 135–153 (Heb.); Eros and Pedagogy in “Hashomer Hatzair” Movement in Palestine, in: Ruth Fine et al. (ed.), Eros, Family and Community, Hildesheim 2018, 221–253. Tamás Turán is a senior research fellow at the Institute for Minority Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, Budapest. He is also an assistant professor in the Department of Assyriology and Hebrew Studies at Eötvös Loránd University in Budapest. His research interests include Talmudic literature, rabbinic religion and thought, Hebrew booklore, as well as the history of the academic study of Judaism, particularly in Hungary. Publications: Martin Schreiner and Jewish Theology. An Introduction, in: European Journal of Jewish Studies 11 (2017), no. 1, 45–84; Modern Jewish Scholarship in Hungary. The “Science of Judaism” between East and West, Berlin/ Boston, Mass., 2016 (ed. with Carsten Wilke); Wissenschaft des Judentums in Hungary. An Introduction, in: ibid., 1–34 (with Carsten Wilke); Academic Religion. Goldziher as a Scholar and a Jew, in: ibid., 223–270; Two Peoples, Seventy Nations. Parallels of National Destiny in Hungarian Intellectual History and Ancient Jewish Thought, in: Pál Hatos/Attila Novák (eds.), Between Minority and Majority. Hungarian and Jewish/Israeli Ethnical and Cultural Experiences in Recent Centuries, Budapest 2013, 44–73. Alex Valdman received his PhD from Ben-Gurion University of the Negev in 2017. He is currently the Spinoza postdoctoral fellow in the School of History at the University of Haifa. Prior to that he was a postdoctoral fellow in the Department of History of the Jewish People and Contemporary Jewry at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and coordinated the “Yerusha project” at the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People in Jerusalem. He is also a contributor and member of the editorial group “Zionist Organizations in Soviet Russia, 1917–1922. A Documentary History,” an international collaborative project led by Professor Ziva Galili at Rutgers University. Publications: Jewish Acculturation in Late Nineteenth-Century Russia. The Case of Yonah Berkhin, in: East European Jewish Affairs 47 (2017), no. 1, 28–44; Sha’ul Ginsburg and the Non-Radical Pattern in Jewish-Russian Historiography, in: Zion. A Quarterly for Research in Jewish History 80 (2015), no. 4, 521–549 (Heb.).

634

Contributors

Marija Vulesica studied history and political sciences at the Freie Universität Berlin. She received her PhD from the Technical University of Berlin in 2011, where she is a researcher in the Center for Research on Antisemitism. From 2009 to 2012, she worked as an assistant on the project “Witnesses of the Shoah. The Visual History Archive in the school education” based at the Freie Universität Berlin. Her current research project, funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG), examines the transnational networks established by Yugoslav Zionists in interwar Yugoslavia to help Central European Jews escaping Nazi persecution. Publications: Formen des Widerstandes jugoslawischer Zionistinnen und Zionisten gegen die NS-Judenpolitik und den Antisemitismus, in: Julius H. Schoeps et al. (eds.), Jüdischer Widerstand in Europa 1933–1941, Berlin 2016, 89–105; “Von Antisemitismus an der Universität kann keine Rede sein.” Judenfeindlichkeit an den jugoslawi­ schen Universitäten 1918–1941, in: Regina Fritz et al. (eds.), Alma Mater Antisemitica. Akademisches Milieu, Juden und Antisemitismus an den Universitäten Europas zwischen 1918 und 1939, Vienna 2016, 161–180; “An Antisemitic Aftertaste.” Anti-Jewish Violence in Habsburg Croatia, in: Robert Nemes/Daniel Unowsky (eds.), Sites of European Antisemitism in the Age of Mass Politics 1880–1918, Hanover, N. H./London 2014, 115–134; Die Ermordung der Juden in den jugoslawischen Gebieten 1941, in: Đorđe Tomić et al. (eds.), Mythos Partizan. (Dis-)Kontinuitäten der jugoslawi­ schen Linken. Geschichte, Erinnerungen und Perspektiven, Hamburg/Münster 2013, 91–109; Die Formierung des politischen Antisemitismus in den Kronländern Kroatien und Slawonien 1879–1906, Berlin 2012; Kroatien, in: Wolfgang Benz/Barbara Distel (eds.), Der Ort des Terrors. Geschichte der nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslager, vol. 9, Munich 2009, 313–336. Annette Wolf studied history and German language and literature at Bielefeld University and at the Humboldt University Berlin. She completed her MA in 2016 with a thesis entitled “Diasporanationalismus und jüdische Auto­ nomiedebatten im Ersten Weltkrieg und der Weimarer Republik.” She was a student assistant in the Collaborative Research Center at Bielefeld University (“The Political as Communicative Space in History,” 2009–2011), an academic assistant at the Centre for Contemporary History Potsdam in the department “Communism and Society” (2011–2012), and at the Berlin Wall Foundation (2012–2016). Since July 2016, she has been assistant to the director of the Dubnow Institute, where she is preparing a doctoral thesis on Jewish literary scholars in Germany after 1945 and their reception of the German humanistic tradition. Publications: Von der Zerstörung der Vernunft. Mihail Sebastians Bukarester Tagebücher, in: Jüdische Geschichte & Kultur. Magazin des Dubnow-Instituts 2 (2018), 40–42.

Contributors

635

Mirjam Zadoff has been Director of the Munich Documentation Centre for the History of National Socialism since spring 2018. Since 2014 she holds the Alvin  H. Rosenfeld Chair for Jewish Studies and is Associate Professor at the Department of History at Indiana University Bloomington. She was a visiting professor at ETH Zurich and Augsburg University. From 2007 to 2014 she was Assistant Professor at LMU Munich. Publications: Jewish Family Business. Ökonomie und Romantik von Mendelssohn bis Kafka, in: Ellen Strittmatter (ed.), Die Familie. Ein Archiv, Marbach am Neckar 2017, 54–75; Der rote Hiob. Das Leben des Werner Scholem, Munich 2014 (Engl. 2018; transl. into Heb. in preparation); Nächstes Jahr in Marienbad. Gegenwelten jüdischer Kulturen der Moderne, Göttingen 2007 (Engl. 2012; Czech 2017; transl. into Heb. in preparation); German-Jewish Borderlands. On “Non-Jewish/Jewish Spaces” in Weimar and Nazi Germany, in: Alina Gromova/Felix Heinert/Sebastian Voigt (eds.), Jewish and Non-Jewish Spaces in Urban Context, Berlin 2015, 151–164; From Mission to Memory. Walter Benjamin and Werner Scholem in the Life and Work of Gershom Scholem, in: Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 13 (2014), no. 1, 58–74 (with Noam Zadoff).