Contents/Sommaire r - Centrul de Studii Transilvane · 2017-03-27 · (Sissi) et son fils,...

On the cover:Cristian Opriº

Postcard for those who left (2001)

aquaforte, 11.5×18 cm

Contents/Sommaire• Paradigms

Le mythe triomphe de l’histoire: François-Joseph un siècle après sa mort 3 Liviu Maior

Being Wife and Husband during World War I: A Transylvanian Cultural Perspective 11 Ana Victoria Sima

Death and Marriage: World War I Catholic Prisoners in the Urals 28 Elena Glavatskaya Iulia Borovik

The Ravages of War: Romanian Schools in Transylvania (1914–1919) 41 Daniela Mârza

World War I in the Memories of the Transylvanian Saxons 48 Mircea-Gheorghe Abrudan

The Literature of War—A New Perspective: Case Study: Romanian War Diaries (1914–1916) 65 Mirela Popa-Andrei

• Editorial Events

Roumains “oubliés” dans la Grande Guerre 77 Ioan Bolovan

Eine Suche nach dem Sinn des Krieges 81 Rudolf Gräf

• Transsilvanica

Romanian Families and Households in Northeastern Transylvania: Early 20th Century 91 Elena Crinela Holom

• Tangencies

Der Josephinismus: Ein regional wenig erforschtes Phänomen? 103 Kurt Scharr

Transylvanian review /revue de transylvanie

romanian academyChairman:

Academician Ionel-Valentin Vlad

Center fOr transylvanian studies

Director:Academician Ioan-Aurel Pop

Vol. XXVNo. 4

Winter 2016

Ties That Divide: Nationalities and Confessions in the Debate on Civil Marriage in the Hungarian Parliament (1894–1895) 109 Andreea Dãncilã Ineoan Marius Eppel

The Foreign Sloboda As a Historical Russian Experience for Present Times 125 Anton N. Gazetov

• Concertatio

Actions of Repression Directed Towards the Democracy Movement: December 1989 in Timişoara 138 Lucian-Vasile Szabo

• Book Reviews

Valeriu Leu, Nicolae Bocşan, and Mihaela Bedecean, eds., Marele Rãzboi în memoria bãnãþeanã (1914–1919) (reviewed by Lucian Turcu) 153

Francesco Guida, ed., Marele Rãzboi ºi Europa danubiano-balcanicã (reviewed by Ioan Bolovan) 156

Andrew Tait Jarboe and Richard S. Fogarty, eds., Empires in World War I: Shifting Frontiers and Imperial Dynamics in a Global Conflict (reviewed by Ioana-Andreea Mureşan) 157

Publication indexed and abstracted in the Thomson Reuters Social Sciences Citation Index®

and in Arts & Humanities Citation Index®, and included in ebsCO’s and elsevier’s products.

ISSN 1221-1249

Transylvanian Review continues the tradition of Revue de Transylvanie, founded by Silviu Dragomir, which was published in Cluj and then in Sibiu between 1934 and 1944.

Transylvanian Review is published quarterly by the Center for Transylvanian Studies and the Romanian Academy.

ediTorial Board

Cesare alzati, Ph.D.Facoltà di Scienze della Formazione, Istituto di Storia Moderna e Contemporanea, Università Cattolica, Milan, ItalyHOrst fassel, Ph.D.Institut für donauschwäbische Geschichte und Landeskunde, Tübingen, GermanyKOnrad GündisCH, Ph.D.Bundesinstitut für Kultur und Geschichte der Deutschen im östlichen Europa, Oldenburg, GermanyHarald Heppner, Ph.D.Institut für Geschichte, Graz, Austriapaul e. MiCHelsOn, Ph.D.Huntington University, Indiana, usa

alexandru zub, Ph.D.Academician, honorary director of A. D. Xenopol Institute of History, Iaºi, Romania

ediTorial sTaff

Ioan-Aurel Pop Virgil LeonIoan Bolovan Daniela MârzaRaveca Divricean Alexandru SimonMaria Ghitta Florian D. SoporanRudolf Gräf George State

Translated byBogdan Aldea—EnglishLiana Lãpãdatu—French

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P A R A D I G M S

Liviu MaiorProfesseur à l’Université de Bucharest, auteur, entre autres, du vol. Doi ani mai devreme. Ardeleni, bucovineni şi ba-sarabeni în rãzboi, 1914-1916 (Deux ans plus tôt. Les Roumains de Transylva-nie, de Bucovine et de Bessarabie pen-dant la guerre, 1914-1916) (2016).

Le mythe triomphe de l’histoire François-Joseph un siècle après sa mortl i v i u M a i O r

« Je suis le dernier monarque de la vieille école » (François-Joseph)

La Grande Guerre, outre les ba-tailles déroulées sur notre continent, a été marquée de changements au ni-veau des dynasties européennes, dont l’un surtout allait donner lieu à bien des commentaires jusqu’à nos jours. Le soir du 21 novembre 1916, Fran-çois-Joseph s’éteint d’une pneumonie dans la même chambre du Palais de Schönbrunn où il avait vu le jour 86 ans auparavant.1 La santé de l’empe-reur s’était constamment dégradée, notamment les deux dernières années. Au début de novembre, les symptômes de cette détérioration s’étaient aggra-vés, bien que les médecins ne parussent initialement trop inquiétés. Ce n’était pas la première fois que le monarque souffrait d’une pneumonie. En 1912, la même maladie grave avait déter-miné François-Ferdinand à se prépa-rer au couronnement, donnant des espérances à Alexandru Vaida-Voevod et Aurel C. Popovici que « le grand chan gement » allait, enfin, se produire. Cependant, leurs espérances s’étaient

4 • transylvanian review • vOl. xxv, nO. 4 (winter 2016)

évanouies, car l’empereur avait, une fois de plus, résisté. Quatre ans plus tard, sa mort devenait inévitable. Dès le milieu de novembre, l’archiduc Charles, l’héri-tier du trône, qui se trouvait sur le front oriental, fut appelé à Vienne. Le futur empereur quitta vite la région de Harghita après avoir visité la ville de Sibiu et confié la commande à Arthur Arz von Straussenburg.2

Dans la matinée du 21 novembre, François-Joseph accueillit dans son cabinet austère l’archiduc et son épouse, Zita, accompagnés d’Otto de Habsbourg, le futur parlementaire européen qui vient de décéder et qui à cette date était vu comme l’héritier du trône. Quelques jours plus tard, le trône sera occupé par son père, qui sera d’ailleurs le dernier empereur autrichien. Selon les témoignages des proches, François-Joseph était de bonne humeur, il venait de recevoir les derniers rapports du front roumain envoyés par le général August von Macken-sen, pour qui il avait une grande admiration. Après un bref entretien, il continua son activité quotidienne, étant surtout préoccupé des statistiques liées aux res-sources humaines qui allaient être envoyées sur le champ de bataille. Il recevait tous les jours des rapports, des journaux, des lettres, ce qui laisse entendre que l’empereur les lisait en totalité. Son entourage prenait soin à souligner les pas-sages que l’empereur devait lire. Évidemment, ils ne contenaient rien de négatif. L’empereur était par conséquent persuadé que les habitants de l’empire jouis-saient de « l’époque la plus heureuse de son histoire ». Un fait resté célèbre, c’est qu’en 1914, avant la Déclaration de Guerre contre la Serbie, le même type d’entourage avait informé François-Joseph que c’était la Serbie qui avait envahi la Bosnie et la Hongrie. La croyance typique, le cliché mental hérité du Moyen Âge que le monarque ne connaissait pas les graves événements qui affectaient les peuples de l’empire et que ceux qui s’en rendaient coupables étaient les ministres ou les autres dignitaires, a fonctionné de la même manière. Le folklore transyl-vain en est le meilleur exemple.

Le soir, après avoir demandé au valet de le réveiller le lendemain à 4 h du ma-tin, François-Joseph donna son dernier soupir, après un règne de 68 ans. Dans d’autres conditions que celles de la guerre, cet événement aurait été quelque chose d’extraordinaire. Pour les Viennois, le moment fut émotionnel, pour ses « sujets », c’était l’espérance que la guerre prendrait fin et que les soldats ren-treraient chez eux. Le sentiment général était en général de regret, l’héritier du trône, l’archiduc Charles, ne jouissait pas d’une grande popularité.

Selon le cérémonial de cour originaire de l’Espagne médiévale, le défunt sou-verain devait été enterré neuf jours après son décès. La raison, qui remontait à quelques siècles, était d’offrir aux têtes couronnées des autres royaumes et empires le temps nécessaire d’arriver aux funérailles. Cependant, la guerre battait son plein, et les monarques (dont quelques-uns de la famille) s’affrontaient sur les champs de bataille, ce qui mettait en doute leur participation au cérémonial.

paradiGMs • 5

La cour, le chambellan Montenuovo en particulier, avait imposé le respect de la tradition – trait définitoire du long règne du défunt empereur.

Les funérailles eurent lieu le 30 novembre 1916, François-Joseph étant en-terré dans la Chapelle des Capucins, aux côtés de ses devanciers et des membres de sa famille décédés en des circonstances dramatiques : l’impératrice Élisabeth (Sissi) et son fils, Rodolphe, qui s’était suicidé à Mayerling (François-Ferdinand a été enterré à Arstetten). Pour le destin de l’empire des Habsbourg, la mort de François-Joseph n’a fait qu’en accélérer la fin. Il avait décédé comme empereur, évitant ainsi un détrônement honteux.

Pour beaucoup de ses contemporains, une Autriche sans François-Joseph était inimaginable. La conscience dynastique et la dévotion menée jusqu’au sa-crifice au service de l’État, issues de la philosophie politique de son devancier Joseph II, ont constitué les traits définitoires de son long règne, marqué d’une série d’événements qui le confirment : des attentats, le suicide de son fils, l’assas-sinat de l’impératrice Élisabeth, la mort de son frère au Mexico, l’assassinat de François-Ferdinand. Il a été un souverain profondément attaché à sa responsabi-lité d’empereur et de catholique dévoué. Oskar Kokoschka, officier de cavalerie au temps de la Grande Guerre, allait relever plus tard l’esprit joséphiste qui avait régné dans un empire qui n’avait jamais été un État idéal. La monarchie, conti-nuait le célèbre peintre, n’a pas connu de camps de concentration, ni des dépor-tations, des tortures ou des jugements formels etc. Évidemment, il comparait l’Autriche d’avant la guerre à celle annexée par l’Allemagne hitlérienne.

Nul mieux que lui n’a su caractériser son propre statut impérial. Dans une discus-sion avec l’ancien président américain Théodore Roosevelt, François-Joseph décla-rait : « Je suis le dernier monarque de la vieille école. » Nul historien, nul écrivain, nul politicien contemporain n’a réussi à mieux caractériser son long règne. Ses pa-roles exprimaient en même temps le décalage entre sa pensée, son conservatisme ou, autrement dit, le traditionalisme des Habsbourg, et les changements profonds qui se produisaient dans l’empire, dont la majorité en dehors de sa volonté. Quelques exemples confirment la difficulté qu’il avait à accepter les innovations : il s’était op-posé à l’introduction des chars blindés dans l’armée pour la bonne raison – difficile à croire ! – qu’ils effrayaient les unités de cavalerie ; il a refusé de prendre l’automo-bile ou le train, préférant voyager en chariot ou en bateau sur le Danube ; il n’avait accepté que vers la fin de sa vie l’introduction de l’électricité à Schönbrunn. Étant un traditionaliste et respectant avec rigueur le cérémonial de cour, il ne recevait pas à la cour « des personnes sans prestige ». Sigismond Freud, par exemple, n’avait jamais été accueilli à la cour – bien qu’il fût reconnu sur le plan international et honoré par les milieux scientifiques viennois peu de temps avant le déclenchement de la Grande Guerre –, de sorte que dans les milieux aristocratiques il ne jouissait pas d’un « pres-tige » social conféré par l’acceptation dans les cercles impériaux.


L’empire de François-Joseph apparaît sous plusieurs aspects comme un ana-chronisme en Europe du début du XXe siècle. C’était une construction impré-gnée de dysfonctions et de contradictions entre le centre et la périphérie. Le vieil empereur avait réussi à préserver l’unité de la monarchie grâce à son conserva-tisme et à celui des gouvernements qu’il avait su manipuler. Le pouvoir avait opposé une résistance permanente à la libéralisation de la monarchie. En 1860, François-Joseph écrivait à sa mère : « Maintenant nous aurons un peu de par-lementarisme, mais tous les pouvoirs sont dans mes mains. »3 Les principes dynastiques passaient devant toute réforme politique. Il s’était fié aux opinions de certains de ses conseillers que la guerre réussirait à résoudre les problèmes de l’empire. Mais il s’est gravement trompé. Par contre, la prophétie de l’ancien premier-ministre Kasimir Felix Badeni s’est réalisée. Un empire englobant plu-sieurs nationalités ne peut pas mener une guerre sans courir de terribles dangers. Bien qu’il eût déclaré à plusieurs reprises avoir manqué de chance en 1859 ou en 1866, il a beaucoup changé à cet égard. En 1915, par exemple, la nouvelle sur l’entrée de l’Italie en guerre le faisait s’exclamer : « Enfin, la guerre contre l’Italie, je peux maintenant me réjouir. »4

Ce qui surprend, c’est que le mythe de François-Joseph allait se perpétuer grâce à des nostalgiques et surtout à une génération d’intellectuels remarquables qui, dans le contexte de l’entre-deux-guerres, le regrettaient pour une soi-disant « ère de la stabilité ».

B ien des livres ont été écrits et des films ont été tournés sur cet empereur, dont la longévité ne peut être comparée qu’à celle de la reine Victoria. L’exposition organisée lors du 150e anniversaire de son avènement au

trône a joui d’un succès incroyable en Autriche actuelle. On fait tout pour culti-ver et amplifier « la nostalgie » de « la stabilité » de l’Europe centrale grâce à cet empereur, dont la mémoire est exploitée avec un succès remarquable par les maîtres artisans d’un tourisme de facture historique. Il est un « produit » histo-rique extrêmement bien vendu par l’industrie touristique autrichienne.

Pour les peuples de la monarchie, François-Joseph a été le symbole d’une relative stabilité, un « maître » dans sa jeunesse, capable de transformer l’État en un empire constitutionnel, tout en assurant la continuité de sa famille au trône par un instrument apparemment démocratique. Il a réussi à accréditer dans l’es-prit de ses sujets l’idée non seulement de « grâce divine » mais aussi de grâce constitutionnelle. Son successeur, Charles, assez jeune, n’a réussi presque pas à prendre le contrôle de son empire à cause de la guerre. Qui plus est, la mort de son prédécesseur a gravement fissuré la loyauté de ses sujets, qui se considéraient déliés du fameux serment que chaque soldat prêtait à l’empereur au moment de son enrôlement.

paradiGMs • 7

François-Joseph, à la différence de ses prédécesseurs, Marie-Thérèse et Joseph II, avait cherché une nouvelle modalité de légitimer les droits ancestraux des Habsbourg au trône. On sait bien maintenant que ni lui ni ses prédécesseurs n’ont réussi à construire au fil des siècles un État au sens moderne du concept. Dans la relation entre État et dynastie, c’est la dernière qui a été prioritaire, malgré la tentative de l’empereur de 1867. Il a introduit en ce sens un nouveau « rituel » en faisant appel à la « dévotion » traditionnelle de la Maison de Habs-bourg. Il s’est arrogé l’attribut d’« empereurs saints », en les transformant en des participants actifs aux cérémonies religieuses. Après 1890 surtout, à l’aide de la presse, le support traditionnel de l’Église qui informait sur l’activité quotidienne de l’empereur, sur les associations caritatives fondées à son initiative etc., il a réussi à renforcer les convictions des habitants sur ses droits incontestables au trône en raison de ses préoccupations quotidiennes pour la vie de ses sujets. On a ainsi créé une véritable auréole de la stabilité qui illuminait la Cour et, évidem-ment, François-Joseph. Il participait presque tous les ans à deux événements : le « Corpus Christi » et le « Jeudi saint » qui précédait les Pâques. C’était une modalité traditionnelle de se montrer convaincant dans la relation entre l’Église et la Cour. « La population viennoise regardait l’empereur démontrer que la dévotion des Habsbourg était une source de la force et de la stabilité, que, avec le soutien de l’armée et de l’Église, il garantirait la stabilité de ses peuples. »5 En dépit de ses efforts permanents, il n’a pas réussi à transformer le loyalisme dynastique en un concept de pays, de nation, ayant une identité propre. Ce fut le grand échec de son règne, et sa disparition serait bientôt suivie de la dissolution de l’empire.

En 1935, Joseph Roth, l’auteur de deux romans célèbres, La Marche de Radetzky et La Crypte des capucins, a assumé en totalité la personne de l’empereur, qu’il appelait « l’empereur de mon enfance et de ma jeunesse ». Stefan Zweig le tenait pour le garant d’une soi-disant « époque d’or » de la sûreté de l’indi-vidu, alors que Robert Musil, ancien capitaine sur le front italien, défendait la mémoire de l’ancien souverain. Karl Kraus, un autre contemporain, étonné par l’allure du mythe de François-Joseph, était choqué par l’impact d’un personnage qui, à son avis, n’avait aucune qualité particulière. Il n’a été qu’un « gentleman » sur qui les temps modernes n’avaient pas laissé de traces.

Pour les Roumains, la mort de l’empereur a été un événement qu’ils ont assez vite oublié. Le folklore transylvain du temps de la guerre invoquait la figure du monarque auto-puissant, les gens attendant, dans leur naïveté, que François-Joseph mît fin au terrible conflit militaire qui avait bouleversé leur vie. Le motif récurrent de la plupart des chansons populaires était la demande qu’on lui adres-sait dès le début de « faire la paix », de ne pas « se battre », l’argument devenu viral – pour employer une expression actuelle – étant le bel âge et le manque


d’expérience des jeunes envoyés sur le front. Petit à petit, sa figure insensible au drame vécu par des millions de personnes devenait présente dans les « malédic-tions » populaires.

Pour Alexandru Vaida-Voevod et le groupement « pro Belvédère », l’empe-reur, qu’il caractérisait comme un « greffier » du gouvernement de Budapest, ne présentait aucune garantie que le statut des Roumains de la monarchie allait changer. Il espérait en revanche que l’héritier du trône, François-Ferdinand, dans ses projets imaginables et moins applicables, prêterait une attention bien méri-tée aux Roumains, aux Slovaques, aux Tchèques, aux Serbes etc. Il a caracté-risé l’histoire des relations avec le palais de Belvédère, extrêmement intéressante d’ailleurs, comme « animées de confiance et d’espoir ».6 Évidemment, l’orienta-tion des membres de ce groupement les a transformés, contre la tradition, en des critiques du monarque, devenu plutôt « roi » de Hongrie et moins empereur. Le projet de loi électorale pour la partie hongroise de la monarchie, la sanction et l’adoption du soi-disant vote pluriel, destiné à limiter la représentation des Roumains dans le Parlement, ont déclenché une protestation sans précédent contre le gouvernement et surtout contre François-Joseph, à la fois dans la rue et dans la presse : « Le grand prince de la Transylvanie n’a jamais été un monarque à deux capitales mais il a été de plus en plus le roi de la Hongrie », écrivait Tri-buna (La Tribune) en novembre 1908. Les principaux journaux abondaient en des articles critiques7, et le groupement qui soutenait l’héritier du trône gagnait du terrain au sein du Parti National Roumain. Une remarque s’impose. Pour la grande majorité des Roumains, des paysans élevés dans l’esprit du loyalisme envers François-Joseph, toute cette campagne ne fera en fin des comptes qu’ac-croître la popularité de François-Ferdinand, sans faire abandonner « le mythe » du bon empereur. En témoigne leur réponse au Manifeste impérial de 1914, qui annonçait le déclenchement de la Grande Guerre.

Les mémorialistes roumains qui avaient participé aux opérations militaires font une description succincte des réactions des gens à l’annonce de la mort de l’empereur. Le caporal Dumitru Ciumbrudean, qui se trouvait sur le front italien, ne fait que mentionner l’ordre du commandant du régiment « de nous abstenir de toute allégresse et de jouer des instruments de musique, car c’est un jour de deuil à la mémoire de l’empereur François-Joseph ».8 Par contre, Dan Mihai, un maître des détails, mentionnait l’événement dans ses savoureux sou-venirs « de la terrible guerre » sans faire des commentaires : « Ce fut le même jour qu’on nous a annoncé la mort de notre empereur François-Joseph, qui a produit une grande désolation et beaucoup de chagrin. »9 Pour bien des soldats et des officiers du front, la mort de l’empereur n’a constitué ni un choc, ni une surprise. L’évêque d’Oradea, Roman Ciorogariu, après avoir décrit le fameux cérémonial des funérailles, ne manque pas d’ajouter quelques considérations :

paradiGMs • 9

« Il a voulu mourir au temps d’un règne pacifique, fût-il en sacrifiant ses peuples fidèles, et il est mort au temps d’une guerre à laquelle d’autres l’avait poussé. »10 Ses mémoires ont été publiés plus tard, en 1926, dix ans après que l’Église, selon la tradition, eut informé ses fidèles du décès et détaillé dans les circulaires diffusées par l’intermédiaire de la presse et des paroisses l’événement survenu le 21 novembre 1916. Le deuil pour le défunt monarque s’est déroulé avec le traditionalisme de rigueur dans de pareilles situations. Les quelques journaux qui continuaient à paraître ont publié, sous les yeux vigilants de la censure, des articles dédiés au vieil empereur, des commentaires sur sa vie personnelle, assez dramatique pour émouvoir les lecteurs.

Pour Lae de Banat et ses camarades, soldats dans le Régiment 43 sur le front italien, la mort de l’empereur a été accueillie avec joie, « dans l’espérance de la paix ». Qui plus est, l’un d’entre eux a annoncé la nouvelle à l’ennemi. « Les tranchées étaient proches et, quelques minutes après, un paquet blanc tomba dans notre tranchée. C’était une chemise blanche sur lequel les Italiens avaient écrit qu’ils étaient depuis une semaine déjà au courant de la mort de François-Joseph. »11

Un siècle après la mort de François-Joseph, son « mythe » continue à être présent. Il est perpétué, entre autres, par le célèbre concert du Nouvel An donné par la Philharmonie de Vienne, qui s’achève, inévitablement, par l’extraordinaire « Marche de Radetzky », dans les applaudissements des spectateurs, bien qu’il eût célébré la victoire des Habsbourg sur les révolutionnaires italiens en 1848, l’an où, le 2 décembre François-Joseph montait sur le trône. Il paraît que, pour le grand public, l’empereur décédé en 1916 reste un vainqueur dans la lutte entre l’homme et l’histoire.

q

Notes

1. Nous mentionnons seulement les dernières monographies dédiées à l’empereur François-Joseph : Alan Palmer, Twilight of the Habsburgs. The Life and Times of Emperor Francis Joseph, Londres, 1994 ; Andrew Wheatcroft, The Habsburgs Embodying Empire, Londres, 1996 ; Jean Paul Bled, François-Joseph, Paris, 2006. Une monographie qui a suscité beau-coup de commentaires appartient à Steven Beller, Francis Joseph, Londres–New York, 1996.

2. Generaloberst Arz, Zur Geschichte des grossen Krieges 1914-1918, Vienne–Leipzig– Munich, 1924. Dans le chapitre intitulé « In Siebenbürgen » (p. 102-120), le général décrit de manière succincte le moment de la séparation du futur empereur Charles. Le jour du 11 novembre 1916, ils se trouvaient dans la région de Harghita, « le successeur au trône m’a informé qu’il avait été appelé à Vienne. À ce moment, il ne paraissait pas être au courant de la grave maladie du Kaiser ». Après la mort de François-Joseph et le


couronnement de l’ancien commandant suprême sur le front de l’Est, Charles, il décrit brièvement le serment de fidélité prêté par l’État-major de l’armée austro-hongroise dans la salle de gymnastique du gymnase d’Odorheiul Secuiesc.

3. Beller, Francis Joseph, op. cit., p. 80. 4. Geofrey Wawro, A Mad Catastrophe, New York, 2015, p. 383. L’auteur est un critique

acerbe du règne de François-Joseph. 5. Voir en détail, Daniel Unowsky, « Reaserting Empire. Habsburg Imperial Celebrations

after the Revolutions of 1848-1849 », in Steging the Past : The Politics of Comemoration in Habsburg Central Europe, 1848 to the Present, dir. Maria Bucur et Nancy M. Wingfield, West Lafayette, Indiana, 2001, p. 13-45.

6. Alexandru Vaida-Voevod, Memorii, vol. II, édition, notes et commentaires par Alexandru Şerban, Cluj-Napoca, 1995, p. 175.

7. Voir Liviu Maior, Mişcarea naþionalã româneascã din Transilvania 1900-1914, Cluj-Napo-ca, 1986, p. 114-125.

8. Jurnal de front al caporalului Dumitru Ciumbrudean, Bucarest, 1969, p. 234. 9. Mihai Dan, Istoria ce am petrecut în crâncenul rãzboi, éd. Viorel Ciubotã et Ion M. Botiº,

Satu Mare, 2008, p. 98. 10. Roman Ciorogariu, Zile trãite, Oradea, 1926, p. 8. 11. Marele Rãzboi în memoria bãnãþeanã (1914-1918), vol. III, anthologie, études et notes

par Valeriu Leu, Nicolae Bocşan et Mihaela Bedecean, Cluj-Napoca, 2015, p. 330.

AbstractThe Triumphal Myth of History: Francis Joseph a Century after His Death

The paper looks at the last moments in the life of Austrian Emperor Francis Joseph, the self-proclaimed “last monarch of the old school,” who passed away one hundred years ago, on 21 November 1916, after a reign of 68 years. The analysis focuses on the emperor’s conservative attitudes and unrealistic perception of an empire that would soon fall apart, before turning to the core of the matter, namely, the perception and the memory of the emperor with his subjects, contemporaries or of the generations that followed, in Austria but especially in Romania.

KeywordsAustria-Hungary, First World War, Habsburg dynasty, Francis Joseph

Ana Victoria Sima Associate professor at the Faculty of History and Philosophy, Babeº-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca. Author, among others, of the vol. Affirming Identity: The Romanian Greek-Catholic Church at the Time of the First Vatican Council (2013).

Being Wife and Husband during World War IA Transylvanian Cultural Perspective

a n a v i C t O r i a s i M a

“I have never felt more acutely and more intensely how happy I am to have you and our babies than during this terrible war.”

On 28 July 1914, general mobiliza-tion was declared in Austria-Hun gary. When this news reached the Transyl-vanian Romanian Sextil Puşcariu, he was in Techirghiol, by the Black Sea. He had travelled there from Chernivtsi, where he was a professor at Francis Joseph University, hoping to spend a few days with his family at the seaside. Given the situation, he could either re-main in Romania, where both he and his family would be safe, or cross the border into Transylvania, to enlist in the Austro-Hungarian Army. He decided, not without some internal strife, to go to the front, driven by a single motivation: duty.1 A few days later, another Roma-nian Transylvanian, Mihai Dan, a peas-ant from Maramureş with six years of primary school education, received the news of general mobilization while he was working in the fields. For him, there was no possibility to choose from dif-ferent courses of action. The emperor’s order demanded that he should report for duty within 24 hours. On 1 August 1914, he enlisted for the front, but not

This work was supported by a grant of the Romanian National Authority for Scientific Research and Innovation, cncs-uefiscdi/project number pnii-ru-te-2014-4-0363.


before making a will in which he left half of his wealth to his wife and the other half to the village church.2

Apparently, these two individuals had nothing in common. They came from two diametrically opposed regions in Transylvania: Braşov and, on the other side of the Tisza River, Maramureş. They also came from different social milieus: one was a university professor, the other a peasant, with minimal education or formal train-ing. While the former had had the opportunity to avoid the war, the other had been forced to leave for the front. However, the war would draw them together. Both of them would have to bear the heavy burden of the four years of war, fighting on the fronts of Serbia and Italy. For both of them, going to war meant fulfilling their “duty” to emperor and nation.

Above all, however, the striking similarity between them was that they had, indeed, left for the battlefield, but had also left their hearts behind. Both Sextil Puşcariu and Mihai Dan were married. Like in the case of many soldiers who had enlisted for the front, their wives and children remained at home. For four years, their families were to play a crucial role in providing them with moral support. The question that may be raised is how many of the nearly one million soldiers recruited from Transylvania in World War I had left wives and children at home? For how many of them was the war to bring about changes in their civilian status, feelings and psycho-emotional behavior?

In the absence of complete data for Transylvania, we shall confine ourselves to invoking Martha Hanna’s estimates in this regard. According to Hanna, at least 40% of the soldiers in the Austro-Hungarian Army were married.3 Most of them found solace and support in their wives and children. They were the pillars of the imagi-nary universe into which the soldiers could escape the horrors of the war whenever the atrocities and the squalor of the front overwhelmed them. Not incidentally, the war propaganda speculated the sentimental value of the married couple and its motivational force, associating the fight for defending the homeland with the fight for protecting the family. There were, however, cases in which marital dysfunctions (infidelity, abandonment, carelessness) meant that the soldier no longer regarded his marriage as a beacon of light and as something worth fighting for. This often led to demoralization, desertion, suicide, etc.

Therefore, if we admit that the Great War was a total war, which profoundly and dramatically changed the world, we may wonder what its impact was on couple rela-tions and couple dynamics. To what extent did the relations between the husbands fighting on the front and the wives who remained at home mobilize or demoralize the combatants?

The very recent studies authored by Martha Hanna,4 Susan Grayzel5 and Fran-çoise Thébaud6 have brought into question the problem of gender relations during the Great War, examining it from several perspectives and focusing in particular on the Western European countries. With some exceptions,7 there are very few such

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investgations on the countries of Central and Eastern Europe, where the different levels of socio-economic and cultural development influenced gender relations and their evolution during the war. Despite its cultural and historical potential, this topic has been virtually ignored in Romanian historiography. Investigating the war from this perspective can reveal the experiences and the challenges faced by married cou-ples during the war. The aspects that can be explored through these lenses include the efforts made by husbands and wives to alleviate the effects of the physical and existential distances between them, the temporary/permanent changes that affected their lives as couples and their success or failure in coping with the stress of a long-distance marriage. These were just a few of the great “tests” married couples had to go through in times of war.8

As regards Transylvania, it should be noted that reconstructing the image of couple relations during the years of the war will reveal many similarities with the fronts of Western Europe, but also distinctive aspects that were specific to this area. For instance, just like in France, the United Kingdom or Germany, in Transylva-nia communication within couples and the couples’ interests revolved around three main themes: family, economy (husbandry) and affection/love.9 Here too, just like in all the warring countries, connections between the internal and the external front were ensured by the postal services (letters, postcards, packages). Soldiers could be granted furlough or military leave and their wives could be allowed to make visits to the front. What individualized the case of Transylvania was the different share of these three major themes in the communication between the spouses or, sometimes, the difficulties in communication between the wife and the husband, which nega-tively affected couple relations.

Couple Life in Transylvania at the Time of World War IEconomic Support, Emotional Compassion and Sexual Intimacy

While in the letters of the British, French or Germans soldiers who came from an urban environment the recurrent theme of their correspondence with their wives concerned their feelings of mutual love/affection or the

insecurity and anxieties generated by the war, the subject that was devoted the am-plest space in the letters the Romanian soldiers from Transylvania sent to their wives was the farmstead. This subject was followed by the interest in the welfare of their families and children and, only in the last instance, by affection or love, professed, most of the times, in a rather veiled and crude style.

Thus, we may find among these peasant soldiers a sort of “reverse” order of pri-orities and feelings compared to the soldiers who came from the urban areas. For the soldiers recruited from the Romanian villages, the farmstead and the land they owned were the mainstays of existence. This was due to the prevalently agricultural


nature of the Transylvanian economy and to the Romanian ethos, according to which husbandry and industriousness represented the attributes of a normal and secure life.10 From this standpoint, love was a mere particularizing element, a guar-antee of familial prosperity and equilibrium.

It is well known that many of the combatants who came from Transylvania were peasants. Those of Romanian ethnicity amounted to more than half of the total num-ber of Transylvanian soldiers. Their socio-cultural profile described them as individuals who were organically bound to their families, to their land and the agricultural work they constantly carried out, and not least, to the universe of their own communities. This explains why more than 50% of their correspondence referred to the farmstead and the economic difficulties caused by the war.11 Mobilized to the front, they had left their households into the care of their wives and parents, who were powerless and de-moralized and hardly managed to cope with the situation. Forced requisitions, fund-raising collections and the inflation that scourged the Transylvanian villages soon brought about shortages, dietary and clothing restrictions and, not infrequently, the frittering away of the little wealth they had left back home.12 This explains why their overpowering concern was focused, in their correspondence, on the farmstead and the economic situation of the wives and the families they had left behind. Care was the chief feeling they experienced. The welfare of the cattle, the progress of agricultural work, the necessary firewood, the aid received from the state, and the health of the wife and the children: these were the “components” of life these soldiers lived vicari-ously, from a distance. Here is what one of the soldiers wrote to his wife: “Dear wife, as soon as you get this postcard, do send me news about how you’re managing with the kids and the cattle, and what else has happened at home, for you and the kids and the cattle are always on my mind.”13 Another soldier, worried about the finan-cial situation of his wife, wrote to the village notary: “Dear Mr. Notary, I humbly pray that when you give money to the wives, you should pay the money to my wife but only the necessary amount to my mother.”14 Naturally, the wives’ answers ap-proached the same topics, as most of them wished to inform their spouses about the social and economic difficulties with which they were confronted. This is the reply Maria Pop sent her husband in November 1914: “Dumitru, my dear . . . I have so far received money three times and I gave 10 zloty to the son of Iarie Amarocului and I also paid whomever we were indebted to and the priest took 3 pounds of maize and he said I’d have to pay one more, and they collected the taxes I owed to the village.”15

Aron Bârzovan received equally worrisome news from his wife, who wrote that: “I got seventeen zlotys but it’s really hard ‘cause the maize is mighty expensive, worth three zloty per krone a merþa16 and I can’t keep the pig, so do write to me what I should do, if I should slaughter or sell it, write to me what I should do, my dearest. . . . And I have sown wheat on uncle’s plot, across the hill, and I had to plough a furrow for he didn’t plough one and everything has become terribly expensive. . .”17

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This image of the peasant family, beset by shortages and difficulties, reveals the force with which the wives made their presence felt in history. They did their utmost to cope with the manifold needs of the home front. They had to be both father and mother to their children, to step into the shoes of their husbands whenever neces-sary, to continue to pray, cry and hope that someday their husbands would return to resume their lives as couples from where they had been interrupted at the onset of the war. One of the most interesting testimonies in this regard belonged to Saveta, a peasant woman from Aiud, who wrote to her husband about the activities she had carried out in the farmstead in his absence:

Toader, my dear, please know that I’ve made that contract for the land with Crãveanu and, Toader, my dear, please know that I have to pay the taxman 16 zloty and one krone ‘cause they won’t let me register that land in our name unless I pay that money. Also, I’ll have you know, Toader, my dear, that we sowed the maize yesterday and Ion also came with two ploughs to help us . . ., also, I’ll have you know, Toader, my dear, that I’ll be taking the calves to the market in Aiud, ‘cause I need money to pay for the contract and for the piglets from Maricica. And you wrote that I should come see you, but I can’t, not before Pentecost, ‘cause there’s no one to look after my dad’s place, your folk can’t come ‘cause they’re working in the fields, but I’ll be coming at Pentecost with Pãtruþu, ‘cause he misses you much and he dreams about you all night long. And will you please write to me if I should sell the cattle or the piglets, for one of the cows is really thin and the little one is sick all the time and we can’t keep it anymore, ‘cause it’s limping now. And I’ll have you know, Toader, that the crops are fine but there are plenty of weeds.18

The letter above illustrates as convincingly as possible that although the war had forced this wife to take initiatives and measures that would far have exceeded her powers in times of peace, she was still hesitant in making all these decisions on her own, especially when it came to the livestock, which her husband had entrusted into her care when he had left for the front. The decisions regarding the farmstead and its future were the most difficult. That is why her lack of experience and the unpredictability of the war years led her to seek the advice and consent of her hus-band, who had gone to war. In these letters, almost without exception, the wives consulted their husbands regarding what they should do on the farmstead. The effect was to maintain their husbands’ morale at a high level, as they were led to believe that in the microcosm of their homes, changes could only occur with their consent. In addition, all those details related to the spring, summer and autumn agricultural campaigns, the plots that were cultivated and the quantities of seeds that were planted were meant to “divert” the soldiers’ attention from the atrocities and terrifying images of the front. Based on these snippets of the situation back home, the soldiers could reconstruct a reality from which they attempted to expel the proximity of death.19


The second major level on which couples attempted to stay in touch on during the war was emotional compassion. The terrifying climate and the injuries of the soldiers on the front, or the strenuous physical activities their wives had to carry out on the home front were just some of the reasons why emotional compassion in the couple was important. The epistolary exchanges between the spouses represented the means through which emotion and sympathy could cross the invisible border between the internal and the external front. “And when I heard they shot you, I was much aggrieved and I cried,”20 one wife confessed to her husband. Others com-plained about the burden of chores on the farmstead and the ailments they suffered from on that account: “And let me add, my husband, that I have no one to complain to if something hurts me, I just keep my mouth shut and go to bed and cry my heart out until I fall asleep. Alas, I am now forced to work at the road, but let me add, my husband, working would be just fine but I’m much afraid I may come down with some sickness in my chest.”21 Much fewer and more laconic in comparison to the reports of their wives, the information the husbands conveyed about their wounds and infirmities came mostly from those who were in hospitals. Most of the times, the seriousness of their injuries was deliberately minimized so as not to generate panic and stress in the couple and in the family.

Children occupied a privileged place in the epistolary exchanges between the spouses. They represented the only category of humans that soldiers could trust without reservation. From this point of view, children differed substantially from the wives, who could be suspected of adultery by the soldiers.22 Defenseless chil-dren genuinely needed their fathers’ protection and affection. Above all, the father figure was the only legitimate model for the boys. This is probably why most wives insistently communicated to their husbands, who were on the front, information about their children and their needs. “Epistle written on December 27. My Beloved husband, so far we have all been healthy, I and Gãvriluþã too, and we keep praying to the good Lord that He should also grant you the same. . . but if you could see Gãvriluþã, you wouldn’t recognize him anymore, for he’s as fat as a miller’s horse and as tall as the table and can ask for anything that he needs, and he’s so dear to my soul ‘cause he goes by the gate to the yard and keeps crying “daddy, come home,” and, my sweet and dear Ioan, if you should get better, do ask them to let you come home for Christmas or move you to a closer hospital.”23

The image of the child, constantly invoking the name of its father, who was away on the front, was very emotionally charged. It offered the soldiers an opportunity to seek mental refuge back home, helping them to maintain, from a distance, their status as husbands and fathers. In addition, it helped them to visualize how their children were growing, month after month, how they played and eagerly waited for their fathers to return home. It was up to the mothers to develop this image and convey it to their husbands, in order to reduce the distance between them and prepare the moment when they would be meeting again. Highly suggestive, in this

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regard, is a letter a Romanian woman from Bistriþa sent to her husband, telling him that their son had been waiting, night after night, for him to return home and buy him a hat and some shoes: “And I would be very happy if you could come home for 3 days at least, so that I may see you once more and then die, and let Giþã see you too, ‘cause he won’t forget you, he’s been reading the postcards you sent us all day every day and keeps saying that daddy will be coming tonight and bring a hat and shoes to Giþã, and my heart really aches to hear him say that.”24

If the farmstead and emotional compassion occupied generous spaces in the war cor-respondence of these couples, this was not the case with sentimental and sexual intima-cy. Love and sexual intercourse were subjects that could not be stated in writing except in a veiled and subtle form. Love had to be experienced far from the eyes of the world. That is why most of these letters contained few references to the private sentimental life of the couples and almost no references to their sexual intimacy. The explanation lies, first of all, in the moral and cultural education of those prevalently agrarian communi-ties for which the sheer verbalization of love was an intimate act in itself. In addition to this, their low level of education and even illiteracy meant that the letters sent by the husband or the wife required the presence of an intermediary: the person who wrote or read the letters. Declaring their love or sexual desires under the eyes of the one who wrote the letter would have amounted to exposing and sharing their private sentiments with everyone else. That explains why most of those who could not write or read pre-ferred to repress their intimate feelings and impulses in the letters, expressing them only during furlough or military leave. Seen from this perspective, leaves and holidays pro-vided them with occasions in which, albeit for a few days, their emotional lives could be replenished.25 That is why these occasions were so desired by the couples. For instance, here is what the wife of one of the soldiers wrote: “And, my dearest husband, I wish so fondly they would let you come home, if only I could kiss your lips, for my heart is badly broken. Do ask them to let you come for the holidays. . .”26 The wife of Ambrozie, another Romanian Transylvanian soldier, was consumed with the same longing, for she wrote to him in November 1914: “I pray, thee, postcard, rush to meet Ambrozie, for I love speaking to him in letters, but I’d love even more to speak to him with my mouth! If only I could be with you at the beginning of Lent at least, it would be a godsend if you were around me and the children, like other Christians are. And ask them, Ambrozie, with all your heart to let you come home at least by Ash Wednesday.”27

Especially during the major holidays, such as Christmas, Easter and Pentecost, but also during moments of despair and suffering, the couples experienced their relationship with much greater emotional intensity, despite their separation. Em-blematic, in this respect, are the letters in which the wives asked their husbands to request their superiors to allow them to come home on leave for Christmas or at the beginning of Lent. “And I wish you would come home for Christmas, if not sooner. . ., dear Aron,”28 as one of the Romanian women in Transylvania wrote to her husband, in the autumn of 1914.


For the married soldiers, military leave was also a means of checking if their wives had been faithful to them, as they were sometimes suspected of infidelity during the long months of separation caused by the war. Moreover, it is widely recognized that unlike the children, who could be trusted unconditionally,29 the wives some-times represented, in the soldiers’ vision, potential “traitors.” Sentimental betrayal could be accompanied by sexual infidelity, through which the husband was bereft of the fundamental right he had obtained through marriage, that of having exclusive relations with the woman entrusted to him. Adultery was a reality that was quite frequently encountered during the war.30 For instance, Sextil Puşcariu recounted to his wife in a letter how one of the sergeants in his unit had discovered, while he was on leave, “that his wife had cheated on him with a soldier. He confronted her and she admitted it. He forgave her, after she promised him she would be faithful,” but she relapsed shortly afterwards, ravaging their wealth and their children.31 Such situations were often the target of their comrades’ mockery on the front, to which the cuckolded husbands had to resign themselves. This was the case of a Gypsy from Biserica Albã who, while he was on the front in Italy, received a letter from a rela-tive back home, informing him that his wife, Safta, had given birth to a son, even though he had not been on home leave since the war had broken out. Two years had passed since then.32

Although most of these suspicions proved to be unfounded, the fear of being deceived was one of the married soldiers’ perpetual anxieties on the frontline. There-fore, the days they spent at home were used to make up for the long periods of abstinence or for the sexual promiscuity experienced on the front.33

Most married soldiers had gone to the front with a certain sentimental “bag-gage,” accumulated during the marriage years, prior to the war. Some were happy couples, others not so much. For those who had a happy marriage, the war con-tributed to cementing and valuing the relations between them. For example, Sextil Puşcariu confessed in a letter he wrote to his wife during the war: “I have never felt more acutely and more intensely how happy I am to have you and our babies than during this terrible war.”34 Many were those who felt the same way. Not so much those for whom marriage had become a burden, weighing heavily upon their shoul-ders because of the war and inevitably slipping towards dissolution.

Means of Communication/Interaction in the Married Couples in Transylvania during World War ILetters, Postcards, Packages

The means of communication used by married couples in Transylvania in the years of World War I were letters, postcards, packages and photographs. By far, letters were the most important means of maintaining the contact be-

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tween the internal and the external front. They were the unseen thread that ensured the contact between spouses, families, relatives, friends, etc. Today it is widely rec-ognized that the Great War had triggered a genuine “epidemic” of writing (letters, postcards, memoirs, journals, etc.), which contaminated all the belligerent coun-tries. Billions of letters were sent, at that time, to and from the trenches, across the entire world.35 Many have been preserved to this day. Others got lost along the way or were intercepted by censorship, never reaching their recipients. 12,000 letters have been preserved in Cluj-Napoca, retrieved from the city’s hospitals and censor-ship bureaus of that time.36 Many of them were addressed to the husbands who had left for the front or to the wives who had been left behind and they form an extraor-dinary documentary source of cultural history.

“Leonora . . . don’t forget to write to me every day!”37 This is what Sextil Puşcariu asked his wife on his departure for the front in August 1914. And she did not forget. For four years, up until the end of the war, the Puºcarius wrote to each other every day and, sometimes, even twice a day. However, Puºcariu’s situation was a fortunate one. Although he was dispatched to the fronts in Serbia and Italy, he was never sent to fight in the first line. He remained behind the front, working for the supply services, which allowed him long respites in which he could write to his wife and continue his literary work. At the end of the war, the letters his wife had received formed the basis of the volume of memoirs he dedicated to the Great War. Things were different in the case of his countryman Mihai Dan, whose corre-spondence with his wife was much less consistent, given his deployment to the area of the defensive lines and his wife’s low level of literacy.

From the trenches or from behind the frontlines, the soldiers continued to write to their wives or families, with some regularity. Still, for many of the Transylvanian soldiers, just like for the Italians or the French, sending a letter home was more than a simple writing exercise. Having little or no school training, many of them wrote with difficulty and some could not write at all. Some of them learned the basics of writing and reading on the front, so they could send their families back home a few lines and show them they were still alive.38 Thus, writing became synonymous with, above all, staying alive. Here is what a wife wrote to her husband, who was in hospital in Bistriþa, after receiving no letter from him for a long time: “I was much aggrieved when the word came out in Frasin that you’re dead. I couldn’t believe that ‘cause I knew you’re in hospital but they said that you’d died from a disease. And when I got a postcard, I thought I’d be jumping for joy, and I beg of you, with all my heart, write to me when you can, ‘cause when a postcard arrives, it’s like you came to me yourself and this gives me such joy. . .”39

Also, for most of these semi-literate soldiers, writing involved a difficult exercise of self-expression. For them, it was a real effort to switch from verbal communica-tion to the contact with a piece of paper that, more often than not, looked like a narrow and limited space, marked by partly unknown glyphs. What increased this difficulty even further was the interaction with an absent interlocutor, through a


letter that did not ensure instantaneous communication, but needed a few days to reach its destination.40 That is why many of them could not shift from colloquial words to the more formal rhetoric of written exchanges, but used the same expres-sions, as if this was a dialogue between two face-to-face interlocutors: “A missive written on August 7 to my much desired wife. And I, your husband Melian, am healthy and I wish thee the same sound health and many good and happy years to you and to my daughter.”41

Moreover, writing—albeit only letters and postcards—was a way of mentally es-caping the trench warfare or the infernal bomb blasts and of retrieving the universe of home, where each and every thing had a particular sentimental value.42

Paper, the physical support on which these letters were written, was often dif-ficult to acquire, especially on the front. Consequently, it was often the case that on the same piece of paper there were crammed not only the husband’s message to his wife, but also her answer, that of the parents, the neighbors, the friends and, last but not least, the persons who wrote on their behalf.43 Interestingly, unlike letters, the standard postcards, known as Tábori Postai or Feldpostkorrespondenzenkarte, were more accessible to the soldiers on the front than paper. This explains their much higher frequency compared to letters drafted on paper. It is true, however, that un-like letters, postcards offered a limited space for epistolary communication. They had the value of “signs of life” coming from those who sent them and did not offer the sender the possibility of detailed communication with the addressee.

For the soldiers who could not read or write, communicating with the wife and the people back home was even more difficult. This involved continuous recourse to their comrades or superiors, which could become embarrassing and humiliating. For instance, among the letters of the Transylvanian Romanian soldiers preserved in Cluj, there is an undated epistle sent by a wife to her husband on the front: “My beloved husband, I would send you letters more often but I’m afraid you won’t be able to read them, I’ve sent you two other letters written down by others, but they don’t feel much like writing if you are not at home. But if you can read them, write to me, ‘cause I won’t be asking anyone else and I’ll write to you myself.”44

This proves that illiteracy or semi-literacy was at least as frequently encountered (if not more) on the home front. This is why communication through letters or postcards was sometimes hindered also by self-censorship. Recourse to those who could write, on either side of the front, required time and money. In addition to this, self-censorship often prevented the unfiltered disclosure of the correspondents’ feel-ings. Last but not least, to all these obstacles was added military censorship, which requisitioned any letter suspected of potentially contributing to lowering the com-batants’ morale.45 Despite this official censorship and the self-censorship determined by the spouses’ low levels of literacy, letters and postcards remained, for Transyl-vanian couples, the most widespread and the easiest means of communication dur-ing the war.

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Next to letters, the packages sent from the home front to the trenches were another means for spouses to stay in touch. Allowed by the authorities within the pre-set limits of a few kilograms and with a monthly frequency, packages provided the soldiers with a sense of proximity to home, the wife, the children and the fam-ily. Naturally, most soldiers requested packages that would cater for their everyday subsistence needs. Some demanded articles of clothing that were adequate for that season. Others asked for food, which they lacked or was insufficient in the daily ra-tions they received on the front. For example, the soldier Grigorie Rus wrote to his wife and family on 14 October 1914, asking them to send him a package containing “a scarf for my neck, and gloves and woollies and tobacco and bacon and whatever you want and lots of onions.”46 Beyond their concrete and their sentimental value, the contents of the packages also amounted to a barometer of the culinary tastes and traditions specific to the soldiers’ places of origin. Thus, while the Romanians from Transylvania requested pork ham, onions, garlic and tobacco, the Italians demanded cheese, chocolate and other products characteristic of Italian cuisine.47

Not least, couple relations also relied, in overcoming long periods of separation, on the photographs soldiers sent from the front to their wives and relatives back home. Images and their visual impact played an important role in staying connected with the loved ones. Mentally, photographs encouraged practices of remembrance and fostered feelings of pride in the communities to which the soldiers belonged. Here is what Aron Bârzovan’s wife wrote to him four months after his departure for the front: “And further, Aron, my dearest, I dearly wish they could send me your picture so I could see you, just enough to quench my longing for you, do send me a picture, kisses galore. . .”48 Maria Pop felt the same way when she asked her husband, who was in hospital in Cluj, in November 1914: “Dumitru, my dear, if you should not be able to come or they won’t let you, at least have a picture taken and send it to me, so that I can see you also in those clothes.”49 This explains the considerable number of photographs taken during the war, at the request of the soldiers and of their loved ones at home. For many of the soldiers on the battlefront, photographs were to remain the only testimony of their passage through life.

Furlough, Vacations and VisitsThe Connections between the Battlefront and the Home Front

LastinG from 3 to 21 days, furloughs or leaves were, just like letters, short but intense moments of reunion for the families or couples separated by the war. At the onset of the hostilities, in August 1914, the military authorities of the

belligerent states had suspended any furlough. The idea was that it would be a short war, requiring the presence of all the armed forces on the front.50 That is why soldiers


were denied furlough and leave in the Austro-Hungarian Army, too, until the spring of 1915. Hence, for almost half a year, correspondence was the only way of com-munication between spouses. The prolongation of the war made the combatants’ separation from the spouses and the families ever more oppressive and unbearable. There are countless letters sent by the wives and families of the Transylvanian soldiers in the autumn of 1914 requesting them to ask for even a few days’ leave. “You should know, Ambrozie, my dear,” a soldier’s wife wrote in November 1914, “that I can have no rest, day or night, my dear Ambrozie, knowing what great pain you are in . . . and Ambrozie, my dear, as soon as you get this letter, ask them to let you come home for 2–3 days at least, and if they don’t, then write to me, ‘cause I’ll be here wait-ing for you.”51 Also in November 1914, Maria Pop wrote to her husband, Dumitru Pop, advising him to request “a leave of at least a few days, ‘cause I’d really like to see you again as I miss you so much.”52 In similar terms, another wife wrote to her husband, who was in a hospital in Bistriþa in the autumn of 1914: “and do ask them to let you come home for 3 days at least . . . come for the holidays, ‘cause it seems to me you’ve been gone for 10 years, that’s how much I long to see you again.”53

Due to the numerous requests for military leave, but also for economic rea-sons and to increase the birthrate, starting from the spring of 1915, the Austro-Hungarian military authorities began to grant the first furloughs and leaves to the mobilized soldiers. For most of these peasant soldiers, agricultural campaigns were an absolute priority, because their family’s fate depended on farming the land. The depopulation of villages brought about by the war had placed the burden of looking after the household on the shoulders of the wives and the elderly, who were often unable to manage the farmsteads.54 That is why some of the soldiers demanded the intervention of the local authorities with a view to obtaining furlough or leave for the purpose of carrying out agricultural works. This was the case of Pavel Chira, a Transylvanian soldier who, while being stationed on the front, wrote to the village notary on 16 June 1915, urging him to intervene with his military superiors so that he would be granted a leave and go home for the summer agricultural works: “To Mr. Notary Public! Through this letter, I hereby ask you, Mr. Notary, if you would kindly file a request so that I may come home, at least when the time for scything and harvesting comes. Please do this good deed, if you have ever done good in the world, do me a world of good now, too.”55

Enjoyed and continuously remembered after returning to the front, the holidays spent at home provided a fundamental stimulus for the combatants’ morale. Beyond its extraordinary cathartic value,56 whereby these individuals regained their freedom confiscated by the war, military leave meant the reunification of the couple. It was the moment when spouses resumed their intimate and social relationships, sharing their feelings and the difficulties they had each experienced. They enjoyed the pres-ence of their children and every moment they spent together. For Sextil Puşcariu, “returning home after four and a half months of separation was a true celebration

paradiGMs • 23

and even though time—especially the last days—passed by swiftly, I tasted happi-ness moment after moment.”57 Here is how the long periods of separation brought about by the war and followed by brief re-encounters contributed, in most of the cases, to strengthening relations in the couple and to increasing the spouses’ appre-ciation of one another.

The visitation rights granted to the wives behind the frontlines also contributed to maintaining the morale of the combatants. Their brief presence, sometimes on several occasions, was another means of supporting the soldiers’ combative ability. In the case of the Transylvanian soldiers, these visits were only possible in areas that were not at a great distance from home. The wives’ limited financial resources and multiple obligations in the household prevented them from visiting their husbands if they were stationed very far away. For example, Maria Pop wrote to her husband Dumitru, who was in hospital, in the autumn of 1914, asking him to request a transfer closer to home, so that she might be able to visit him: “And do ask permission to come closer to here so I may also come to see you, for I’d go there too, but because of the babies I can’t go anywhere, ‘cause they’re sick all the time.”58 Household chores also prevented the wife of Teodor, who was in hospital in Cluj, to visit him sooner: “And you wrote to me that I should come see you, but I can’t do that before Pentecost, ‘cause there’s no one I could leave at home, as neither father nor your folk can come, since they’re going to work.”59 These visits were highly desired, as demonstrated by the letter Ion Borbel sent his wife Marişka, asking her to come see him: “My much beloved wife, I’ll have you know that I, your husband, Ion Borbel, am still in Poiana Stampei and that I wish you came to me, so that we may see one another and have a few words. And as soon as you get and read the postcard from me, you should come and also bring the wife of my brother, Gavril. . . you should come together and you should go see the notary for visitation rights, so that you may come and see me in Poiana Stampei.”60

This preliminary analysis of Transylvanian couples during World War I il-lustrates the fact that there were numerous similarities between the Roma-nian realities and the situation in other belligerent states. These similarities

are especially visible as regards the behavior of the peasant soldiers from Germany, Italy and France, the conduct of the military recruited in Transylvania resembling it to a great extent. One thing is clear: whatever part of Europe they came from, married couples experienced the trauma of their separation or the thrill of seeing one another and becoming reunited in a more or less similar manner. Especially insofar as the illiterate or semi-literate individuals were concerned, communication in the couple was as difficult and impeded by self-censorship in Transylvania as it was in rural Italy or Germany.

These were just some of the ordeals that married couples went through during World War I. Identifying these trials and tribulations represents only the first step towards acknowledging that the Great War brought a genuine hiatus in the life of


couples.61 It caused a fracture in the relationship between spouses, for whom time appeared to have stood still for four years.

Not least, the war subjected married couples to a true test of resilience and en-durance. Some marriages collapsed, others were mutilated by the war, through the loss of one or both spouses, and yet others survived. In the latter case, the spouses attempted, after the war, to recover the lost time.

q

Notes

1. Sextil Puºcariu, Memorii, ed. Magdalena Vulpe (Bucharest, 1979), 5–7. 2. Mihai Dan, Istoria ce am petrecut în crâncenul rãzboi, eds. Viorel Ciubotã and Ion M.

Botoº (Satu Mare, 2008), 9–12. 3. Martha Hanna, “The couple,” in The Cambridge History of the First World War, vol. 3,

Civil Society, ed. Jay Winter (Cambridge, 2014), 6. 4. Ibid.; id. Your Death Would be Mine: Paul and Marie Pireaud in the Great War (Harvard,

2006). 5. Susan Grayzel, Women and the First World War (London–New York, 2013); id., Women’s

Identities at War: Gender, Motherhood, and Politics in Britain and France during the First World War (Chapell Hill, 1999).

6. Françoise Thébaud, Écrire l’histoire des femmes et du genre (Lyon, 2007); id., “Donne e identità di genere,” in La prima guerra mondiale, eds. Stephane Audoin-Rouzeau and Jean-Jacques Beker, Italian ed. Antonio Gibelli, 2 (Turin, 2007), 35–49.

7. Ioan Bolovan, Primul rãzboi mondial ºi realitãþile demografice din Transilvania: Familie, mo-ralitate ºi raporturi de gen (Cluj-Napoca, 2015), 75–123; Ioana Elena Ignat Kisanovici, Participare ºi mobilizare în Transilvania în primul rãzboi mondial (Cluj-Napoca, 2015), 103–122; Eugenia Bârlea, Perspectiva lumii rurale asupra primului rãzboi mondial (Cluj-Napoca, 2004), 97–144; Liviu Maior, Doi ani mai devreme: Ardeleni, bucovineni ºi basara-beni în rãzboi, 1914–1916 (Cluj-Napoca, 2016), 121–155.

8. Hanna, “The couple,” 8. 9. Ibid., 10. 10. Bârlea, 97. 11. See the collection of letters entitled Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, located at the Na-

tional Archives of Romania, Cluj County Branch (hereafter cited as an, sj Cluj); Bogdan Gozman, “Imaginea familiei transilvãnene în corespondeþa ostaºilor din Primul Rãzboi Mondial,” in De la lume adunate..., eds. Cruciþa-Loredana Baciu, Anamaria Macovei, and Roxana Dorina Pop (Cluj-Napoca, 2011), 214–216.

12. Bârlea, 97–121; Maior, 128. 13. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scri sori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, VI, 432, People with sur-

names starting with the letter M in the counties of Cluj, Szolnok–Doboka and Turda-Arieº, the years 1914–1917, fol. 42.

14. Ibid., 6: 432, People with surnames starting with the letter M in the counties of Ssol-nok–Doboka and Turda-Arieº, the years 1914–1917, fol. 65.

paradiGMs • 25

15. Ibid., Letters addressed to the soldiers. D. Letters to hospitalized soldiers, 1914, fol. 163. 16. The equivalent of 2.15 hectolitres. 17. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, Soldiers distributed by regi-

ments. 180. Soldiers in the infantry regiment 63, 1914, fol. 26. 18. Ibid., 4, Letters addressed to the soldiers. 235. Soldiers hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj,

Turda, 1914, fol. 97. 19. Bârlea, 198. 20. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, Letters addressed to the

soldiers. D. Letters to hospitalized soldiers, 1914, fol. 163. 21. Ibid., 4. D, 228, Censored letters (Cluj), 1914–1915, fol. 296. 22. Manon Pignot, “I bambini,” in La prima guerra mondiale, 51. 23. an, sj Cluj, colecþia Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 4, Letters sent to the soldiers.

235. Soldiers hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj, Turda, 1914, fol. 25r. 24. Ibid., f. 29. 25. Emmanuelle Cronier, “Tra fronte e fronte interno: la questione delle licenze,” in La prima

guerra mondiale, 83–84. 26. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 4. D. 228, Letters to hos-

pitalized soldiers, the extreme years, 1914–1915, fol. 6. 27. Ibid., 4/234. Letters to hospitalized soldiers in Bistriþa, Cluj, Sibiu, Braºov, Budapest,

Pécs, 1914–1917, fol. 32. 28. Ibid., Soldiers distributed by regiments. 180. Soldiers in the infantry regiment 63, 1914,

fol. 26. 29. Pignot, 51. 30. Sorina Paula Bolovan and Ioan Bolovan, “Populaþia satului românesc transilvãnean în

anii Primului Rãzboi Mondial: Mobilitate ºi imobilitate afectivã,” in Miºcãri de populaþie ºi aspecte demografice în România în prima jumãtate a secolului XX, eds. Sorina Paula Bolo-van, Ioan Bolovan, Rudolf Gräf, and Corneliu Pãdurean (Cluj-Napoca, 2007), 81–82.

31. Puºcariu, 97–98. 32. Marele Rãzboi în memoria bãnãþeanã 1914–1919, vol. 3, eds. Valeriu Leu, Nicolae Bocºan,

and Mihaela Bedecean (Cluj-Napoca, 2015), 333. 33. Cronier, 84. 34. Puºcariu, 48. 35. Fabio Caffarena, “Le scrittture dei soldati semplici,” in La prima guerra mondiale, 646. 36. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial. The letters written in Ital-

ian were published by ªtefan Damian in Lettere dai tempi di guerra (Cluj-Napoca, 2004), 191.

37. Puºcariu, 30. 38. Maior, 124; Antonio Gibelli, La grande guerra degli Italiani 1915–1918 (Milan, 1998),

136–141. 39. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 4, Letters addressed to the

soldiers, 235. Soldiers hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj, Turda, 1914, fol. 29r. 40. Caffarena, 648. 41. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 472, People with surnames

starting with the letter R in the counties of Bistriþa-Nãsãud, Cluj, Sãlaj and Turda-Arieº, 1914–1917, fol. 3r.


42. Gibelli, 140. 43. Aurel Rãduþiu, Romos (jud. Hunedoara): File de cronicã 1850–1950 (Deva, 2015), 247–

248. 44. an, sj Cluj, the Collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 4. D, 228, Letters to hos-

pitalized soldiers, 1914–1915, f. 6r. 45. Ignat Kisanovici, 148–157. 46. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 472, People with surnames

starting with the letter R in the counties of Bistriþa-Nãsãud, Cluj, Sãlaj and Turda-Arieº, 1914–1917, fol. 12r.

47. Damian, 186. 48. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, Soldiers distributed by regi-

ments. 180. Soldiers in the infantry regiment 63, 1914, fol. 26. 49. Ibid., Letters addressed to the soldiers, D. Letters to hospitalized soldiers, 1914, fol.

163. 50. Cronier, 77–78. 51. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 4/234, Letters to soldiers

hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj, Sibiu, Braºov, Budapest, Pécs, 1914–1917, fol. 31. 52. Ibid., Letters addressed to the soldiers, D. Letters to hospitalized soldiers, 1914, fol.

163. 53. Ibid., 4, Letters addressed to the soldiers. 235. Soldiers hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj,

Turda, 1914, fol. 29r. 54. Bârlea, 117–121; Maior, 126–128. 55. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, 6, 432, People with sur-

names starting with the letter M in the counties of Cluj, Szolnok-Doboka and Turda-Arieº, 1914–1917, fol. 24; Rãduþiu, 250.

56. Cronier, 84. 57. Puºcariu, 53. 58. an, sj Cluj, the collection Scrisori din Primul Rãzboi Mondial, Letters addressed to the

soldiers, D. Letters to hospitalized soldiers, 1914, fol. 163. 59. Ibid., 4, Letters addressed to the soldiers. 235. Soldiers hospitalized in Bistriþa, Cluj,

Turda, 1914, fol. 97r. 60. Ibid., 6. 311, People with surnames starting with the letter B in the counties of Cluj,

Szolnok-Doboka, Hunedoara and Turda-Arieº, 1915–1917, fol. 18r. 61. Antoine Prost, “Lo sconvolgimento della scietà,” in La prima guerra mondiale, 553.

AbstractBeing Wife and Husband during World War I: A Transylvanian Cultural Perspective

In Romanian historiography there is little research into the “lived” experience of the individuals and the couples exposed to war. The purpose of this study is to investigate the individual psycho-logical processes underlying the war experience of Romanian families in Transylvania during wwi. In this respect, we propose an innovative approach to wwi within an interpretative phenomeno-logical analysis. Data from the war correspondence and personal memories of Romanian soldiers and families during wwi revealed interesting information regarding the dynamic of mental and

paradiGMs • 27

emotional mechanisms of the couples before, during and after the war and also reflects the integra-tion of the general historical context and war experience in a personal narrative destiny. Moreover, the analysis offers important insights for understanding the war consequences regarding marriage in the Transylvanian Romanian society.

KeywordsFirst World War, Transylvania, Romanian couple, war correspondence, peasant soldiers

Elena Glavatskaya Professor at the Department of History, Institute of Humanities and Arts, Ural Federal University, Russia.

Iulia BorovikResearch fellow, Laboratory of Archaeo-graphical Studies, Ural Federal University, Russia.

Death and MarriageWorld War I Catholic Prisoners in the Urals

e l e n a G l a v a t s K a y a

i u l i a b O r O v i K

The research was sponsored by the Russian Science Foundation grant 16–18–10105 “Ethno-religious and demographic dyna mics in mountainous Eurasia around 1900: A com parison of the Urals and Scandinavia.”

Introduction

While there is an extensive historiography of captiv-ity in Russia and the Urals

region,1 our paper focuses on one as-pect of this phenomenon—the mar-riage strategies of the Catholic pows of Austro-Hungarian and German origin. The cases of Slavic Orthodox prisoners’ marriages to Russian Orthodox Church members have recently been summa-rized.2 However, the demographic be-havior of non-Orthodox pows in Russia has not been studied and their participa-tion in the demographic life in the Urals may have been underestimated.

Historically, the Urals region has been one of Russia’s multi-ethnic and multi-religious areas. Its extensive colo-nization by the Russians started in the 17th century when it became a territory (then a part of Siberia) receiving immi-grants, and Russia sent its prisoners of war there. The first groups were soldiers and officers from Sweden and Germany

German and Austrian Prisoners in Russia, photo negative, Russian Empire, c. 1915.

Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, lC-diG-ggbain-18281.

paradiGMs • 29

captured during the Northern War with Sweden (1707–1721).3 In addition, Ural metal producing plants attracted engineers and technicians as voluntary migrants from Russia’s western provinces and from abroad, making up the nucleus of Ekat-erinburg’s Catholic community. This became an established city institution in the late 19th century.

After the beginning of World War I, Perm Gubernia in the Urals, the third larg-est province in Russia, started to receive both refugees and prisoners of war, many of whom were Catholic. When the pows arrived in Ekaterinburg, the local priest, Joseph Vilkas, apparently took responsibility for them and included information on them in church books. Naturally, most of the entries registered the pows’s deaths. However, many survivors participated actively in Ekaterinburg’s demographic life, establishing families and fathering children. We have transcribed the data from St. Anna’s Catholic Church books into a database, encoded and analyzed them. This is the first paper that analyses the marriage strategies of the Catholic pows kept in Ekaterinburg between 1914 and 1919. We start with a short description of Ekater-inburg’s Catholic community and then analyze the size of the pow groups placed in the area, the conditions of their captivity, their nationality (ethnicity), death rate and marriage activity, age at marriage and preferences when choosing brides.

The History of Ekaterinburg’s Catholic Community

While there were few Catholics living in the Urals since the beginning of the 18th century, this number increased after the termination of Poland’s autonomy and the partition of its territories among the Kingdom of Prus-

sia, the Austrian Habsburg Monarchy and the Russian Empire. Its eastern territories (nowadays western Ukraine, Lithuania, and Byelorussia) with predominantly Catho-lic populations became the western provinces of the Russian Empire.

Exiled participants in the national liberation movements of the former Polish territories, including Catholic priests, were often settled in Perm Gubernia. Ekat-erinburg, being the second largest city in the gubernia, did not receive exiles, for it was excluded, due to its special status as metal producing center, from the list of territories where the political exiles were allowed to settle. However, the gradual in-tegration of Poland into the Russian economic system led to more Poles coming to the Urals on their own initiative in search of jobs. These newcomers usually settled in the cities with established Polish communities, relying on their experience and support in the process of adjusting to the new place. As a result, the existing com-munities became even larger, stronger, and more confident.

Although Russian legislation guaranteed the religious rights of Catholic citizens, the conversion to Catholicism by its Russian subjects was persecuted. Catholic men could marry Russian Orthodox women, but the weddings had to be performed by the Russian Orthodox priests and the offspring were to be baptized and brought


up in the Russian Orthodox faith. This practice, common until 1905, prevented the Catholic population’s natural growth.

The Ekaterinburg Catholic community had 143 members (90 males and 53 fe-males) in 1873 according to the Ekaterinburg City Census, and represented 0.5 per cent of the entire city’s population.4 They got permission to build a stone church in the center of Ekaterinburg in 1884. The church was consecrated as St. Anna’s and had an organ, a school, a chapel, and a hotel. Given the vastness of the territory and the number of believers, the community of Ekaterinburg received indepen-dence from the Perm Catholic parish, which consisted of five uyezds (districts): Ekaterinburg, Verkhotur’e, Kamyshlov, Shadrinsk, and Irbit. According to the First All-Russian Census, Ekaterinburg’s Catholic population had doubled by 1897, and reached 323 members: 167 males and 156 females.5 Most of them had migrated from the western parts of the Russian Empire, present-day Poland, Byelorussia, Ukraine, Lithuania, and Latvia. However, there was also a notable proportion of Catholics of local Ural-Siberian origin—the descendants of those who had arrived earlier. In addition, there were Catholics from Austria-Hungary, France, Switzer-land and Italy, employed by the Ural plants and railways, and their family members.6

The revolutionary events of 1905 and the adoption of the Decree on Strength-ening of Religious Tolerance strengthened the Russian Catholics’ status as a reli-gious community. The number of parishioners continued to grow, now also due to natural growth, and reached 1,000 in 1913. Thus, a small community of foreigners developed into an established religious institution.7

pows in the Urals: Statistics, Nationality, Ethnicity

The first group of 76 mainly Austro-Hungarian and German civilians, who had been employed in Russia for years, were detained as citizens of enemy countries and arrived in the Urals already in 1914. However, the real wave

of pows taken captive on the battlefields hit the Urals in 1915. There is no reliable and consistent statistics about the number of pows kept in the Urals, which the scholars can agree upon. Problems with registration due to World War I, the Revo-lution and the Civil War in Russia, together with administrative border changes made the estimation difficult. According to Perm Gubernia preliminary and incom-plete data, there were over 22,000 prisoners of war employed in the area’s plants and enterprises in August 1915.8 This number increased to almost 79,600 in 1917.9 To register all the pows, Russian authorities initiated an extra “Census of pows” in October 1917. They prepared instructions for the census takers and devised the by-lingual registration cards, which the pows had to fill and sign. The pows registration card contained fourteen questions: name, title, and occupation, place of capture, age, nationality and religion, among others.10 However, due to the turbulent times the plan failed in most places, including in Perm Gubernia.11

paradiGMs • 31

According to local statistics, the number of war prisoners, registered in five cit-ies/uezd (district) centers of Perm Gubernia fluctuated and reached its peak of more than 54,000 persons in 1917. After that, the pows were relocated from the Urals due to the repatriation campaign or in an effort to move them away from the Civil War battlegrounds. Ekaterinburg and its surroundings hosted the largest amount of pows in Perm Gubernia, and their number steadily increased until 1919 (see table 1).

table 1. nuMber Of war prisOners statiOned in eKaterinburG Gubernia, 1917–1919

City of registration

Date

01.1917 12.1918 03.1919 04.1919 05.1919 06.1919 07.1919

Ekaterinburg 19,332a 2,901 4,849 420b 375b 3,372 3,430

Verkhotur’e 29,564a No data 76 No data No data 125 131

Irbit 1,982a 129 1,202 763 663 1,335 1,204

Kamyshlov 3,316a 231 377 0 0 254 232

Krasnoufimsk No data No data 79 0 0 53 No data

tOtal >54,194 6,583 5,139

a Including all the pows employed in every uezds (district). b Excluding those sent out to work.source: Natal’ia V. Surzhikova, Voennyi plen v rossiiskoi provintsii (1914–1922 gg.)(Military prison-

ers in 1914–1922 Russian province) (Moscow, 2014), 122.

The pows’ nationality and religion played a significant role during their captivity, as Slavs and Romanians received preferential treatment. Their privileges included greater freedom and superior accommodation and were expected to encourage de-fection from the enemy army.12 Among the Catholic pows kept in Ekaterinburg, the majority were Austro-Hungarians, however there were also Germans, Poles, Czechs, as well as pows from Moravia and Galicia.

pows, Religion and Death

A fter russia entered World War I, the number of parishioners in St. Anne’s Church doubled due to the arrival of refugees and pows, even if not all of them retained their Catholic religion. For example, 33 former Austro-

Hungarian officers of Czech origin decided to switch to Russian Orthodoxy, and the Archbishop of Ekaterinburg performed the baptismal ritual for them in 1916.13 They likely decided to change their religion hoping to improve their living condi-tions. According to St. Anna’s Church book records, the death rate among Catholic pows was high due to scurvy and other diseases. Until 1915, the local priests regis-


tered one, maximum two deaths per year.14 In the first year after the pows arrival, father Joseph Vilkas reported 44 deaths of young Austro-Hungarian men. Then in 1917, he reported almost 80 deaths of Austro-Hungarian pows (see Figure 1). According to St. Anna’s Church book data, 224 Catholic Austro-Hungarian pows aged 19 to 46 died in Ekaterinburg, Irbit and Turinsk uezds in 1915–1919; 202 of those who died in Ekaterinburg city were buried in the local Catholic graveyard.15

fiG. 1. nuMber Of CatHOliCs wHO died in eKaterinburG, 1898–1919

0

10

20

30

40

50

60

70

80

90

1898

1899

1900

1901

1902

1903

1904

1905

1906

1907

1908

1909

1910

1911

1912

1913

1914

1915

1916

1917

1918

1919

Num

ber

of d

eath

s

Years

Austria-Hungarian/German menmen of other nationalitieswomen

source: Gaso (State Archive of Sverdlovskaia oblast’, Ekaterinburg, Russia), f. 6, op. 13, D. 12, 316.

The death rate decline among the pows after 1917 could be explained by several factors. First, there was possibly an improvement of their living conditions after the Bolsheviks proclaimed them free citizens. Some pows could have dropped their as-sociation with the Catholic Church completely or in favor of the Russian Orthodox Church, like the Czechs did, as mentioned above. Finally, the Church was separated from the State and hence was deprived of the right to register vital events.16 The very fact of pows death registration in St. Anna’s Church book allows us to assume that even if there could have been an Austro-Hungarian Catholic military chaplain among them, as was usual practice at the time,17 the Catholic pows were under the responsibility and hopefully in the care of the local priest, father Joseph Vilkas. How- ever, there are grounds for skepticism, for there was only one entry in the Church book about a burial ceremony appropriate for the case, which father Joseph Vilkas performed for the most senior pow. That person was the 39 years old Joseph Storm, Oberleutnant in the 38 Landsturm regiment. The priest reported that the Ober-leutnant had a wife and a daughter in Austria-Hungary.18

AustroMW

paradiGMs • 33

pows, Religion and Marriage

The numerous group of prisoners (4,000–5,000—the number is likely under-estimated due to registration difficulties) affected a city with a population of less than 72,000 in 1917.19 The prisoners accommodated in Ekaterinburg’s

two schools, rented rooms and a hotel apparently enjoyed a certain freedom. Some of them, Slavs and Orthodox in particular, were able to communicate with the Rus-sian citizens. Their presence in Ekaterinburg affected its demography, marked by a wartime gender imbalance with a surplus of 41,033 women over 30,454 men, and thus a lack of grooms. Already in 1916, Ekaterinburg’s public knew cases of Russian teachers secretly corresponding with and apparently dating Austro-Hungarian pow-officers of Czech origin at Tikhii Don Hotel, the place of their incarceration.20 That qualified as an offense punishable by fines or short imprisonment according to the regulations issued by the Perm Governor in July 1915. The authorities had to lift the ban on pow marriages to Russian women in mid–1917; however, this resolution was applied exclusively to pows of Slavic origin ready to apply for Russian citizen-ship. They also considered allowing marriages with non-Slavic pows in exceptional cases like pregnancy or children already born to such couples.21

While it is rather difficult to follow all the cases of pow marriages registered in the Orthodox Churches of Ekaterinburg and make reliable estimates about their fre-quency, there is no doubt that Russian women married pows.22 Several cases became known when the former pows applied for Russian citizenship or requested to return home in 1921–1922. The form they filled contained among other data information on marital status, wives and children.23

There were cases when the pows married Russian women despite being already married in Austria-Hungary. One such case was revealed in Severoural’sk city (some 400 km north of Ekaterinburg) in the late 1950s. The former Austro-Hungarian prisoner Nikolai Kostreba confessed to his family that he had another family in Austria-Hungary. Nikolai was born in 1884 and lived in Western Ukraine close to the Romanian border, then part of Austria-Hungary. He had two daughters and a son and his wife expected to have another child when he was conscripted for World War I. Nikolai was captured by the Russian troops as early as 1914 and transferred together with other pows to the Urals. He apparently lost his documents, which was quite common at the time, and got stuck in the Urals together with other unlucky fellows who could not document their foreignness after the War ended. He settled in the Peter-Paul town to the north of Ekaterinburg, worked as a smith and eventu-ally married the Russian woman Klavdia who was 20 years younger. Nikolai had children with her, survived arrest and imprisonment in 1937, was brought home in 1938 in a very poor condition, and managed to survive due to Klavdia’ nursing and good care. He lived a long life and dared to disclose details of his Austro-Hungarian past to his Russian family only in the 1950s, after Stalin’s time was over, along with the danger of punishment for having relatives abroad. Nikolai’s daughter


Faina identified his first family, corresponded with them for several years and finally visited his Romanian daughter, who was born after his conscription, in Braşov in 1982.24 Nikolai’s case could be considered as a happy ending story, but there were many pows who did not survive the “foreigner hunting” campaigns in 1937–1940. See for example the case of Fredrik Hofmann, a German-Czech shoemaker from Braunau, a former pow, who settled and married in Ekaterinburg until wwii when he was arrested, accused of being a German spy and shot in October 1941.25

While we only have occasional information on the Orthodox or Lutheran pows’ demographic behavior, the local priest in St. Anna parish carefully registered the information on Catholic prisoners of war. According to the entries in the church books, Catholic prisoners tried to establish connections with local coreligionists, and the most usual was through marriage.

While on average there were less than six marriages in St. Anna’s Church per year in 1898–1915,26 the number of weddings in 1916 increased to five times the average.27 We suspected that to be due to the pows’ arrival; however, analyses of the Church book data proved that it was mainly due to the war refugees from the Western part of Russia and Poland.

The Austro-Hungarian and German pows entered Ekaterinburg’s marriage mar-ket in 1917. Almost half (64 out of 148) of the fiancés in 1917–1919 were of Austro-Hungarian origin (see Figure 2). That can be explained by the fact that the authori-ties lifted the ban on marrying pows in 1917. When the Bolsheviks proclaimed the pows free citizens and especially after the Brest Peace Treaty in March 1918, the for-mer enemies became more confident on the city’s marriage market. The real number was likely higher due to the reasons described above in connection with the number of deaths among pows registered in the church book.

fiG. 2. nuMber Of CatHOliC MarriaGes reGistered in eKaterinburG, 1898–1919

0

10

20

30

40

50

60

70

80

1898

1899

1900

1901

1902

1903

1904

1905

1906

1907

1908

1909

1910

1911

1912

1913

1914

1915

1916

1917

1918

1919

Num

ber

of m

arria

ges

Years

all marriages Austria-Hungarians/Germans

source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, 316.

AustroA

paradiGMs • 35

Ekaterinburg Catholic Marriage Market

We can distinguish four main groups, according to the origin of the Cath-olics who registered their marriages in Ekaterinburg between 1898 and 1919. Since the pows could not possibly affect the Ekaterinburg mar-

riage market before 1916, we split the data in two periods: before and after 1916. The most numerous was the group from Russia’s western provinces; the second most numerous group came from Poland; both represented the first generation of Ural Catholics. The third largest group of foreigners consisted of Austro-Hungari-ans, Germans, Frenchmen and Swiss; and the forth group was of local Ural and Si-berian origin—the second and later generations. The first two groups had balanced sex ratios, while the number of men prevailed in the “Austro-Hungarian” group due to pows, and the number of women prevailed in the Ural-Siberian group due to men’s conscription (see table 2).

table 2. birtH plaCes Of eKaterinburG CatHOliCs Married befOre and after 1916. absOlute and relative nuMbers

Birth places1898–1915 1916–1919

Grooms Brides tOtal Grooms Brides tOtal

N % N % N % N % N % N % Western Russia 58 58 40 40 98 49 62 36 86 50 148 43

Poland 18 18 22 22 40 20 37 21 35 20 72 21Austria-Hungary/ Germany 10 10 7 7 17 8 67 39 12 7 79 23Ural and Siberia 11 11 25 25 36 18 5 3 37 21 42 12Missing data 3 3 6 6 9 5 2 1 3 2 5 1tOtal 100 100 100 100 200 100 173 100 173 100 346 100

source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 12, 316.

Due to a significant male surplus in the “Austro-Hungarian” group, their marriages could not likely be based on the grooms’ primary preference. A majority of them married either Western Russian women, or the Ural and Siberian Catholics. Likely, the local marriage market situation dictated their choice to a large degree. Catholic pows also married Lutheran and Russian Orthodox women. After the 1917 Revo-lution and the proclamation of Religious freedom, St. Anna priest Joseph Vilkas started registering such marriages. According to his data, twelve pows married Rus-sian Orthodox women,28 and one pow married a Lutheran women.29 In addition, some Catholic pows registered their marriages in St. Paul’s Lutheran Church of Ekaterinburg. According to the Lutheran Church book, there were ten Catholic30 and thirty-five Lutheran31 men of Austro-Hungarian/German origin (likely pows)


married to Lutheran women in 1916–1919. Almost all single Austro-Hungarian/German women in Ekaterinburg married pows.

St. Anna’s Church book’s data proves that the Catholics followed the traditions and restrictions of their Church not to marry during Easter and Christmas Lents. However, during World War I’s last stage, the Revolution and the Civil War, several weddings occurred in the unconventional months—March and December (see Figure 3).

fiG. 3. nuMber Of CatHOliC MarriaGes reGistered in eKaterinburG by MOntH, 1898–1919

Source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, 316.

According to the Catholic Church book data, both men’s and women’s mean ages at marriage became lower during the war. However, there was a difference depend-ing on their origin. Grooms and brides, who arrived from the West (mainly pows and refugees) started to marry at younger ages as compared with the prewar period. The change was especially significant among Austro-Hungarian pows (see Table 3).

table 3. averaGe aGe at first MarriaGe Of eKaterinburG CatHOliCs befOre and after 1916

OriginGrooms’ mean age at marriage Brides’ mean age at marriage

1898–1915 1916–1919 Difference 1898–1915 1916–1919 Difference

Western Russia, Poland 31.2 27.8 -3.4 25.7 21.7 -4

Austria-Hungary/Germany 32.3 26.8 -5.5 25.9 22.2 -3.7

Ural and Siberia 25.5 28 +2.5 20.9 21.7 +0.8

Missing data 31 34 20.6 27

tOtal 30.6 27.5 -3.1 24.5 21.9 -2.6

source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, 316.

0

5

10

15

20

25

30

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Num

ber

of m

arria

ges

Months

1898–1915 1916–1919

paradiGMs • 37

At the same time, the Ural and Siberian Catholic grooms’ and brides’ mean age at marriage increased, as the young Ural-Siberian Catholics had to postpone their mar-riage because of conscription. That allowed the more senior men to join the marriage market. The Ural and Siberian women, who had to postpone marriage because of the war, as well as the widows, got a chance to establish a family with the refugees from the western provinces and pows after 1916 (see Figure 4).

fiG. 4. OriGin Of GrOOMs fOr eKaterinburG CatHOliC ural/siberian brides, 1898–1919

49%

43%

8%

Western Russia/PolandAustria-Hungary/GermanyUral/Siberia

source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, 316.

It seems that the Austro-Hungarian and German pows were quite popular on the marriage market in Ekaterinburg: twenty-five out of their sixty brides were 21 years old (the mean age at marriage) or younger. Two of the brides were only 16 years old. The only case of possible mésalliance was 29 years old Leon Iks from Western Prussia, who married the 39 years old widow Mikhalina. Her “advanced” age for a bride was an exception (see Figure 5).


fiG. 5. aGes Of tHe pOws’ brides in eKaterinburG, 1898–1919

0123456789

10

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24* 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39*

Num

ber

of b

rides

Age

a One widow included.source: Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, 316.

Conclusions

EkaterinburG was one of the Russian cities receiving prisoners of World War I and had a numerous group of captured Austro-Hungarian officers and soldiers, reaching a maximum of five thousand. Many of them, especial-

ly ethnic Slavs and members of the Orthodox Church stationed in the city, enjoyed certain freedoms and had contacts with the local population. As to the Catholic pows, they were taken care of by the priest of St. Anna parish, who included them in his flock. The high mortality rate among the pows forced them to search for ways out of their miserable state and some found it by marrying. Some apparently man-aged to get around the Perm governor’s official ban on marriages of Russian women with pows already in 1916 by registering the marriage in St. Anna’s Catholic church. However, it was only in 1917 that the former pows really entered Ekaterinburg’s marriage market. The Catholic pows registered their marriages in St. Anna’s Church between 1916 and 1919, until the secular offices took over the registration of vital events from the Church. Thus, despite their former status, the pows participated in the city’s demographic life during the War.

On the basis of St. Anna’s Church book records, we may conclude that the ma-jority of the Catholics, who married in St. Anna’s Parish in Ekaterinburg, migrated from the western parts of the Russian Empire, including Poland. This first genera-tion of immigrants had balanced sex ratios. In distinction, the local Ural-Siberian Catholics—a second generation of immigrants—had a significant surplus of females due to wartime. The pows marriage strategies depended on the population structure

a a

paradiGMs • 39

and state policy towards religions and was heavily influenced by World War I. While the Catholic Austro-Hungarian pows were quite popular on the Ekaterinburg mar-riage market, their marriage was often a survival strategy; they married younger and were ready to establish ethnically and even religiously exogamous families.

q

Notes

1. See the selected bibliography in: Reinhard Nachtigal and Lena Radauer, “Prisoners of War (Russian Empire),” Encyclopedia (1914–1918), http://encyclopedia.1914-1918- on-line.net/article/prisoners_of_war_russian_empire, accessed 20 January 2016; for more complete bibliography see: Natal’ia V. Surzhikova, Voennyi plen v rossiiskoi provintsii (1914–1922 gg.) (Moscow, 2014), 374–408.

2. Natal’ia V. Surzhikova, “‘Teper’ za muzhei poshli v modu Avstriitsy…’: Plen, liubov’ i moral’ v Rossiiskoi provintsii 1914–1917 gg.,” Rodina 8 (2014): 137–138.

3. Elena Glavatskaya and Gunnar Thorvaldsen, “Sibirskii Vavilon: shvedskie uzniki v nachale XVIII v..” Quaestio Rossica 4 (2015): 215–241.

4. Results of Ekaterinburg City Day Census of 26 March 1873 published in: Gorod Ekater-inburg: sbornik istoriko-statisticheskikh i spravochnykh svedenii (Ekaterinburg, 1889), 60–61.

5. N. A. Troinitskii, ed., Pervaia vseobshchaia perepis’ naseleniia Rossiiskoi imperii, 1897 g. (First All-Russian Census, 1897) (Sankt Petersburg, 1904), 92.

6. State Archive of Sverdlovskaia oblast’, Ekaterinburg, Russia (hereafter cited as Gaso), f. 6., op. 13, D. 12.

7. For a more detailed history of the Ekaterinburg Catholic community see: Elena Glavatskaya, “‘…V ves’ma iziashchnom, goticheskom stile’: Istoriia katolicheskoi tradit-sii na Srednem Urale do serediny 1930-kh gg.,” Gosudarstvo, Tserkov’, religiia v Rossii i za rubezhom 2 (2015): 218–238. Elena Glavatskaya, Julia Borovik, and Alexandr Bobitskii, “Katoliki Ekaterinburga v kontse XIX–nachale XX v. v materialakh perepisei i metrich-eskikh knig,” Izvestiia Ural’skogo Federal’nogo universiteta 18, 3 (154): 68–85.

8. Surzhikova, Voennyi plen, 87. 9. Ibid., 114. 10. pows Registration card, Gaso, f. 24, op.20, D. 2819, l. 38. 11. Natal’ia V. Surzhikova, “Voennoplennye Pervoi mirovoi voiny na Urale: K rekonstruktsii

kollektivnogo portreta,” Vestnik Permskogo 3 (2011): 58. 12. Nachtigal and Radauer. 13. Glavatskaya, “‘…V ves’ma iziashchnom, goticheskom stile,’” 229. 14. St. Anna’s Church book “on dead” (1898–1917), Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 12. 15. St. Anna’s Church books “on the dead” (1898–1917), Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 12, l.

42–49 v, 50 v–52, 53–58 v, 59 v–62, 64–64 v, 65 v.–70; St. Anna’s Church books “on the dead” (1918–1919), Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 316, l. 10–20 v, 22–26, 27–31 v.

16. Anna Korkodinova, Elena Glavatskaya and Iulia Borovik, “Brachnye strategii liuteran Ekaterinburga po materialam metricheskikh knig tserkvi sv. Petra (1892–1919 gody),” in Tserkov’. Bogoslovie. Istoriia: materialy IV Mezhdunarodnoi nauchno-bogoslovskoi konfer-entsii (Ekaterinburg, 2016), 166–173.


17. See for example: Ionela Zaharia, “Romanian Military Priests from Austria-Hungary on the Italian Front during World War I,” Transylvanian Review 23, 4 (2014): 43–53.

18. St. Anna’s Church book ‘on the dead’, Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 12, l. 56 v. 19. A. V. Chashchin, “Rol’ migratsii v formirovanii chislennosti naseleniia Ekaterinburga

(Sverdlovska) v 1897–1939,” in Dialog kul’tur i tsivilizatsii: Materialy X Vserossiiskoi nauchnoi konferentsii molodykh istorikov (Tobol’sk, 2009), 114–115.

20. Surzhikova, “‘Teper’ za muzhei poshli v modu Avstriitsy,” 137–138. 21. Ibid. 22. Surzhikova, “Voennoplennye,” 62. 23. Gaso, f. 511r, op. 1, D. 358, l. 309–310, 346, 357, 376–377. 24. The interview with Nikolai Kostreba’ daughter Faina was collected in 2011 and pub-

lished in: Irina Smirnova and Elena Glavatskaya, Tserkov’ Sviatykh apostolov Petra i Pavla v Severoural’ske: stranitsy istorii khrama (Ekaterinburg, 2014), 61–65.

25. Natal’ia V. Surzhikova, “Biografiia plena i plen biografii: Istoriia nemetskogo sapozhnika Fridrikha Gofmana,” Rodina 11 (2015): 120–121.

26. St. Anna’s Church book “on marriages” (1898–1919), Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 13, l. 1–39 v. 27. Ibid., l. 40–67. 28. Ibid., l. 37 v, 57 v, 61, 62 v, 63, 64, 64 v, 65–66v, 67 v. 29. Ibid., l. 64 v. 30. St. Peter’s Lutheran Church book 1886–1917, Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 6, l. 42v–43, 45

v–46, 59 v–60; St. Anna’s Catholic Church book “on marriage and death” (1917–1919), D. 316, l. 2 v–3, 3 v–4, 4 v–5, 6 v–7, 7 v–8.

31. St. Peter’s Lutheran Church book 1886–1917, Gaso, f. 6, op. 13, D. 6, l. 35 v–41, 41 v–47; St. Anna’s Catholic Church book “on marriage and death” (1917–1919), D. 316, l. 1 v–3.

AbstractDeath and Marriage: World War I Catholic Prisoners in the Urals

The paper focuses on World War I Catholic prisoners kept in the Urals in 1915–1919: their numbers, nationality, mortality and marriage strategies. The multi-ethnic and multi-religious Urals, along with Siberia, was a territory where Russia had systematically sent prisoners of war and in addition received voluntary migrants from the west. During World War I, the Urals received both refugees and prisoners of war, many of whom were Catholic. Their vital events were registered in Ekaterinburg church books, which we have transcribed into a database and analyzed. Our main finding is that religious affiliation played an important role for the pows’ demographic behavior. We argue that the Catholic pows not only joined the marriage market of Ekaterinburg in 1916, but also influenced the city’s demography.

KeywordsUral Catholics, First World War, church books, prisoners of war, mortality, marriage strategies

Daniela MârzaSenior researcher at the Center for Tran-sylvanian Studies of Romanian Academy, Cluj-Napoca. Author, among others, of the book Învãþãmânt românesc în Transilvania (Romanian education in Transylvania) (2011).

The Ravages of WarRomanian Schools in Transylvania (1914–1919)d a n i e l a M â r z a

The Romanian elite consi-dered that schools had to provide not only knowledge, but also a religious and patriotic education, in the sense of love for the Romanian nation.

Given its magnitude and implica-tions, it could be argued that the Great War was conducted not only in the trenches and on the battlefields. The life of those who remained at home was deeply disturbed in many ways. One such consequence concerns the activity of schools, which suffered many changes during the great conflagration.

This paper aims to present the situa-tion of Romanian schools in Transylvania during World War I. As sources we used press articles, yearbooks, and memoirs.

Until the First World War, the Roma-nian schools in Transylvania were mostly denominational (primary and secondary), under the patronage of the Orthodox and Greek Catholic Church, respectively. Their activity was affected in several ways:

• the departure to the front of a signifi-cant number of teachers and profes-sors, as well as of many students from the secondary schools—many of them never returned home, giving their lives on the battlefields;

• the conversion of school buildings into military hospitals or barracks for soldiers;

• the impoverishment of the popula-tion, which prevented many children from going to school;


• the increased pressure, from the Hungarian state authorities, towards Magyarization;• the involvement of teachers and students in many charitable activities for the

benefit of soldiers.

Naturally, durinG these times social life was dominated by a gloomy atmo-sphere. The general standard of living greatly declined due to disturbances in the economy: in addition to the costs of the war, the economy suffered

from the departure of the men—the labor force—to the front. The price of food and commodities increased, causing the impoverishment of the population.

In this context, it became impossible for many families to keep the children in school. School authorities were seeking solutions to help students come to class and to limit, as much as they could, the damage caused to education by the war. For the benefit of students in secondary schools, wealthier people often organized public collections of money and other goods. They did not remain indifferent but, each according to his resources, sent food, clothes, firewood, etc., giving a beautiful example of solidarity in those hard times.1

For a while, people were convinced that the war would not last much longer than two or three months, “until the leaves fall” or “until the first snowflakes.”2 Gradu-ally, they became aware that the event had become unpredictable, and that no one could know how long it would last, or what the damages might be.

Quite relevant, in this case, is the warning addressed to parents in 1918 by the headmaster of the Gymnasium of Blaj, during the enrollment in the new school year: parents were asked to consider carefully whether they were able to support their children for eight years in school, because the system of scholarships, which had helped hundreds of students to attend school for decades, was worth almost nothing those days. The amount of money that had once paid for a whole year of boarding for a student was presently sufficient for only one month. Parents were encouraged to direct their children towards more practical careers, such as crafts and trade, rather than towards the intellectual ones.3

Back then, society was dominated by the call to make savings and maximize the use of household resources, and also to show solidarity in farm work, to compensate for the absence of men.

One of the biggest problems the schools faced was the lack of teachers, who had gone to war. The total number of mobilized teachers is unknown, as there are only partial statistics available. For example, at the end of 1914, 63% of teachers from the Archdiocese of Alba Iulia and Fãgãraş (Greek Catholic) were mobilized. Their number would grow in the following years. Orthodox schools were suffering to an equal ex-tent. As reported by Roman Ciorogariu, the then headmaster of the Theological Insti-tute in Arad, most villages were left without teachers, “prey to brutalization”; the local priests replaced them as best they could, but they could not cope with this big task.4

Already at the beginning of 1915 many schools were facing this issue, having been left without teachers. This created considerable concern for both the ecclesias-

paradiGMs • 43

tical authorities and those of the state, because of thousands of children no longer had access to education. This loss was felt especially in winter, normally the season with the highest school attendance (because the children’s help with farm work was less necessary, their parents sent them to school more often than at other times of the year). To limit the long-term damage caused by this situation, the minister of education decided to grant exemptions wherever teachers could not be replaced. On the other hand, the priests, as school headmasters, were ordered by the ecclesiastical authorities to take over the duties of teachers. Gradually, as the war lengthened and the difficulties increased, these measures were only partially applied.5

The same applies to the Greek Catholic schools, where parish priests were urged, as school headmasters, to do everything possible for their schools, replacing the de-parted teachers themselves or turning to the retired ones. These priests also received the salaries of the teachers they were replacing.

Some teachers fulfilled their duties even on the battlefield, as shown by the ex-ample of a young teacher, Ilie Urs. He said: “It’s been seven weeks since we’ve ar-rived on the battlefield, and God has been helping me to survive. For a long time, we were in a forest; there I had no work to do, so I looked for five illiterate people, I explained to them the alphabet, and now they thank me, very glad that they can read prayer books.”6

Because of their training, teachers were, in a way, leaders even on the battlefield, where they acted as more than mere soldiers: “They have replaced the peaceful weapons of education with Mannlicher rifles, and their clothes with the military uniform. They are on the front. The trenches are the new school buildings for them, where they enthusiastically fulfill their duty. Through songs, poems, and speeches, they keep up the morale and the heroism of soldiers. They encourage their comrades in battles, and often die together with them.”7

Some teachers and professors never returned home, giving their lives on the front. Just a few months after the beginning of the war, the Romanian high school in Braºov had lost three of its teachers.

Not only the teachers were mobilized, but also the students from higher classes (high schools). According to statistics from 1917, for example, 191 students from the Gymnasium and 149 students from the Pedagogical Institute had been con-scripted since the beginning of the war.

This situation was worsened by the shortening of the courses, which ended ear-lier in summer and started later in autumn. Also, some of the holidays were elimi-nated. In the autumn of 1918, due to uncertainties created by the war, traffic dis-turbances caused by soldiers returning from the battlefield, and the outbreak of the Spanish flu, schools started classes late and in an erratic fashion.

Many schools were forced to give up their buildings, which were converted into military hospitals, warehouses, or barracks. Some examples in this respect are pro-vided by the schools of Blaj, one of the most important centers of Romanian educa-tion in Transylvania. The first is the Gymnasium. During the first year of the war,


the school’s gym and a large part of the schoolyard were taken over by “war work-ers” and building materials; although they left after a few months, the building was severely damaged, and could not be used throughout the 1915–1916 academic year. In the summer of 1917, the Gymnasium building itself was requisitioned in order to house a military hospital.

Because of the general price increase and shortages, living conditions became very difficult. A good example is the bread crisis of 1915, which made the Con-sistory (the high school ecclesiastical authority) provide all the students with free home-baked bread.

These events affected the students’ state of mind: “Nervousness and concern were present, especially in the senior classes, and a lack of appetite for study.”8

Due to the proximity of the front in September 1916, the management of the Gymnasium and the teachers fled to Oradea, together with the metropolitan bishop and his staff, and the Theological Seminary. The Gymnasium teachers returned to Blaj only in November, when they were able to start the courses.9

The situation of the Gymnasium worsened towards the end of the war, in the summer of 1918, when the minister of education, in exchange for the state financial aid, imposed very harsh conditions: teaching certain classes in Hungarian, the right to appoint five teachers, the partial Magyarization of the school administration and teaching in Hungarian for the Hungarian students of the school. The school board refused these conditions, accepting the loss of the state financial aid. The military and political events that followed put an end to this situation.10

Like all the other schools, the Pedagogical Institute of Blaj was also affected by the war: in the summer of 1917, the school building was occupied by a military hos-pital, restricting the space available for classes to a small building. The minister of education appointed a commissioner to the Károly Keszler Institute, the headmas-ter of the Pedagogical Institute in Sighet, to watch over the students’ patriotism.11 Commissioners were appointed to all the Romanian educational institutes. In Sibiu, for example, the official was Endre Barabás, headmaster of the State Pedagogical Institute in Deva, who said that “the minister of education gave me an important mission. I will be commissioner to the Romanian Pedagogical Institute of Sibiu. There I will live. Everyday I will visit the school and I will control the teaching. I speak Romanian well, and if I shall find abuses, by virtue of the authority invested in me by the government, I shall proceed with the utmost rigor. I have the right to sus-pend the unpatriotic teachers, and even to close the Institute.” It must be mentioned here that the term “patriot” meant in this case devotion to the Hungarian state.

The girls’ school in Blaj was also severely impacted by the Great War. In 1916, because of the refuge in Oradea, the classes began with a delay of almost two months. In addition, following the ministerial order, they had finished a month earlier in the summer. The girls also suffered because of the shortages affecting the entire society: continuously increasing prices, the difficulty in obtaining food and other necessary products, etc.12

paradiGMs • 45

In the summer of 1917, the school buildings housed a military hospital, which once again delayed the beginning of the school year (the school board had to rent other buildings and move the institution); many of the teachers were conscripted (Mihail Şerban and Aurel B. Gajia as military chaplain, Vasile Hâncu, professor of hygiene, as a military doctor); therefore, the school board was forced to reduce the number of classes. Because of the lack of fuel, the Christmas holiday was extended by one week, by ministerial order.

The situation of the schools was worsened, as we have already seen, by political pressure. For decades, a fierce battle was conducted between the leadership of the Romanian schools and the state authorities—the latter trying by all means to impose conditions to the non-Hungarian schools of Transylvania, conditions referring to the Hungarian language and the curricula. In 1917, this control over schools was tightened by the then minister of education, Count Albert Apponyi.

Thus, in July 1917, by his authority, a so-called Hungarian cultural zone was es-tablished, which included the counties of Caraº-Severin, Hunedoara, Sibiu, Fãgãraº and Braºov, in order to “protect the citizens of Hungary from any hostile outside influence” (after the failed military offensive in Transylvania and Banat of the army of the Kingdom of Romania, in August–September 1916). All Romanian schools in this territory were nationalized as punishment, because some of the Romanian priests and teachers where not only disloyal to the Hungarian state, but had frat-ernized with the “enemy” when it crossed the mountains in August 1916. For this measure to be more effective, the state financial aid previously received by these schools was suspended, leaving their upkeep only at the expense of local communi-ties, impoverished by war. Through these measures, the minister hoped that the state could take over those denominational schools that could not be supported (as a result, over 300 Romanian schools were closed).

These measures were complemented by the introduction of so-called patriotism classes, held in Cluj, for teachers of the denominational nationalized schools, who went there to learn loyalty to the state.

This situation lasted until the autumn of 1918, when these measures were can-celed by the new minister of education, Martin Lovaszy, who, moreover, granted to the non-Hungarian schools the right to use their own language. These measures in favor of the rights of nationalities, for which the Romanian elite had fought for decades, came too late: the Austro-Hungarian monarchy was already on the verge of collapsing.

Despite the difficult times, the teachers made great efforts to ensure a nor-mal academic life for their students. Some schools organized regular trips, theater performances, and poetry recitals.13

Together with the people of Blaj, the students from the School for Girls were also involved in various charitable activities initiated by the state, meant to improve the lives not only of the soldiers on the front, but also of those directly impacted by


the war. Thus, during a fundraiser “at the commemoration of the heroes dead on the battlefield,” the girls raised 103.30 crowns (Austro-Hungarian currency). The money went to the “Office for the reconstruction of homes destroyed by the war”; on 17 December 1917, the local branch of the Red Cross Society held a charitable music performance in the school, attended by 136 pupils, during which 86 crowns were collected. In addition, on several occasions the girls made warm clothes for the soldiers on the frontline.

Despite the hardships of those times, the school board tried, wherever possible, to ensure its proper functioning, especially since the crisis years had not led to a decrease in the number of female students. Therefore, since the buildings in which classes were held did not offer conditions for physical education activities, the teach-ers organized walks around the city with the students (the hill above the “Volcano,” the Cross Hill in Berc). On this occasion, “gymnastics and social games” took place as well; also, the students benefited from lessons at the Natural History Museum and the Botanical Garden.14

The teachers who were left at home, sometimes together with the pupils from the Gymnasium, were constantly involved in actions meant to help the soldiers on the front. Through charitable organizations such as the one called The Sacrifice of the Romanian Teachers, they conducted public fundraisers, for clothing and prayer books. These actions were often initiated by the state, but had a wide echo among the teachers.

The situation of the Romanian schools in Transylvania was a delicate issue for decades on end. Being mostly denominational schools, they were closely associated with the church, Orthodox or Greek Catholic, respectively. The Romanian elite considered that schools had to provide not only knowledge, but also a religious and patriotic education, in the sense of love for the Romanian nation. Romanian schools, both primary and secondary, had been the target of a constant offensive by the Hungarian state, which conducted a policy of homogenization towards Mag-yarization. During the war, the Romanian elite had to declare their patriotism to-wards the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, hoping that, in return for the sacrifices made by the Romanian nation in Transylvania, it would be granted the right to freely administer the Romanian schools. However, the events occurred at the end of 1918 and the inclusion of Transylvania into Romania would change this situation.

As for the everyday activity of Romanian schools during the war, there was a constant concern from their leaders to keep them running. Despite the difficult times, they always sought to ensure that children received at least a minimum of primary education. These efforts paid off especially in the secondary schools: despite the mate-rial deprivations and the loss of some of the teachers and of the students, they were able to ensure the continuity of education. From a certain point of view, this can be considered a wartime victory, even if it was not obtained on the battlefield.

q

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Notes

1. Foaia diecezanã (Caransebeº) 46 (1917): 1. 2. Cosânzeana (Orãºtie) 3 (1915): 18. 3. Unirea (Blaj) 44 (1918): 3. 4. Roman Ciorogariu, Zile trãite (Oradea, 1994), 45. 5. Unirea 9 (1915): 1. 6. Ibid., 3 (1915): 4. 7. Ibid., 125 (1915): 3. 8. Anuarul Institutelor de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1915-1916 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1916), 69–71. 9. Anuarul Institutelor de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1916-1917 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1917): 47–50. 10. Anuarul Institutelor de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1917-1918 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1918): 34–35. 11. Anuarul Institutelor de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1917-1918 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1918): 31–32. 12. Raport despre institutele de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1916-1917 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1917): 75–76. 13. Raport despre institutele de învãþãmânt greco-catolice din Balázsfalva (Blaj) pe anul şcolastic

1917-1918 (Balázsfalva/Blaj, 1918): 55–59. 14. Ibid.

AbstractThe Ravages of War: Romanian Schools in Transylvania (1914–1919)

The scale of World War I profoundly affected, at all levels, the states involved. Social and cultural life suffered enormously. This paper analyzes the situation of Romanian school education in Tran-sylvania during the Great War. It considers how the hardships of daily life affected school atten-dance by children and the very functioning of schools. It was obviously a time of great indigence, not only because of the enormous price increases for food and other products. The conscription of the men had a strong negative impact on society, affecting household functionality and hence the living standards. A major issue was the conscription of teachers and professors, creating an unstable situation with a strong impact on education. The sources used for this paper are the Romanian press in Transylvania, memoirs, and archival documents. This study aims to show how Romanian school authorities coped with these challenges in an attempt to keep the schools open, wherever possible.

KeywordsFirst World War, Romanian schools, Transylvania, Blaj, teachers, pupils

Mircea-Gheorghe AbrudanPostdoctoral researcher at the Faculty of History and Philosophy, Babeº-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca. Authors, among others, of the book Ortodoxie ºi lutera-nism în Transilvania între Revo luþia paºoptistã ºi Marea Unire: Evoluþie is-toricã ºi relaþii confesionale (Orthodoxy and Lutheranism in Transylvania between the Revolution of 1848 and the Great Union: Historical evolution and interde-nominational relations) (2015).

World War I in the Memories of the Transylvanian Saxons

M i r C e a -G H e O r G H e a b r u d a n

This work was possible due to the finan-cial support of the Sectorial Operational Program for Human Resources Develop-ment 2007–2013, co-financed by the Euro-pean Social Fund, under the project num-ber posdru/159/1.5/s/132400 with the title “Young successful researchers—professional development in an international and inter-disciplinary environment.”

Over the past few years, against the background of commemorative events marking a century since the out-break of World War I, a large number of historians in the country and abroad have focused their attention on this event of great magnitude, out of a de-sire to retrieve new dimensions of and perspectives on “The Great War” (“La Grande Guerre,” “der Große Krieg”) and to make them accessible not only to historiographers, but also to the public at large, seeking an active recon-stitution of this historical watershed, as it has been preserved in the col-lective memory of Europeans to this day. By and large, inter-, pluri- and trans-disciplinary approaches to this phenomenon, primarily from the van-tage point of cultural history, prevail and dominate European historiographical discourse: its representatives abandoned,

In their writings, the Tran-sylvanian Saxons conveyed their own perspective on their personal, first-hand experience.

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decades ago, factual or event history, based largely on the analysis and interpretation of political-diplomatic and military sources, and channeled their attention toward exploring the social, economic, cultural and demographic impact of the war and the human dimensions it activated, launching projects of recovering and valorizing new or previously insufficiently exploited sources.1 As fundamental sources for the cul-tural history of World War I, memoirs and the species pertaining to the memoiristic genre (diaries, memories, recollections, autobiographies and correspondence) rep-resent a topic of great interest to contemporary researchers, given their capacity to retrieve both individual and collective destinies/mentalities from the mists of time.2 On the other hand, especially in the Romanian space, the importance of the genre also stems from the fact that the beginnings of a historiography of the Great War are found and must be sought in memoirs.3

This study presents a synthetic overview of part of the results I have obtained in a post-doctoral research project which has focused, in part, on identifying and analyz-ing the Transylvanian Saxons’ memoirs about World War I. Reference will be made, with brief illustrations, to the content of both published works, which saw the light of print mainly in periodicals, and unpublished works, identified in the rich collection of documents preserved at Brukenthal—as part of the Sibiu County Branch of the Na-tional Archives—and in the archive of the Transylvanian Institute in Gundelsheim (Germany). These writings were authored by Saxon memoirists from Transylvania during the war, in its immediate aftermath and in the interwar period. Among these memoirists, there were certain differences as regards their social, professional and educational backgrounds: the authors of these war-related autobiographies, mem-oirs, memories and diaries included peasants, workers, teachers, officers, lawyers, members of the Evangelical clergy and journalists.

Transylvanian Saxons4—the German minority in Transylvania which, according to its own estimates, comprised 230,697 inhabitants on 31 December 19105—ex-perienced euphoria at the outbreak of the war. Their sense of loyalty and duty to the sovereign in Vienna was doubled by their national filiation, as well as by their strong belief in the invincibility of the German Empire, which they regarded as their true “Motherland” (Mutterland) and the benchmark of European states. Mobilization was carried out against a highly sentimental background and was supported by the elites, whose representatives were hoping for a swift victory of the Central Powers. This explains the population’s prompt response to the call to arms launched by the emperor, conscription being reinforced by high numbers of volunteers and by dona-tions in money, agricultural products and assets for the war loans.6

The protracted military operations, Romania’s entry into war and the opening of the Transylvanian front,7 which included mostly the regions inhabited by the Saxons, had a considerable psychological impact on this community. The emerging state of insecurity and panic generated a refugee phenomenon, in the sense that there occurred a massive evacuation of both the elites and the common people towards areas that were under lesser threat from the frontline. The victory of the Entente and the Tran-


sylvanian Saxons’ burning aspiration to preserve their own identity within the newly created political framework led, in January 1919, to the adoption of the well-known Mediaş Proclamation, which acknowledged the Saxons’ adherence to the Union of Transylvania with Romania.8

The Saxons’ participation in Austria-Hungary’s war effort and the impact of the global conflagration on the small German-speaking community in Transylvania are only known in very broad lines, as the only information in this respect was provided by Bishop Friedrich Teutsch9 in a few pages of his works about the history of Tran-sylvanian Saxons and the history of the Evangelical Church in Transylvania. Teutsch briefly outlined the casualties and the requisitions suffered by the Saxon nation dur-ing the war, emphasizing its social, economic and humanitarian contributions to the war effort and showing that the unexpectedly long protraction of the war had proved extremely burdensome for his fellow nationals: the 37,533 soldiers who had been sent to the front represented no less than 16% of the total Saxon popula-tion. The number of individuals who had lost their lives by the end of the war was presented as follows: of the 37,533 people who had enlisted in the army, 10,343 received military distinctions thanks to their bravery on the battlefields, 3,532 died in the theaters of war, 1,318 were reported missing, 4,779 were injured, 1,449 re-turned home as invalids, 4,840 became prisoners of war, 1,865 Saxon women took on the robe of widowhood and 4,346 children were orphaned. Besides these human sacrifices, the Saxons’ material effort amounted to 3 million korona, excluding the damage incurred during the armed confrontations that took place in Transylvania in the months of August and September 1916, these battles having also caused the evacuation of 30,000 Saxons from the affected areas.10

Like other nations that had been forced by the major European powers to wage a war of attrition in the trenches, many representatives of the Saxon elites (generals) or middle classes (priests, teachers, lawyers, civil servants), who had fought on the front and returned to their homes, published their memoirs, campaign diaries and the let-ters they had sent from the front, either during the years of armed conflict or in those following the end of hostilities. In their writings, they conveyed their own perspec-tive on their personal, first-hand experience from the terrible years of armed confron-tations, on the various deprivations they had endured, on the plagues and epidemics they had been faced with, and on the horrors and terrors they had witnessed in those extreme moments of life, in the immediate presence of the final frontier: death.

Situated at the crossroads between professional historical writing and the liter-ary genre of the memoir is a very interesting book, which, despite being intensely popularized among the Saxons at the time of its publication (it had three succes-sive editions over the course of a single year, 1917, all the copies having been sold by early 1918),11 is little known of and exploited in scholarly literature. This is a work consisting of 14 memoiristic articles, edited by Emil Sigerus12 under the title From the Romanians’ Time: A Book of Remembrance about Those Tempestuous Days.13

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The volume is a testimony from that epoch about the way in which 13 influential opinion leaders from the Saxon society (Bishop Friedrich Teutsch, Evangelical pas-tors, teachers, lawyers, writers and two pastors’ wives) perceived the period of the “Romanian occupation” or of the armed confrontations between the Romanian and the German-Austro-Hungarian forces in Transylvania. The very first sentence of the introduction, signed by the editor of the collection on 24 November 1917, emphasized the fact that “this book is a volume of remembrance, of memories about a terrible period of time!” Sigerus went on to evoke the fears, anxieties, dangers and the dramatic atmosphere experienced by the Saxon population during the months of August and September 1916, when, after two years of ongoing warfare, “its de-structive maelstrom also engulfed our country from the east.” Even though more than a year had passed since these events, the writer insisted that “they have become deeply entrenched in our minds,” readers now having the opportunity to acquire more in-depth knowledge about the experiences and destinies of his fellow nationals from the bygone days of fear and terror, as well as about those “never to be forgot-ten deeds of benefaction to our Saxon people, who were exposed to so many ordeals during that time.” At the end of his introduction, Sigerus mentioned that the funds raised through the sale of this book would be distributed to the war widows and orphans of the Saxon nation. He also admitted that because of the shortage of paper and printing materials, he had been forced to make a selection of the texts received for publication, expressing his hope that under more favorable future circumstances, a revised and complete further edition could see the light of print.14 Besides the edi-tor’s introduction, two patriotic poems and a sorrowful poem of longing, signed by Josef Lehrer, the volume includes five texts that recall the “Romanian period” in Braşov, Râşnov, Codlea, Cisnãdie and Cincu Mare, six texts that describe the generalized mayhem and the exodus of the Saxons away from the frontline or the atmosphere surrounding their return home, and two others, signed by the journal-ist Viktor Zyske and Bishop Friedrich Teutsch, which present the situation of the Saxon refugees in Budapest and, respectively, of the “national Church during the days of the Romanian invasion.”

While discussing military events, tragedies and horrors that could have occurred in any war theater and would be rightly condemned by any rational human being, the tone of the articles and the orientation of the volume were overtly anti-Roma-nian. Conclusive statements such as “the Phantom of Greater Romania has been dispelled forever”15 or “Let the dream of all-encompassing Romanian glory remain forever a dream and nothing more”16 revealed the surfacing of older antagonisms between the Romanians and the Saxons, especially in the area of the former “Royal Land,”17 but also signaled the fact that the contributors to the volume had assumed the slogans and clichés commonly used and disseminated by the propaganda of the Central Powers18 against the belligerent states and nations that had coagulated on the other side of the barricade.19


The category of memoirs about the Romanian military invasion and occupation and about the Transylvanian front includes three other texts: one was published in the 1918 issue of Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes, while the other two are unpublished texts, preserved in the Brukenthal Collection of the National Archives in Sibiu. The former text was written by the Sibiu-based historian and journalist Georg Adolf Schuller (1862–1939), under the title “Two Images from the First Romanian Days,”20 while the other two were authored by Major Adolf Reiner, who completed his memories about the “Defense and Evacuation of Sibiu in September 1916” on 2 May 191721 and, respectively, by the civilian Ferdinand J. Roth, who, five years after the events, recalled the atmosphere in Fãgãraş under the title: “My Memories from the Time of the Romanians, from 27 August to 7 October 1916.”22 These texts provide valuable details about the daily life of the population behind the front, the exodus of civilians away from the frontline, the Romanian and the Ger-man military maneuvers in the Sibiu and Fãgãraş areas, and the personal experiences of the authors and their families in the maelstrom of these events.

The most comprehensive memoirs, aiming to provide an all-encompassing overview of the war, belong to one of the “heroes” fighting on the fronts of the Central Powers, General Arthur Arz von Straussenburg, the “winner

in the Battles of Limonova and Brest-Litovsk,” as he was eulogized in an article published in Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes in 1917.23 The general was born in Sibiu on 16 June 1857, in an old family of Saxon patricians, whose roots went down to the 16th century and which had given the Saxon nation six generations of well-known Evangelical pastors, numerous tradesmen, politicians, lawyers and officers; two of the general’s great-grandfathers had been knighted by the Court of Vienna in the years 1701 and 1743, the title being confirmed under the Im-perial Diploma of 31 May 1835, granted to his grandfather, Martin Samuel von Straussenburg (1798–1851). After studying legal sciences in Sibiu and Dresden, Arthur Arz von Straussenburg enrolled in the military school in Vienna, which he graduated in 1887. He served as a senior officer in various command positions with the Austro-Hungarian General Staff and the Ministry of War in Vienna. His military career continued its upward course during World War I, the command positions he filled and the military missions he successfully accomplished propelling him among the leaders of the Austro-Hungarian Imperial-Royal Army. Thus, fol-lowing his military success in the battles that were waged on the Galician front and Romania’s entry into war in August 1916, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the new Austro-Hungarian 1st Army in Transylvania. Straussenburg recounted, in dismay, that on his arrival at the headquarters of this army, located inside the main building of Francis Joseph University in Cluj,24 he was like an “army chief without an army,” as his fighting units actually had a far lower capacity compared with the Romanian forces; hence, faced with the Romanian invasion, he had no

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other choice but to manage an organized retreat, until the arrival in Transylvania of the reinforcements promised by the Austro-Hungarian and the German Gen-eral Staffs. His actions in Transylvania, the situation of the warring armies, the evolution of the front and the atmosphere among the Transylvanian civilians are described in detail by Straussenburg in a chapter, suggestively entitled “In Transyl-vania,” from his first book of memoirs about the war.25 Following the discharge of Conrad von Hötzendorf,26 Emperor Charles I (1916–1918, known in the memoirs of the Transylvanian Romanians as King Charles IV of Hungary), promoted Arz von Straussenburg, on 1 March 1917, to the position of Chief of the General Staff of the Danubian Monarchy,27 a dignity that he would maintain until the end of the war and the dissolution of the Dual Monarchy.28 Involved at the highest level in the military strategy of the General Staff of the Dual Monarchy, the Transylvanian Arz von Straussenburg was, in fact, the representative of the Saxon nation who not only occupied the highest military position in the Austro-Hungarian Army and in the Ministry of War in Vienna, but who can also be considered, alongside Baron Samuel von Brukenthal (1721–1803), as the Transylvanian Saxon who was granted the highest political credit by the sovereigns in Vienna, reaching one of the most prominent and prestigious hierarchical positions in the Habsburg Monarchy. His personal experiences, supplemented with information extracted from official docu-ments and from his private or secret correspondence with various political leaders and military commanders, were synthesized by the general in two massive volumes published in Vienna in 1924 and 1934.

Suggestively entitled On the History of the Great War 1914–1918: The Notes of Colonel General Arz,29 the first volume has, from the very beginning, a strong mem-oiristic character and it is dedicated by the general to “my brave comrades in arms and my faithful collaborators from the good and the hard days of the World War, 1914–1918. May these pages contribute to keeping awake the memory of the brave old army.” Moreover, in the short foreword of the book, von Straussenburg indi-cated quite clearly that this volume of “notes” was not intended as “a history of the war,” but as a sum of “contributions to the history of the war,” based on his per-sonal notes and drafts from the time of the conflagration, which was also the reason why he had preserved the descriptive style of a diary in this work. Amounting to nearly four hundred pages, the volume is divided into two parts. The first part is subdivided into five chapters dedicated to his life before the war and to the military campaigns in Galicia and Transylvania during the first two years of the war, while the second part provides a retrospective overview of the years 1917–1918 from his vantage point as head of the Austro-Hungarian General Staff, a position he had oc-cupied since 1 March 1917. Thus, while the first part insists on details referring to his military actions, to the movements, composition, equipment, supplies and short-ages of the military units he commanded, to the situation in the immediate proxim-ity of the front, and to the way in which everyday life unfolded in the dangerous war


zones, the second part offers a more general description of the situation on all the fronts where the Austro-Hungarian troops fought, paying particular attention to the events that had taken place both on the national political stage (with emphasis on the diplomatic actions undertaken by Emperor Charles I and the political-mili-tary circles around him for concluding the peace) and on the international one (with numerous insightful comments on the social and political transformations in Russia, the administration of the territories conquered in Italy and Ukraine, the signing of the Peace of Buftea with Romania, and the evolution of events on the Italian, Balkan and Western fronts. The last chapters outline Straussenburg’s outlook on the mili-tary and political collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. The events recalled include the internal centrifugal movements, the peace offer of the allies, Emperor Charles I’s political manifesto of October 1918, the conclusion of the armistice and, under the suggestive title “the last days in Schönbrunn,” the abdication of the sover-eign, the demobilization of the army and the birth of the national states, successors to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. Praise is brought to the brave army, which could not be blamed, in his opinion, for the final political outcome. The recollection of events concludes with an epilogue referring to the former sovereign’s unsuccess-ful attempts to take over power in Budapest, followed by his exile and death on the Portuguese island of Madeira in 1922.

The second volume, entitled The Battle and Fall of Empires,30 was completed in October 1934, one year before his death. By publishing this new, more condensed book, which combined the genres of historical narrative and memoir, General von Straussenburg wanted to mark the twenty years that had passed since the outbreak of the Great War. Like the preceding volume, it was dedicated to his comrades in arms and to maintaining alive the memory of the heroic deeds committed by the Imperial-Royal Army. However, unlike the previous text, this volume was enriched with numerous depictions of the main political and military leaders of the Central Powers, being divided into two distinct parts: the first section is historical and the second contains memoirs. The historical section is divided into four chapters, dedi-cated to each of the war years and preceded by a more extensive introduction. This introductory section presents the causes that led to the outbreak of the war and the way in which the events unfolded. The text illustrates the personality of Emperor Francis Joseph I and discusses the causes that led to the outbreak of the war, the Balkan problem, the consequences of the attack on Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne,31 the von Schlieffen military plan32 and the first days of armed clashes. The same methodology of clear statement and argumen-tation is employed in the chapters devoted to the years of the war, which address both the major military battles waged on all the fronts and the political events that occurred in the belligerent countries. In the second part, entitled “Memories and Addenda,” von Straussenburg started by evoking a series of political and military Austrian personalities from the time of the war and went on to talk about his mili-tary activity on the battlefronts of Galicia, the Carpathians and Transylvania and his

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leadership of the General Staff in Vienna. Finally, he discussed a series of “questions and answers about the Austro-Hungarian offensive from the summer of 1918,” expressing some thoughts in commemoration of the army he had led, an army that, as von Straussenburg emphasized, “cannot be blamed for the disintegration of the monarchy,” because its troops had fought bravely, protecting the frontiers of the state and also advancing deep into enemy territory. This explains why in the very last sentence of the volume, the general insistently stated that the memory of this army deserved to be honored.

Much like his German, French, British, American and Romanian counterparts, Arthur Arz von Straussenburg wrote, in these two volumes, not only pages of per-sonal history in relation to World War I, illustrating autobiographical memory as one of the foremost military actors in the events occurring on the Eastern Front and in the chancellery of the General Staff in Vienna. He also contributed significantly to the consolidation of the knowledge about the military and political history of this period of global conflagration, not only through his numerous evocative and detailed descriptions of the situation on the Eastern Front and its hinterlands, but also through the documentary sources (telegraphic dispatches, telegrams, letters, military plans) he reproduced. As a work that belongs equally to the genre of the memoir and to traditional historiography, Arz von Straussenburg’s memories are relevant for understanding the history of World War I in the area of Central-Eastern and Southeast Europe.

The same category of war memoirs includes an entire series of shorter or longer texts, written by former military men or civilians who were Transylvanian Saxons. These texts were published either in the Saxon periodicals of that time, with subse-quent reprints of these excerpts, or in volumes of varying lengths. In terms of the content of these memoirs, they can be divided into three groups: 1) texts charting a comprehensive overview of the combatants’ experiences in the war; 2) texts present-ing the memories of soldiers who were captured by the enemy on the front, being deported to different areas on the territory of the Entente Powers; and 3) texts drafted by non-conscripted civilians in Transylvania.

The first group of texts outlined above stands out through the richness of the information conveyed in four memoirs, two published and two unpublished. The first I would like to discuss was published in the editions of the years 1916, 1917 and 1918 of Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes, under the title “Diary of the World War.” Its author, Colonel Wilhelm Teutsch, belonged to the famous Teutsch family of Saxon bishops, being the younger son of Georg Daniel and the brother of Friedrich Teutsch. Having retired in 1911 with the rank of colonel, after a military career in the 31st Honved Regiment, Wilhelm Teutsch enlisted as a volunteer in September 1914, at the age of 56, and was assigned by the military command in Sibiu to the 63rd and, then, to the 82nd Infantry Regiments, with which he fought on the fronts of Galicia in the years 1914–1916. His diary consists of daily chrono-logical notes from the years 1914–1917 about the events he experienced personally


and about the most important events on other fronts in the Balkans, in Romania and in the West. The text is accompanied by a rich illustrative material, compris-ing portraits of Austro-German military and political figures, military sketches and plans, and panoramic overviews of the battlefronts. His approach to the war-related phenomena he describes is strongly positivistic and, occasionally, downright propa-gandistic: the text brings excessive praise to the heroism, victories and successes of the Central Powers’ armies, betraying the author’s intention of imparting a message of encouragement and hope for a happy ending to the readers, which explains its publication in the Saxon almanac, but considerably diminishes its documentary and informational value.33

The following text is simply entitled War Memories and was written by Paul Eder, being published by Bishop Friedrich Teutsch, at the author’s personal behest, in the late 1920s. Eder, whose biographical trajectory was quite interesting (he was the nephew of Georg Daniel Teutsch, a lawyer, adviser to the statistical department of the Ruling Council), has remained virtually unknown in historiography. His memoirs convey his personal insights into the situation of the Bukovinian front from the years 1914–1916, exploring the conditions in the Hungarian hospitals and the impact of Emperor Francis Joseph’s death on the soldiers and the officers of the Honved Army.34

Another text that deserves special attention and presentation is the unpublished war diary of the Saxon historian and man of culture Otto Folberth (1896–1991)35, recently mentioned by Horst Schuller in the pages of the Munich-based scientific journal Spiegelungen, edited by the Institute for German Culture and History in Southeast Europe.36 Consisting of 58 notebooks, each of which contains 25–30 pages, the manuscript of Folberth’s diary is preserved in the archives of the Sieben-bürgen-Institut in Gundelsheim, Germany, and includes the diary entries written by the author throughout his entire life, from the early age of 14 years to the patriar-chal age of a little over 90 years. Nine of the 58 notebooks of the young Lieutenant Otto Folberth’s diary, from the period July 1915–September 1918, filled in while he was stationed on the Eastern Front of the great conflagration, are gathered under the title “My Participation in World War I.”37 Accompanied by photos from that period and by military and campaign sketches, Folberth’s notes represent a still un-published source that refers not so much to military scenes as such, but to the lives of the soldiers and civilians from behind the front and from its immediate proxim-ity. The young lieutenant addresses political, military, ideological, philosophical, religious, social and anthropological topics, which he develops by using quotations from his private correspondence, as well as from his comrades’ letters, from official dispatches, from discussions with civilians (Ukrainians, Poles or Hungarians), but also with the enemy, from anonymous army poems and songs, or from texts and stories that he passes through his own psychological and emotional filter. In addi-tion to the facts and events it depicts, Folberth’s diary impresses the reader with its profound rhetorical interrogations referring to the “madness of war,” the desire for

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peace, the destruction and death that war wrought among people, the illusions of military heroism, the last moments in the lives of anonymous suffering soldiers.38 The publication of this war diary in the future will certainly lead to a rediscovery and a recalibration of the image of this war, seen and assessed through the eyes of a twenty years-old Saxon lieutenant, who wrote about his everyday experiences in the heat of the moment, his reflections being thus protected from the polishing interfer-ences that are inherent in any post-event descriptive effort.

The next unpublished text, entitled “The War Diary of a General Staff Officer from the Years 1914–1918,” was written by the Saxon Lieutenant-Colonel Carl Poppi from Sibiu, an officer of the Austro-Hungarian Army in Transylvania. Com-pleted by the author on 1 May 1933 and donated to Brukenthal Museum in Sibiu, the diary is preserved today in the rich Brukenthal documentary collection of the Sibiu County Branch of the National Archives.39 The text was compiled based on the notes taken by the officer during moments of respite during the war, being subsequently enriched “with accuracy” from memory, so that the text might be of service “to myself and to posterity” in reconstituting and commemorating the facts, the events and the combatants of the Great War. Unlike the diaries of Wilhelm Teutsch, Paul Eder and Otto Folberth, whose narratives have a chronological, day-by-day thread, Poppi’s diary consists of several parts which are independent from one another and contain descriptions of military operations, sketches of battlefields, telegraphic dispatches, telegrams, letters and secret reports circulating between the author and the various military commanders or members of the General Staff of the 3rd and 4th Austro-Hungarian Armies on the Eastern Front. The officer’s diary also contains a series of annexes, which include twenty-five truly hilarious humorous texts, entitled “war jokes,” invented by the lieutenant-colonel’s comrades in arms and subordinates from various regiments of the Austro-Hungarian Army. Most of these jokes made ironic reference to and ridiculed the enemy; hence, their role was to brighten the sullen faces and relax the troubled minds of the combatants engaged in this war of attrition in the trenches. Another major difference between the diary written by Carl Poppi and those drafted by Teutsch, Eder and Folberth is the style of expression and the quality of language. Whereas in the case of the latter two, the discourse is refined, interspersed with genuine literary tropes and devices that enrich and embellish these texts, Poppi’s linguistic style is poor, technical, even arid at times, betraying, on the one hand, his flimsy humanistic educational background and, on the other hand, a propensity for quoting various sources and an inability to escape the constraints of the military lexicon.

The second group includes the majority of memoiristic texts. Among these, perhaps the most spectacular is the volume written by the schoolmaster Friedrich Georg Wagner, entitled In Siberian Captivity: The Experiences and

Memories of a Saxon Schoolmaster from the Years 1914–1920.40 In the three hundred pages of this text, the author, who was a non-commissioned officer in one of the


line battalions of the 3rd Austro-Hungarian Army on the Galician front, described how he had been taken prisoner after a minor injury on 18 October 1914, being deported by the Russians and interned in several prison camps in Siberia, east of Lake Baikal, where he spent five and a half years. On his return to Transylvania in the spring of 1920, with a “Romanian legion,”41 Wagner recounted the battles he had taken part in, focusing on moments of everyday military life, the hardships endured by the masses and the destinies of anonymous soldiers who fought in the front line. The novelty and the exoticism of this schoolmaster’s experiences were highlighted by the ecclesiastical periodical of the national Saxon Church, Kirchliche Blätter, which, in late December 1922, reviewed and welcomed the publication of the book, recommending it for reading on winter evenings.42

The same category of “exotic” memoirs also includes the following less extensive works: the text authored by Michael Walesch, a teacher from Cisnãdie, and entitled Memories of a Difficult Period 1914–1918,43 Gustav Welzer’s “My Experiences in Rus-sian Captivity”44 and Ein Rothberger’s “On My Four-Year Russian Captivity.”45 All these memoirs convey the equally tragic and “exotic” experiences of Transylvanian Saxons who were taken prisoner on the Galician front and were deported to the banks of the Volga River and beyond the Urals, in the steppes of Siberia, on the shores of the Caspian Sea and of the lakes surrounding Tashkent, the present-day capital of Uzbekistan. Their autobiographical notes abound in suggestive images and descriptions of geographical areas that most of their fellow citizens back home had never heard of or could hardly imagine or visualize.

Less exotic, but belonging to the same literary genre that recounted similar des-tinies, were the memories of the Lutheran pastor Engel Misch gathered under the title The Experiences of a Saxon Pastor in Romanian Civil Captivity46 and the recollec-tions of Otto Mangesius entitled “On My Captivity in Sicily,”47 both published in popular Saxon periodicals: Landwirtschaftliche Blätter in Siebenbürgen and, respec-tively, Deutsche Tagespost.

The third group comprises a series of memoiristic texts authored by different Transylvanian Saxons, who wrote their memoirs towards the end of their lives, fo-cusing on their individual and collective experiences during the four years of World War I. Two of these texts have retained my attention, given the richness and unique-ness of the information they provide about the course of events in their social, urban and rural environments. The first is the autobiographical work authored by the mayor of Braşov, Ernst Karl Schnell, entitled On My Life: Memories of Times Old and New, published in the city at the foot of Tâmpa Mountain in 1934.48 In these memories, Mayor Schnell confirms the plans of the Hungarian Government and the strategy of the Saxon political leaders to change the ethnic and confessional configu-ration of Transylvania at the end of the war, acknowledging that during the global conflagration, the Saxon Bank in Braşov, Kronstädter Allgemeine Sparkasse,49 had been involved in a vast program of purchasing land along the Olt Valley in the Land

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of Fãgãraş, where Lutheran Germans, brought from the south of Russia, were to be later colonized.50 The second text that deserves attention is the diary of the peas-ant composer Carl Reich from Cârþa, a village on the banks of the River Olt where the ruins of the famous 13th-century Cistercian monastery are located.51 Entitled How War Came Upon Us, Too,52 the text is written in the form of a chronicle of the village of Cârþa. Reich’s diary describes the tumultuous rural life of the Saxons and the Romanians in the village during the months of August through October 1916, integrating this period of turbulence within a chronicle of Cârþa during the period 1905–1930.

Belonging to same memoiristic genre, the last category of sources we should mention is war correspondence, “still insufficiently exploited in the Romanian his-toriography dedicated to the Great War,” as Professor Ioan Bolovan has recently highlighted in his book on Transylvania during World War I.53 Epistolary exchang-es, telegrams and postcards were the soldiers’ sole means of communicating from the front with the people back home and the only source of information for the civilians on the “home front” about the combatants in the trenches. Even though the correspondence passed through the hands of the employees of the War Censor-ship Office, which monitored the flow of incoming and outgoing information on the front, these letters and postcards represent a generous source of knowledge on the situation of the soldiers on the frontline and of their relatives back home, as well as for understanding these collective mentalities. War correspondence began to be published in the pages of Saxon periodicals in Transylvania during the years of armed confrontations. Moreover, the volume Transylvanian Saxons in the World War. Festive Letters and Sketches of the War was published in Vienna in 1916.54 Not-withstanding all this, the vast majority of the sources of this kind are still unpub-lished, being preserved in the section entitled “Memories of World War I: Letters and Postcards of the Saxon Soldiers 1914–1918,” part of the Brukenthal Collection of documents at the Sibiu County Branch of the National Archives, where they are awaiting their potential editors.55

In conclusion, I must emphasize that any assessment of memoirs in general and, as the present case suggests, of Saxon memoirs in particular is a difficult undertak-ing, because each and every title in the categories outlined above brings into discus-sion a different destiny, presenting the narrative of a unique—individual or collec-tive—life, revealing various facets of human beings in the context of war, discussing the myriad avatars of human personality at the time of armed confrontations, both on the front and behind the lines, and conveying a diverse array of aspects and per-ceptions related to what has remained entrenched in the memory of humanity as “The Great War.”

q(Translated by Carmen-VeroniCa BorBély)


Notes

1. On the historiography of the war, see Petra Ernst, Sabine A. Haring, and Werner Suppanz, eds., Aggression und Katharsis: Der Erste Weltkrieg im Diskurs der Moderne (Vi-enna: Passagen Verlag, 2004); Jay Winter and Antoine Prost, The Great War in History: Debates and Controversies, 1914 to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Toader Nicoarã, “Istoriografia ‘Marelui Rãzboi’: de la istoria politico-diplomat-icã la noua istorie culturalã,” in Rãzboiul ºi societatea în secolul XX/Guerra e società nel XX secolo, eds. Gheorghe Mândrescu and Giordano Altarozzi (Cluj-Napoca–Rome: Accent, 2007), 34–44.

2. Nicolae Bocşan and Valeriu Leu, “Memorialişti români din Banat despre Marele Rãzboi: Motivaþia redactãrii scrierilor,” in Primul Rãzboi Mondial: perspectivã istoricã şi istoriograficã/ World War I: A Historical and Historiographical Perspective, eds. Ioan Bolovan, Gheorghe Cojocaru, and Oana Mihaela Tãmaş (Cluj-Napoca: Academia Românã, Centrul de Studii Transilvane/Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2015), 42.

3. Valeriu Leu, “Memorialistica româneascã din Banat referitoare la Primul Rãzboi Mon-dial şi la Unirea din 1918,” in Marele Rãzboi în memoria bãnãþeanã (1914–1919), antho-logy, edition, studies and notes by Valeriu Leu and Nicolae Bocşan (Cluj-Napoca: Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2012), 12.

4. On the history of Transylvanian Saxons, see Michael Kroner, Geschichte der Siebenbürger Sachsen, 2 vol. (Nuremberg: Verlag Haus der Heimat, 2007–2008).

5. Friedrich Teutsch, Die Siebenbürger Sachsen in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (Leipzig: Verlag von K. F. Roehler, 1916), 350.

6. For details concerning the attitude of the Saxon ecclesiastical elite towards the outbreak of war and the actions undertaken in the community during the first months of the war, see: Mircea-Gheorghe Abrudan, “Atitudinea conducerii Bisericii Evanghelice din Tran-silvania faþã de izbucnirea Primului Rãzboi Mondial,” in Sebeş, timp regãsit… Lucrãrile Conferinþei “100 de ani de la declanşarea Primului Rãzboi Mondial: Contribuþia sebeşenilor la rãzboi şi Marea Unire” (5 decembrie 2014), ed. Rodica Groza (Sebeş: Emma Books, 2014), 65–82.

7. On the Romanian Kingdom’s participation in the war, see the very good study written by American historian Glenn E. Torrey, The Romanian Battlefront in World War I (Law-rence: Kansas University Press, 2011).

8. For details about the Saxons’ adherence to the union with Romania and about the conference held in Mediaş, see Vasile Ciobanu, Contribuþii la cunoaşterea istoriei saşilor transilvãneni 1918–1944 (Sibiu: Hora, 2001), 29–67; id., Germanii din România în anii 1918–1919 (Sibiu: Honterus, 2013).

9. He was born in Sighişoara in 1852, in the family of Georg Daniel Teutsch, who was headmaster of the Saxon Evangelical Gymnasium in that town. He studied theology and history at Heidelberg, Leipzig and Berlin. From 1906 to 1930, he was bishop of the Evangelical Church of Augustan Confession in Transylvania. After the Great Union, he was elected senator in the Bucharest Parliament and became a titular member of the Romanian Academy. He is considered the most prolific 20th-century historian of the Saxons, his bibliography totaling 1,351 titles. He passed away in Sibiu in 1933. For bibliographical details, see Rudolf Spek, “Bibliographie Friedrich Teutsch,” Archiv des Vereins für siebenbürgische Landeskunde, n.s., 47 (Hermannstadt, 1933): 81–125; Karl

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Kurt Klein, “Sachsenbischof Friedrich Teutsch,” Südostdeutsche Heimatblätter (Munich, 1953): 5–18; Eduard Eisenburger, “Friedrich Teutsch,” in Taten und Gestalten: Bilder aus der Vergangenheit der Rumäniendeutschen, ed. Dieter Drotleff, vol. 2 (Hermannstadt: Hora Verlag), 116–119.

10. Friedrich Teutsch, Geschichte der evangelischen Kirche, vol. 2, 1700–1917 (Hermannstadt: W. Krafft Verlag, 1922), 587–615; id., Die Siebenbürger Sachsen in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, second expanded edition (Hermannstadt: W. Krafft Verlag), 1924, 280–287.

11. Cf. Hermann Hienz, “Bücherkunde zur Volks- und Heimatforschung der Siebenbürger Sachsen: Zweite, erweiterte Auflage der ‘Quellen zur Volks- und Heimatkunde der Sie-benbürger Sachsen,’” Buchreihe der südostdeutschen historischen Kommission 5 (Munich: Verlag R. Oldenbourg, 1960): 60.

12. Emil Sigerus (1854–1947) was an ethnographer, a collector, a historian and a publicist. He was born in Sibiu in the family of Senator Karl Sigerus. For a period, he followed the profession of bookseller; then he dedicated himself to collecting folklore and folk tradi-tions. In 1885, he founded the Carpathian Museum in Sibiu, based on his own collection of about 500 objects, especially pitchers, plates, tin vessels and textiles. He was also one of the founding members of the Transylvanian Carpathian Association. For a while, he was editor of the Sibiu-based daily Siebenbürgisch-Deutsches Tageblatt. For details, see Brigitte Stephani, ed., Emil Sigerus: Volkskundliche und kunstgeschichtliche Schriften (Bu-charest: Kriterion, 1977).

13. Emil Sigerus, ed., Aus der Rumänenzeit: Ein Gedenkbuch an sturmbewegte Tage. Zugunsten der siebenbürgisch-sächsischen Kriegswitwen und–weisen (Hermannstadt: Druck und Verlag von Joseph Drotleff, 1917).

14. Emil Sigerus, “Zur Einleitung,” in Aus der Rumänenzeit, 3–4. 15. Wilhelm Morres, “Kronstadt und Großrumänien,” in Aus der Rumänenzeit, 122. 16. G. Lander, “Die Rumänenzeit in Rosenau,” in Aus der Rumänenzeit, 142. 17. The phrase designates the territorial entity constituted under the Diploma Andreanum

(1224), which included the Transylvanian geographical area bounded by the Mureş River to the north, by the Olt River to the south, by the village of Drãuşeni to the east and by the town of Orãştie to the west. The German colonists who came to Transyl-vania in the 12th and 13th centuries settled on this territory, subsequently organizing it into specific structures. The territory included larger or smaller settlements, inhabited by Romanians, Saxons and Szeklers, and it enjoyed a broad autonomy, but only the Saxons or the followers of the Evangelical confession had the right of citizenship. The area was under the legal administration of the Saxon University, with the headquarters in Sibiu; it operated as a political and administrative division led by the Saxon comes up until 1876, when the Budapest authorities decided to dismantle this entity and to restructure entire Transylvania from an administrative perspective, by applying the traditional Hungarian model. Walter Myß, ed., Lexikon der Siebenbürger Sachsen (Thaur bei Innsbruck: Wort und Welt Verlag, 1993), 424.

18. For details on the war propaganda of the Central Powers, see Ulrike Oppelt, Film und Propaganda im Ersten Weltkrieg: Propaganda als Medienrealität im Aktualitäten- und Dokumentarfilm (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002); Eberhard Demm, Ostpolitik und Propaganda im Ersten Weltkrieg (Frankfurt am Main–Vienna: Peter Lang, 2002); Klaus-Jürgen Bremm, Propaganda im Ersten Weltkrieg (Darmstadt: Theiss Verlag, 2013);


Elisabeth Buxbaum, Des Kaisers Literaten: Kriegspropaganda zwischen 1914 und 1918 (Vi-enna: Eduard Steinbauer Verlag, 2014).

19. On the dissemination channels and the instruments used for this propaganda, see Tudor Valentin Neamþu, “Propagandã şi cenzurã în Transilvania ‘Marelui Rãzboi,’” in Scrieri pe alese: Lucrãrile Conferinþei Naþionale O filã de istorie: om, societate, culturã în secolele XVII–XXI, eds. Anamaria Macavei and Roxana Dorina Pop (Cluj-Napoca: Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2012), 353–368.

20. G. A. Schuller, “Zwei Bilder aus den erstem Rumänentagen,” in Kalender des Sieben-bürger Volksfreundes für das gemeine Jahr 1918 (Hermannstadt: Verlag und Druck von Jos. Drotleff, 1918), 135–147.

21. Adolf Reiner, “Verteidigung und Evakuirung von Nagyszeben (Hermannstadt) im Sep-tember 1916,” in the Sibiu County Branch of the National Archives (hereafter cited as sjsan), Brukenthal Collection, Inv. 106, L. 1–8, doc. 123.

22. Ferdinand J. Roth, “Meine Rückerrinnerung aus der Rumänenzeit vom 27. August bis 7. October 1916,” in sjsan, Brukenthal Collection, Inv. 106, L. 1–8, doc. 132.

23. “Arthur Arz von Straußenburg, der Sieger von Limanova und Brest-Litowsk,” in Kalen-der des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes für das Jahr 1917 (Hermannstadt: Verlag und Druck von Jos. Drotleff, 1917), 75–78.

24. For details about this academic institution, see ed. Ovidiu Ghitta, Istoria Universitãþii “Babeş-Bolyai” (Cluj-Napoca: Mega, 2012).

25. Zur Geschichte des grossen Krieges 1914–1918: Aufzeichnungen von Generaloberst Arz (Vi-enna–Leipzig–Munich: Rikola Verlag, 1924), 102–120.

26. He was Chief of the Austro-Hungarian General Staff from 1903 until 1916. After the war, he wrote his memoirs, publishing them under two titles: Mein Anfang 1878–1882 and Aus mein Dienstzeit 1906–1918, in five volumes. For more information about Conrad von Hötzendorf, see Wolfram Dornik, “Des Kaisers Falke: Wirken und Nach-Wirken von Franz Conrad von Hötzendorf,” postface by Verena Moritz and Hannes Leidinger, in Veröffentlichungen des Ludwig Boltzmann-Instituts für Kriegsfolgen-Forschung 25 (Inns-bruck-Vienna: Studien Verlag, 2013).

27. Wiener Zeitung 51 (4 March 1917): 1. 28. Arzisches Stammbuch, in sjsan, Brukenthal Collection, Inv. 111, 1–5, doc. 151; “Arthur Frei-

herr Arz von Straussenburg,” in Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes für das Schaltjahr 1928 59 (Hermannstadt: Druck und Verlag der Krafft & Joseph Drotleff, 1928), 103–110.

29. Zur Geschichte des grossen Krieges 1914–1918: Aufzeichnungen von Generaloberst Arz, 397. 30. Generaloberst Arthur Baron Arz, Kampf und Sturz der Kaiserreiche (Vienna–Leipzig:

Johannes Günther Verlag, 1935), 253. 31. Jean-Paul Bled, François-Ferdinand d’Autriche (Paris: Tallandier, 2012); id., Franz

Ferdinand: der eigensinnige Thronfolger, trans. Susanna Grabmayr and Marie-Therese Pit-ner (Vienna–Cologne–Weimar: Böhlau Verlag, 2013).

32. Named after Count Alfred von Schlieffen (1833–1913), this was the strategic plan adopted by the German General Staff. It was drafted at the beginning of the 20th century and concerned the possibility that the Reich might be forced to fight on two fronts, against France and Russia. The plan was based on exploiting the advantage derived from the different speeds at which the three countries could prepare for war. In short, the plan was intended to avoid a war on two fronts, through an initial concentration of the Ger-man troops in the west, the rapid defeat of the French and then, if necessary, the rapid

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transportation of the troops by train to the east, so as to face the Russians before they could reach full mobilization. For details, see Terence Zuber, Inventing the Schlieffen Plan: German War Planning, 1871–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).

33. Wilhelm Teutsch, “Weltkriegstagebuch,” in Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes für das Jahr 1917 (Hermannstadt: Verlag und Druck von Jos. Drotleff, 1917), 158–188; Wilhelm Teutsch, “Weltkriegstagebuch,” in Kalender des Siebenbürger Volksfreundes für das Jahr 1918 (Hermannstadt: Verlag und Druck von Jos. Drotleff, 1918), 149–172.

34. Paul Eder, Kriegserinnerungen: Aus dem Nachlaß herausgegeben mit Unterstützung der Sie-benbürgisch-deutschen Verlags-Aktiengesellschaft (Hermannstadt: Kommissions-Verlag und Druck von der Honterus-Buchdruckerei, n.d.), 236.

35. Born in Mediaş on 10 July 1896, he earned a prominent place in the cultural history of the Transylvanian Saxons thanks to his strenuous efforts to publish the complete works of Stephan Ludwig Roth, the Lutheran pastor who lost his life in the 1848 Revolution, but who had achieved recognition in Transylvanian culture for his work The Language Struggle in Transylvania. In this text, he advocated the equal rights of the three Transyl-vanian languages, Hungarian, German and Romanian, stating that the latter was spo-ken by all the inhabitants of Transylvania. Folberth passed away at the venerable age of 96. On his bibliography, see Hermann A. Hienz, Schriftsteller-Lexikon der Siebenbürger Deutschen: Bio-Bibliographisches Handbuch für Wissenschaft, Dichtung und Publizistik. vol. 6, D–G (Cologne–Weimar–Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 1998), 93–139.

36. Horst Schuller, “Selbstzeugnis und Zeitdokument. Die als Quelle noch nicht genutzten Kriegstagebücher Otto Folberths,” Spiegelungen: Zeitschrift für deutsche Kultur und Ge-schichte Südosteuropas 7, 61 (2012): 279–294.

37. For details on the evolution of this front, see: Norman Stone, The Eastern Front, 1914–1917 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1975).

38. The typed version of Folberth’s journal can be accessed in electronic format on the web-site of the Transylvanian Institute in Gundelsheim: http://siebenbuergen-institut.de/de/special-menu/span-stylecolor000000-text-decorationunderlinee-transylvanicaspan/die-tagebuecher-von-otto-folberth/, accessed on 17 September 2015.

39. Carl Poppi, “Das Kriegstagebuch eines Generalstabsoffiziers aus den Jahren 1914–1918,” in sjsan, Brukenthal Collection, Inv. 83, Lit. B. 6–9, doc. 299.

40. Friedrich Georg Wagner, In sibirischer Kriegsgefangenschaft. Erlebnisse und Erinnerungen aus den Jahren 1914–1920 (Hermannstadt: W. Krafft, 1922), 296.

41. For details on these troops, see Ioan I. ªerban, Voluntarii transilvãneni şi bucovineni din Rusia în rãzboiul pentru întregirea neamului (Alba-Iulia: Aeternitas, 2003).

42. Kirchliche Blätter (Hermannstadt) 14, 51 (21 December 1922): 422. 43. Michael Walesch, Erinnerungen aus schwerer Zeit 1914–1918: Sonderabdruck aus “Heltau-

er Nachrichtenblatt” (Hermannstadt: Honterusbuchruckerei und Verlagsanstalt, 1936). 44. Gustav Welzer, “Meine Erlebnisse in russischer Kriegsgefangenschaft,” Sächsisch-Re g ner

Nachrichten 6–8, 1921, apud Hermann Hienz, Bücherkunde zur Volks- und Heimat-forschung, 61.

45. Ein Rothberger, “Aus meiner vierjährigen russischen Kriegsgefangenschaft,” Land-wirtschaftliche Blätter in Siebenbürgen (Hermannstadt, 1919), 133–134, 141–142, 163–166, apud Hermann Hienz, Bücherkunde zur Volks- und Heimatforschung, 61.

46. Misch Engel, Erlebnisse eines sächsischen Pfarrers in rumänischer Zivilgefangeschaft, Sonder-abdruck aus der Landwirtschaftlichen Blätter (Hermannstadt: W. Krafft, 1918).


47. Otto Mangesius, “Aus meiner Kriegsgefangenschaft aus Sizilien,” Deutsche Tagespost: Allgemeine Volkszeitung für das Deutschtum in Großrumänien (Hermannstadt) 243 (10 November 1920): 1–2; Deutsche Tagespost (Hermannstadt) 244 (11 November 1920): 1–2.

48. Ernst Karl Schnell, Aus meinem Leben: Erinnerungen aus alter und neuer Zeit (Kronstadt: Verlag der Markusdruckerei, 1934), 247.

49. For details on the history of this institution, see Mãriuca Radu, “‘Kronstädter Allge-meine Sparkasse’ prima bancã din Braşov şi din Transilvania,” Þara Bârsei (Braşov), n.s., 3 (2004): 89–94.

50. Ibid., 91, n. 8. For details on these plans, see Gábor Egry, “Debates on Colonization Plans among the Transsylvanian Saxon during the First World War,” in Mişcãri de popu-laþie şi aspecte demografice în România în prima jumãtate a secolului XX: Lucrãrile Confer-inþei internaþionale “Mişcãri de populaþie în Transilvania în timpul celor douã rãzboaie mon-diale,” Cluj-Napoca, 24–27 mai 2006, eds. Sorina Paula Bolovan, Ioan Bolovan, Rudolf Gräf, and Corneliu Pãdurean (Cluj-Napoca: Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2007), 57–69.

51. Michael Thalgott, “Die Zisterzienser von Kerz. Zusammenhänge,” in Veröffentlichungen des Südostdeutschen Kulturwerks, B, Wissenschaftliche Arbeiten 50 (Munich: Verlag Südost-deutsches Kulturwerk, 1990).

52. Carl Reich, Wie der Krieg auch zu uns kam. Tagebuch 1916 + Kerzer Chronik, Schriften, Briefe, ed. Friedrich Schuster (Sibiu/Hermannstadt: Honterus Verlag, 2011).

53. Ioan Bolovan, Primul Rãzboi Mondial şi realitãþile demografice din Transilvania: familie, mo-ralitate şi raporturi de gen (Cluj-Napoca: Şcoala Ardeleanã, 2015), 95–123.

54. Adolf Höhr, Siebenbürger Sachsen im Weltkrieg: Festbriefe und Kriegsskizzen. Mit Geleitwort vom Geheimrat Prof. Dr. R. Gucken in Jena (Vienna: Seidl und Sohn, 1916).

55. “Amintiri din Primul Rãzboi Mondial. Scrisori şi cãrþi poştale ale soldaþilor saşi 1914–1918,” in sjsan, Brukenthal Collection, Inv. 122, Lit. U. 1–7, doc. 3, 4, 5 and 6.

Abstract World War I in the Memories of the Transylvanian Saxons

As fundamental sources for the cultural history of World War I, memoirs and the species pertain-ing to the memoiristic genre (diaries, memories, recollections, autobiographies and correspon-dence) have long represented a topic of great interest to researchers, given the capacity of such writings to retrieve both individual and collective destinies/mentalities from the mists of time. For Romanian scholars, in particular, the importance of the genre also stems from the fact that the beginnings of the historiography of the Great War are to be found in memoirs. This study pres-ents a synthetic overview of the Transylvanian Saxons’ memoirs about World War I. The sources reviewed include longer or shorter published texts, as well as unpublished material which has been identified in the rich collection of documents preserved at the National Archives in Sibiu and in the archive of the Transylvanian Institute in Gundelsheim, Germany.

Keywords First World War, Transylvania, collective and individual memory, war memories, war diaries

Mirela Popa-AndreiSenior researcher at George Bariþiu In-stitute of History, Romanian Academy, Cluj-Napoca. Authors, among others, of the book La graniþa Imperiului: Vicar-iatul greco-catolic al Rodnei in a doua jumãtate a secolului al XIX-lea (On the border of the Empire: The Greek-Catholic Vicarage of Rodna during the second half of the 19th century) (2006).

The Literature of War —A New Perspective Case Study: Romanian War Diaries (1914–1916)

M i r e l a p O p a -a n d r e i

“You have scolded us enough, Lord! May you give our earthly rulers good thoughts and have them make peace, and not be heedless of our lives...” (Nicolae Avram)

This work was supported by a grant of the Ro-manian National Authority for Scientific Re-search and Innovation, cncs-uefiscdi, project number pn-ii-ru-te-2014-4-0363.

Research on the complex pheno-menon represented by the Great War —as World War I was called by its con-temporaries—is quite comprehensive today, one century after the events that decisively and irrevocably marked the history of Europe and of the world at large. For a long time, research was fo-cused primarily on the description and analysis of military operations, on the involvement of the main combatants, on the diplomatic efforts of the period and the consequences of the war, all of these aspects being addressed extensively in large-scale syntheses. Over the past few decades, Western historiography has witnessed the development of a new research direction, which has shifted the focus towards less frequently inves-tigated aspects of World War I. This new historiographic trend lays special emphasis on sources that retrace the col-lective memory of the Great War. The literature of the war (memoirs, journals, marginal notes, letters, postcards, etc.) is


explored today, more than ever, from a wide array of innovative perspectives. The contribution of war literature to shaping as complete and truthful an image of this event is essential. Nowadays, Romanian historiography is endeavoring to examine the other facets of the Great War by alligning its efforts to the new historiographic directions. In this sense, Romanian researchers have begun to exploit and capitalize on various types of unpublished and published sources, including the literature of the war. The new approaches and the discovery of ever more complex and varied historical sources have brought new topics to the forefront of Romanian historio-graphic debate, such as propaganda, message, mobilization, couple relationships, children and the war, food consumption during the war, the daily life of soldiers on the front, etc.

This study follows this new direction of research and aims to bring to the schol-ars’ consideration certain perspectives on the war as it was seen and experienced by various protagonists, by those who were deployed to the frontline or in its imme-diate proximity. These perspectives are reflected in certain texts written by various soldiers or officers, who during brief moments of respite recorded their experiences, often making hasty notes, writing them down in the most inappropriate conditions, revealing their most sincere and intimate thoughts, sentiments or fears.1 These writ-ten records may be generically called war diaries.

War diaries represent an important source for reconstructing various aspects relating to the Great War, which has been relatively little explored in Romanian historiography so far, primarily due to the fact that this kind of historical source is very rare. On the one hand, there are extremely few such documents in the archives; on the other hand, Romanian soldiers in general left behind few autobiographic writings, for easily understandable reasons. Whereas the spread of literacy had made great progress in the West until the outbreak of World War I, a situation that was reflected in the large number of letters or memoirs written by officers and soldiers during World War I, in the Romanian-speaking provinces, where the percentage of literate people was much lower, war correspondence, diaries and memoirs were relatively few.

War diaries represent an extremely important historical source not only because they provide details about some of the events, but also because they convey the soldiers’ feelings and emotional states, familiarizing the reader with the daily life of those on the frontlines: their attitudes, behavior, food consumption patterns, dis-cussions, rules of discipline, the way in which soldiers perceived the war propaganda and the extent to which they complied with the propaganda’s requirements, their debates and comments on the decisions and measures imposed by the political and military authorities, the rumors that circulated among soldiers, etc.

From the outset, we should underline the truthfulness of these diaries. They were a means of capturing the moment, of accurately describing various events, moods or feelings, the level of sophistication depending, of course, on the cultural and educational background of each individual author. Written in the “heat of the

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moment” (both literally and figuratively), right in the midst of events whose impact was still very strongly felt, these diaries were strewn with personal comments and observations regarding the progress of the war, the people the authors had met and the places through which they had been. Hence, the objective character of many of these diaries. In addition, the veracity or sincerity of these notes—by contrast with letters, for example—is attested precisely by the fact that they were not subject to political censorship or to self-censorship.

The objectivity, truthfulness and credibility of the information included in such war diaries individualize and distinguish this type of document in relation to mem-oirs, for instance, which were usually written by the participants in the war after the events had taken place, being thus prone to a higher degree of subjectivity.

A s a category of war literature, war diaries can be explored and analyzed from many perspectives. These perspectives range from considerations on the diaries’ authors to discourse and language analysis, or to identifying the cen-

tral themes approached in these diaries, discussing the military-historical content, or conducting historical, sociological, anthropological, psychological and psychohis-torical analyses, etc.

Our analysis is based on two such war diaries: we have identified one at the Sibiu County Branch of the National Archives and the other in the National Archives in Bistriþa, the latter recently published by Alexandru Dãrãban in several issues of the review Pisanii sângeorzene.2 The two diaries have several common features. For instance, both authors were teachers by profession. In terms of their discourse and register, the two diaries are different, reflecting the personality of their authors. Iustin Sohorca, for example, reported more pithily on the events on the front, while the diary Nicolae Avram kept is much richer in details.

It should be noted that these two war diaries were not singular cases. Clearly, such journals must still exist, but very few are known. Currently we know of the existence of some notes made on the battlefield by Horaþiu Deacu (12 August–21 October 1914, the date of his death), the son of the priest David Deacu from the commune of Sãcãlaia, Szolnoc-Doboka County, published in Gherla in 1930 and edited by Al. Lupean-Melin, under the title Ziarul unui erou (A hero’s journal).3 Horaþiu Deacu was also a primary school teacher and he also fought on the Eastern Front in Galicia. Not long ago was identified an “Autobiography” written by the elementary school teacher Isidor Todoran, the son of Vasile and Palaghia from Ibãneºti, Mureº County. He was a soldier on the Eastern Front, too, from 29 May 1916 (his enlistment date) until early 1918, when he was transferred to the Italian front. This “Autobiography,” mentioned in a study published in the journal Angus-tia in 2004,4 seems to belong to the genre of memories rather than to the category of diaries. Today it is owned by the heirs of the author.

Returning to the topic, we believe that an analysis of the message cannot start without a brief presentation of the authors of the two war diaries examined in this


study. Nicolae Avram was born in the village of Doºtad in 1886, into a peasant’s family, with five children. He attended the pedagogical high school in Blaj. After the outbreak of the war he was conscripted into the Austro-Hungarian Army and then was sent to the front, serving as an orderly in the 64th Infantry Regiment from 1914 to 1916 (August). In 1916 he deserted from the Austro-Hungarian Army, crossing the mountains into Romania. After 1 December 1918, he returned to his native places. In 1920 he married the daughter of the priest from Bogatu (Bogatu Român), Sibiu County. He had 2 children: Ion, an engineer who lived in Orãºtie, and a daughter, Hortensia, who was a kindergarten teacher. As of 1921, he was a teacher in the village of Draºov, Şpring commune, Alba County. He retired in 1947 and died in 1968, at the age of 82, being buried in the village of Draºov.5

Iustin Sohorca was born in Sângeorgiu Român (Sângeorz-Bãi), Bistriþa-Nãsãud County, on 23 January 1881, as the son of the priest-cooperator Silviu Sohorca and of Laura Buduºan. He attended the pedagogical high school in Gherla. In 1902–1903 he did his military service in the 63rd Infantry Regiment of Bistriþa. In 1904 he married Cãtãlina Joja from the same town. They had no children. He was mobilized on 1 August 1914 and was sent to war. He fought in the Austro-Hungarian Army until the end of the war. He was part of the labor units called “arbaitãr” (Arbeiter in German) which were used either behind the frontlines, for the construction of bridges, barracks and observation towers or for repairing the roads the army needed to travel by, or for digging trenches right on the frontline, at night. Even if they did not fight on the front, they were indeed exposed to danger.6 On 1 February 1918 he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant junior grade. In 1919–1920 he was drafted into the Romanian Army, with which he participated in the campaign in Hungary. After the war he resumed his teaching position in his native village, serving, for a pe-riod, as headmaster of the elementary school in Sângeorz-Bãi. He retired very early, at the age of 51 (we do not know the reasons), and died on 19 February 1966, at the age of 85.7 As it can be seen, the biographical data of two teachers, who became, by force of circumstances, soldiers in the Great War, feature both similarities and differences. One of the essential differences might be the fact that Nicolae Avram decided to defect from the Austro-Hungarian Army and join the Romanian Army, while Iustin Sohorca, a descendant of the Nãsãud border guards, remained in the Imperial Army until the end of hostilities.

Referring to the discourse on the war found in these diaries, we can assert that it is personal, that it has a narrative, emotional character, and that it reflects the of-ficial discourse only very rarely. The authors of the two war diaries we have analyzed belong to the category of village intellectuals, situated, in the social hierarchy, on an intermediate level between the top elite of the Transylvanian Romanians and the common people. In civilian life, before the war, the two teachers had been part of the local elite. During the war, considering the roles they played on the front, at least during the first two years of the war (one was an orderly, the other a sapper, or “arbaitãr”), they were among the representatives of the “lower military ranks.”

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Consequently, the diaries they wrote can be seen to belong to the so-called “lower” memory of the war, as Doru Radosav calls it.8 They provide precise perspectives, with a generous amount of details, reflecting their actual, immediate experience, rarely connected to the general events, which very often were little known among frontline soldiers.

What was the reason that drove the two teachers to keep such a diary? How did they manage to find the time and record, every day, the things they thought deserved to stay alive in their memory and in the memory of those who otherwise would have never had access to these events? The answers to these questions can only be subjective. It is quite possible that these thorough notes were grounded in the desire not to forget certain things, or simply because these men lacked and longed for communication and socialization, which they had been accustomed to while they were teachers. Supporting this claim is a note made by Iustin Sohorca, who confessed to the joy of meeting some fellow teachers on the front—“that’s where I got together with the colleagues. Stroia, Roşalã, Hanzu and Brãtulescu, with whom I chatted a lot, helped me kill time and I missed the comments they had once made by the stove in the teachers’ room at the school.”9

The analysis of the message content of the two diaries has led the researcher to identify several central themes. In the pages that follow, we will present them briefly. One of the distinctive themes that are conveyed by the authors’ most sincere confessions concerns the moods they experienced in the trenches and, above all, the states and feelings of the soldier who was fighting in the first line, ranging from anxiety, insecurity and fear to resignation in the face of imminent death.

The soldier who was sent to war, having been brutally snatched away from his family, from his plot of land, from his shed or from his teaching position, in this case, experienced unexpected uprootedness, alienation, a sudden break-up of all the essential social ties, which generated “a profound moral disorder.”10 To a greater extent than letters (in which the sender attempted to tone down the horrors of the war, seeking to protect the loved ones), war diaries reflected faithfully the inner experiences, the emotional and spiritual ordeal of the soldier who was in the very midst of events, as well as the terrors of the war. “Waiting in the trenches is the warrior’s confession and repentance,”11 Tãslãuanu said in Hora obuzelor (A dance of shells), a different kind of war diary, slightly more embellished in literary terms. The state of expectation provided these soldier authors with an opportunity for spiritual introspection, for a cinematic retrieval of memories, but also for a projection of their thoughts and dreams, and with the desire to become reunited with their loved ones.

As soldiers in the trenches, in a state of extreme tension, uncertainty and fear, always faced with the possibility of imminent death, they were bound to reflect on the senselessly tragic situations they went through day by day: “Silence, like at a burial, but no less frightening. . . How many dead men, how many injured people, brought into a state where they were no longer able to work even to support them-selves, fell prey to death in this swift, albeit violent and savage attack? How many


tears did this bring to the eyes of so many widows or parents and God knows how many orphans. . .”12 At the end of another attack, Sohorca wrote down in his note-book: “We thought, at every gunshot, how many children would remain without parents. . .”13 In addition to inner suffering, which the soldiers could not eschew in any way, they also endured many other physical hardships, including cold and hunger. In many of his notes, Sohorca complained that he had experienced a lot of hunger and biting cold.14

It should therefore come as no surprise to us that food appears to be the preferred topic in the two diaries. Clearly, references to this topic are the most numerous in diary of Nicolae Avram, who sometimes devoted entire pages to this subject. Food was very scarce on the front. Most often the meals were not sufficient for the sol-diers and they had to make do with what they had. Starvation drove them to steal food, sometimes even at the risk of being punished, including by beating, as two teachers-soldiers confessed.15 The deprivation and the ordeals the soldiers endured taught them to enjoy every little thing, however trivial, a good meal included. That is why the gifts received, for example, on the occasion of the “German” Christmas16 of 1914 were highly appreciated: “Here’s why: 7 cigarettes, 5 ladyfingers, 3 lumps of white sugar and a chocolate bar. Try to enjoy that and that’s all there is to it.”17

On the other hand, diary entries relating to food provided important informa-tion about food consumption on the front. We can easily identify the “menu on the front,” so to say. For example, on 19 October 1914, orderlies on the front were given “bean mash with some meat.”18 On the next day, October 20, the lunch menu included “boiled grumpene (potatoes), meat, bread, sweet bread, canned food and tobacco.” Nicolae Avram was also privileged to receive a few lumps of sugar, because he knew the soldier who fetched the food.19 At other times, they had “cabbage and meat,” etc. Of course, examples could go on. The mere enumeration of the types of food referred to in the two war diaries shows that orderlies received better quality and, generally, more diverse food, while soldiers from the so-called “arbaitãr” work-ing units (sappers) were often starving, even though they performed hard labor, requiring much physical effort.

In general, tobacco and bread were mentioned on the same position, and some-times tobacco seemed even more important or necessary than a loaf of bread. It was a sort of drug that appeased, in a way, the soldiers. Generally, their superiors made sure that soldiers always had a supply of tobacco in their haversacks. Smoking was certainly one of the soldiers’ most enjoyable pastimes. “What a blessed weed tobacco is under such circumstances. It makes you forget and it numbs your conscience. The warm smoke was seeping through my every fiber, like a narcotic fluid. I could feel it being distilled in my lungs, as it turned into morphine vapors and oozed in sluggish waves through my blood. My heart began to throb hastily, in syncopated motion, intoxicated with the poison I greedily breathed in.”20

Homesickness, longing to see their families and friends again, the desire to re-sume the household chores that had kept them busy during peacetime, the joy and

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nostalgia experienced when they received, read and re-read a letter from home,21 all of these gave them bittersweet comfort, providing them with an opportunity to escape from the inferno of the war into the normal world of life back home, from before their departure:22 “You, my dear friends who have written to me, have trans-posed me from my current environment into your midst. May God bless you for the joy you gave me with your letters. May God give me good health so that I may thank you in person for the joy you gave me.”23

At other times, the letters from home brought unsettling news. The pain ex-perienced by the soldiers on the front was further compounded by the feeling of helplessness. Being far from their loved ones, they could not do anything for their families when the latter were sick or when toiling in the field exhausted them. This helplessness and the uncertainty as to whether they would ever see their families again often overwhelmed these soldiers. “These days I received several letters from home. I got upset and my heart cried in pain, because I found out that my good wife is sick. They say that she is better, but should I trust them? . . . Maybe they won’t tell me. Ah! Lord, why won’t you have mercy on us? Give people peace, oh, Lord, so that they may know and bring praise to you. If you decided that we should be apart, please let us see each other again and pray to You together . . . then, may Your will be done.”24

A theme which appeared frequently in the soldiers’ diaries concerned the hostil-ity of the local population in parallel with the theme of alienation and deracination. On Easter Sunday, which in 1915 was celebrated on 4 April, Iustin Sohorca wrote down the following: “Easter Day was welcomed by the roar of cannons which are having no holiday even on this day, sparking rancor and grievance among the edu-cated and the faithful. A Polish man has put me up. I can see on his face the bitter-ness and discontent that gnaws at him, since he cannot spend even Easter Day in his own home without a foreigner around. If he were a psychologist, he could also read my discontent in my eyes, for I am forced to spoil his holidays. I’m overcome with grief that I cannot be, like him, in the midst of my family at Easter time. There’s nothing he or I can do. We must carry on. . .”25 This diary entry reveals, on the one hand, the displeasure experienced by the local Pole, who was forced to quarter for-eign troops in his own home, and on the other hand, the pain and the sorrow of the alienated soldier, who had been away from home for too long, becoming discon-nected from the customs and traditions of daily life during peacetime. All these feel-ings were exacerbated during a religious holiday, being experienced as even more painful by the soldier, who, in addition to being burdened with profound solitude, was also forced to put up with the aversion of his host, a man who did not appear to empathize with the suffering of the estranged foreigner.

Another distinct theme, which is easily identifiable in the two war diaries and to which many pages are devoted, especially in Sohorca’s text, refers to discipline on the battlefield. “Maintaining discipline among soldiers,” demonstrating obedience to senior officers and prohibiting any action undertaken without the knowledge of


the superiors were some of the directives of the front. Here are, for instance, the testimonies of the teacher Iustin Sohorca, who spoke about the punishment inflicted on those who violated orders or did not comply with the internal discipline of the front: a soldier was sentenced to “25 strikes inflicted on his naked back because he dared eat a tin of meat without express orders to do so,” while another, Todor Deac, was caned, receiving 10 strikes after being unjustly accused that he had stolen some potatoes.” Sohorca himself was punished. On 1 December 1914, Sohorca wrote that “before our departure, early in the morning, a disciplinary session was held, where I was sentenced to have my hands tied to my legs for two hours. . . In the evening, from 8 to 10, I was tied, but was luckily taken into a house and not left outside in a cold of 8-9 degrees.” He did not mention what he had been tried and punished for, but we may assume that he had probably disobeyed orders. Beating was seen as an extremely humiliating method by the soldiers, as revealed by Iustin Sohorca’s notes.

Soldiers were often seized by a sense of revolt against the injustices committed by their superiors and the differential, generally humiliating treatment given to sol-diers: officers could strike the soldiers, were better protected from danger, received better food, newer clothes and safer sleeping places.26 In a very brief entry from 2 April 1915, Sohorca reported that “I went to the brigade, following the order of the day, where the general, a captain and the lieutenant junior grade were playing chess and listening to gramophone tunes. What difference between their lives and the lives of those outside!”27 In his memoirs, Sextil Puºcariu confirmed that officers enjoyed a privileged status: “the dominating sense during the war is idleness,” he said. “You feel too lazy to get up, you feel too lazy to work and, especially when it’s hot, you feel too lazy to even talk.”28 This laziness was characteristic of all officers, the subjects of conversation were always the same and no one attempted to enliven or spark up conversations.

On another occasion, Sohorca recounted the punishment of some sappers (“arbaitãri”) who had allegedly feigned sickness and had been sentenced to 10 cane strikes and to be kept tethered for two hours. Moreover. some

of the sappers sent to hospital because they really were sick had been brought back to the unit without having been cured.29 The series of injustices and undeserved punishments continuously inflicted on the soldiers sparked their disgruntlement and disapproval. This kind of unfair treatment on the part of their superiors was denounced by the teacher Sohorca in his diary. He has remained, over time, an un-questionable witness and, at the same time, an indisputable judge.30

These are, therefore, some of the central themes approached in the two war diaries analyzed in this study. Besides these, we have also identified other equally interesting topics, including the one relating to rumors. All sorts of rumors circu-lated freely among the soldiers on the frontline, many of them announcing the end of the war, the possibility of a ceasefire or even of definitive peace. The war had

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barely begun when the news that the political power holders were negotiating a peace circulated among soldiers. Some argued that peace could be concluded at the end of November, while other soldiers were of the opinion that an agreement on the cessation of hostilities could be reached by springtime.31 Shortly after the instal-lation of the new King of Romania, Ferdinand, there had been rumors that he was bent on adopting the policy of neutrality imposed by King Charles I and that he had discharged the mobilized soldiers, or that Serbia had requested the intervention of Italy for peace.32 However, on the same day, 25 October 1914, which was a Sunday, Nicolae Avram noted with irony: “Today it appears that rifles and cannons are firing more intensely, perhaps in honor of our Lord.”33 Rumors about peace or, perhaps, just the soldiers’ most intimate wishes and desires as they were stationed on the battlefield continued to circulate. In his turn, Iustin Sohorca noted on 15 December 1915: “How we’re all awaiting Holy Christmas. The sappers hope to celebrate it at home. If only God would allow this to happen, but I don’t think He will. It’s nice to listen to them vividly talking about peace and about how people sing carols back home in the evening, praising them and recounting funny stories about them.”34 One month later, on 11 January 1915, he wrote again about the end of the war: “Work continues in the trenches. Both joyful and troublesome news is reaching us. Like so. The war will last until early March.”35 Such rumors circulated throughout the military hostilities, being reflected in the literature of the war.

There are many other themes that can be identified in the Romanian war diaries and subjected to analysis. In future we intend to examine other such diaries and to further develop this research. Among these other possible themes, mention should be made of: the theme relating to what was read on the front, and the theme of pro-paganda and misinformation, and the theme of “flying machines,” with the fear and panic that their appearance instilled in soldiers. A special topic that deserves to be analyzed concerns the dependability and the spirit of sacrifice evinced by the Romanian soldiers within the Austro-Hungarian Army, as highlighted even by the Hungarian gazettes; or the theme of duty to the homeland and the emperor. As regards this sense of duty, we would like to present two situations that illustrate how soldiers perceived this feeling. The first case was that of a soldier wounded on the battlefront, about whom Nicolae Avram said that he could have very well stayed in Romania, where he was stationed at the onset of the war, but since his wife and daughter were in Transylvania, he reported back for duty, but later was severely wounded in the back.36 This is the example of a citizen who considered that he had to serve his country even if it cost him his life. Iustin Sohorca was also a devoted citizen of the homeland and the emperor, to which he remained faithful to the very end of the war. However, after three months on the front, he admitted that his role as a soldier, as a defender of the interests of a state that was ultimately foreign to him, was by no means the role he had envisaged: “For in truth my thought, my en-tire soul is not in Russia, nor did I bring it into the war, but I left it at home, among the ones I desire and love. . . . My only comfort is that I’m not alone in this fate, but


there are 24 generations involved and, in particular, my fellow teachers Lang, Barna, Rednic and Mihalca, who, like me, with aching hearts, bear the brunt of the war with the resignation of the ox that pulls at a yoke without understanding the good or evil purposes of its master. . .”37


Notes

1. “I’m writing these lines in a forest where we are gathering twigs.” This is what the el-ementary school teacher Iustin Sohorca wrote in his diary on 30 November 1914. See Iustin Sohorca, “Jurnal de front 1914–1915,” Pisanii sângeorzene: Spiritualitate, tradiþie ºi istorie localã (Sângeroz-Bãi) 9 (37) (4/2015): 42.

2. Ibid., 9 (37)–12 (40) (4/2015); 1 (41)–2 (42) (5/2016). Iustin Sohorca’s war diary is preserved in the personal collection of Dr. George Uza, at the Bistriþa-Nãsãud County Branch of the National Archives.

3. Horaþiu C. Deacu, Ziarul unui erou: Însemnãri fãcute pe câmpul de luptã din Galiþia între 12 august–21 octombrie 1914, ziua în care autorul a fost ucis de un glonte duºman, text re-vised and edited by Alexandru Lupeanu-Melin (Gherla, 1930).

4. Dorin-Ioan Rus, Etelka Szábo, and Arthur Szábo, “Lista soldaþilor din Regimentul 22 Târgu Mureº decoraþi dupã bãtãlia de la Asiago,” Angustia: Istorie Etnografie-Sociologie (Sfântu Gheorghe) 8 (2004): 151–166.

5. According to the presentation made by Gh. Bichigean at the Session of Communica-tions organized by Astra, on 24 November 1993. See the Sibiu County Branch of the National Archive (hereafter cited as ansb), coll. astra, fol. 131.

6. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 1 (41) (5/2016): 35. 7. Teodor Tanco, Virtus Romana Rediviva, vol. 6 (Bistriþa, 1987), 357. 8. Doru Radosav, “Memoria de jos a rãzboiului: Câteva consideraþii,” Anuarul Institutului de

Istorie Oralã (Cluj-Napoca), 14 (2014): 5–8. 9. Iustin Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 11 (39) (4/2015): 42. 10. Stéphane Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker, Rãzboiul redescoperit, 1914-1918, trans.

Cristina Popescu, and Elena-Tudora Duþã, ed. Florin Þurcanu (Bucharest: Corint, 2014), 75.

11. Octavian C. Tãslãuanu, Hora obuzelor. Scene ºi icoane din rãsboi (Bucharest, 1916), 140. 12. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 12 (40) (4/2015): 39. 13. Ibid., 41. 14. Ibid., 9 (37) (4/2015): 39–43. 15. ansb, Fascicle documents coll., file 171, Jurnale zilnice ale lui Nicolae Avram, fols 4 v, 5v.,

6v, 7v. In his turn, Iustin Sohorca recorded, on 24 November 1914, that: “We dug many trenches in a cold of at least 8 degrees, famished, because they gave us lunch only at 7 o’clock in the evening.” The next day he wrote succinctly in his notebook: “We prepared wire fences on a stretch of at least 4 km, which is as long as our trenches are. Freezing cold, hunger as big as yesterday.” On 26 November 1914, he noted down again: “Cold

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and hunger,” and the examples could continue. See Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 9 (37) (4/2015): 41–43.

16. The “German” Christmas, as Sohorca referred to it, was Christmas celebrated in Western Europe, on 25 December, after the Gregorian calendar (new style). The Orthodox cel-ebrated Christmas 13 days later, after the Julian calendar (old style).

17. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 9 (37) (4/2015): 46. 18. Avram, Jurnale, fol. 9v. 19. Ibid., fol. 11r. 20. Tãslãuanu, 35–36. Having been injured and, in fact, suffering from frostbite, Tãslãuanu

was transported to the nearest train station, in Eperjes, in a cart. He was covered in straw, lest he should freeze to death. He was very listless and sad, thinking about the impending end which he deemed to be very close, when someone offered him a cigarette. That was the moment that occasioned the reflection quoted above.

21. Avram, Jurnale, fol. 10v. 22. Ibid., fols. 6v., 9r. 23. Ibid., fol. 11r. 24. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 2 (42) (5/2016): 39. 25. Ibid., 43. 26. See Avram, Jurnale, fol. 7r. and Sohorca, “Jurnal,” Pisanii sângeorzene 12 (40) (4/2015):

38: “Work continued on the tower. Every man was asked to make a list of the cans they had received as a reserve when they were conscripted, then these were taken away from each of them. Every man had to show six cans, but because today at noon there was no meat, they exempted us from one, so that each man was supposed to have only five. It is rumored that all those who will not be able to give account of all the cans will be senten-ced to five cane strikes, so for 5 = 25. The poor men have been excessively starved, but now they must also endure the shameful punishment of having their bottoms caned.”

27. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 12 (40) (4/2015): 42. 28. Sextil Puºcariu, Memorii, ed. Magdalena Vulpe (Bucharest: Minerva, 1978), 80. 29. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 11 (39) (4/2015): 40. 30. Ibid., 39. On 18 March 1915, Sohorca wrote the following in his diary: “As the situa-

tion went, just like the treatment meted out by petty tyrants to the masses proves and shows the rottenness at the heart of the governing system, so also, in smaller societies, for example in our unit, the behaviour of the non-commissioned officers, in particular of the seargeants and corporals, towards the poor people proves the corruption, immorality and faulty leadership of this unit...”

31. Avram, Jurnale, fol. 11r. 32. Ibid., fols. 11v–12r. 33. Ibid., fol. 12r. 34. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 9 (37) (4/2015): 44. 35. Ibid., 10 (38) (4/2015): 36. 36. Avram, Jurnale, fol. 10v. 37. Sohorca, “Jurnal de front,” Pisanii sângeorzene 9 (37) (5/2016): 44.


AbstractThe Literature of War—A New Perspective: Case Study: Romanian War Diaries (1914–1916)

War diaries represent a particularly important source for reconstructing various aspects relating to the Great War, a source that has been relatively little explored in Romanian historiography so far. This study focuses on two such war diaries preserved in the National Archives of Sibiu and Bistriþa, respectively. The two authors were elementary school teachers. In terms of their discourse and register, the two diaries are different, reflecting the personality of their authors, but their analysis reveals a few central themes, equally present in both texts, such as the atmosphere in the trenches, the soldiers’ moods and inner feelings on the frontline, the hostility of the local popu-lation, the theme of alienation and deracination, the methods of maintaining discipline among soldiers, the rumors which circulated among them, propaganda and misinformation, the topic of the so-called “flying machines,” the reliability and spirit of sacrifice of the Romanian soldiers or their duty to their homeland and the emperor, etc.

KeywordsFirst World War, Austro-Hungarian army, war diary, soldiers, teachers, propaganda, rumors

EDITORIAL EVENTS

Ioan BolovanChercheur au Centre d’Études Transyl-vaines de l’Académie Roumaine, profes-seur à l’Université Babeº-Bolyai de Cluj-Napoca.

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6Personnalité de marque de la re-cherche historique roumaine contem-poraine, le professeur d’université Liviu Maior revient à l’attention des spécia-listes avec un nouveau livre, qui est cette fois dédié à la Grande Guerre. L’historien Liviu Maior a été pen-dant plusieurs décennies professeur à l’Université Babeş-Bolyai et, en même temps, le premier directeur du Centre d’Études Transylvaines, qui avait été recréé en 1991 sous la présidence d’honneur de David Prodan. Dans sa qualité de directeur, le professeur Liviu Maior a organisé l’activité de cette ins-titution sous une forme moderne et a revitalisé la Revue de Transylvanie, qui paraît actuellement sous le nom Tran-sylvanian Review/Revue de Transylvanie.

Pendant cinquante ans d’activité his toriographique, Liviu Maior a édité d’importantes sources documentaires inédites, qui ont présenté dans un nouvel éclairage l’histoire de la Révo-lution de 1848-1849 en Transylvanie, l’histoire du mouvement national rou-main, la Guerre d’Indépendance, la correspondance politique des person-nalités de la vie publique roumaine de


Transylvanie (Avram Iancu, Alexandru Vaida-Voevod etc.). En tant que spé-cialiste de l’histoire moderne de la Roumanie, il s’est surtout intéressé au mou-vement d’affranchissement national des Roumains de Transylvanie pendant la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle et a publié des études et des livres fondamentaux sur la Révolution de 1848-1849, le processus de constitution du Parti National Roumain de Transylvanie, l’organisation et l’évolution idéologique de celui-ci, le Mémorandum de 1892, les relations des Roumains avec les Habsbourg, les soldats et les officiers roumains de l’armée austro-hongroises etc. Étant un réfor-mateur mais non pas un révolutionnaire de l’écrit historique roumain contem-porain, un démythifiant mais non pas un démolisseur de l’histoire nationale, le professeur Liviu Maior a reconstitué l’histoire des Roumains transylvains depuis la formation et l’affirmation de la nation moderne jusqu’au parachèvement de l’unité nationale et la formation de la Grande Roumanie. Beaucoup de ses livres et de ses études, notamment ceux qui avaient été publiés dans une langue de circulation internationale, ont contribué à une bonne compréhension par les historiens étrangers de l’histoire moderne de la Roumanie et de la situation des Roumains de Transylvanie pendant le XIXe et le XXe siècles.

Dans le livre ci-présent, publié à la veille du centenaire de l’entrée de la Rou-manie dans la Première Guerre mondiale, l’auteur se propose de combler une « omission » de l’historiographie roumaine, qui s’était occupée presque de ma-nière obsessive de la Grande Guerre, surtout de la période 1916-1918 et de celle qui a suivi l’entrée du Vieux Royaume (de la petite Roumanie) en guerre aux côtés de l’Entente. La tendance de l’historiographie de notre pays à insister sur ces années et surtout sur l’automne 1918 était, certes, justifiées, car la fin de cette période a marqué l’union de la Bucovine et de la Transylvanie avec la Rouma-nie, ce qui avait d’ailleurs constitué l’objectif de l’entrée de notre pays en guerre. Cependant, elle a ainsi négligé les millions de Roumains de Transylvanie, de Bu-covine et de Bessarabie qui étaient en guerre dès l’été 1914, lorsque les empires dont ils faisaient partie (austro-hongrois et tsariste) avaient déclenché le conflit qui allait se prolonger jusqu’à l’automne 1918. Animé par le désir d’équilibrer la recherche de l’histoire de la Grande Guerre pour tous les Roumains et conscient du devoir de l’historien de combler les taches blanches, le professeur Liviu Maior a réalisé une synthèse des deux premières années de guerre aussi bien du point de vue des Roumains de Transylvanie, de Bucovine et de Bessarabie que de ceux du Vieux Royaume, qu’ils fussent des décideurs politiques ou des leaders d’opinion de Bucarest.

Dans le premier chapitre, l’auteur fait des considérations sur l’historiographie de la Première Guerre mondiale, évaluant les contributions à ce sujet des histo-riens roumains et étrangers. La question des responsabilités liées au déclenche-ment et à la prolongation de la Grande Guerre lui donne l’occasion de discuter les enseignements tirés de la guerre, en invoquant en ce sens les dires d’une

editOrial events • 79

personnalité du milieu scientifique et politique contemporain, Henry Kissinger, à savoir que « la Grande Guerre constitue une leçon très importante pour les leaders contemporains et pour ceux qui vont venir » (p. 34). L’attentant de Sara-jevo du 28 juin 1914, dont les victimes avaient été l’archiduc François-Ferdi-nand, l’héritier du trône austro-hongrois, et son épouse, a signifié pour les futurs pays belligérants le déclic qui annonçait le déclenchement de la Grand Guerre. Un chapitre consistent est consacré à l’analyse des conséquences de l’attentant principalement pour les Roumains de Transylvanie ; la conclusion de l’auteur est exprimée de manière tranchante et symbolique par la couronne de fleurs déposée par la délégation des Roumains transylvains participant aux funérailles de l’archi-duc « À notre dernier espoir, avec une dévotion loyale ». Comme le professeur Liviu Maior l’a démontré dans un livre paru il y a une décennie sur les relations des Roumains avec Vienne, ce texte symbolique « marquait le début de la fin du loyalisme roumain envers la Maison de Habsbourg » (p. 63). Il annonçait aussi les événements du 1er Décembre 1918, lorsque les 1228 délégués élus par les trois millions de Roumains allaient décider, en vertu du droit à l’autodéter-mination de la population majoritaire, l’union de la Transylvanie avec le Vieux Royaume. La réponse exemplaire des Roumains transylvains à l’appel de l’empe-reur, des facteurs de décision politique du Parti National Roumain et des deux archevêques métropolitains de Sibiu et de Blaj de s’enrôler dès l’été 1914 (voir le VIIe chapitre) reflète à la fois un fort sentiment de loyauté envers « le bon empe-reur » nourri par la population que la manière dont elle comprenait s’acquitter de ses obligations envers l’État.

Étant au courant des principales synthèses et monographies publiées le der-nier temps par les historiens occidentaux et attentif aux tendances et aux inter-prétations modernes et aux perspectives méthodologiques de l’histoire culturelle de la Grande Guerre, le professeur Liviu Maior alloue un espace consistant, surtout dans le IVe, le Ve et le VIe chapitres, à des aspects que les historiens rou-mains avaient presque totalement négligé : les relations entre les Roumains, les Saxons et les Hongrois et les suspicions réciproques nourries à la fois au niveau gouvernemental, sur le front et derrière le front au sein des gens simples, de la communauté rurale et de ses institutions fondamentales (l’église et l’école), de la propagande et de la contre-propagande. Comme dans le livre sur la Révolution de 1848-1849 et sur les relations/les perceptions réciproques des Roumains et des Hongrois qu’il avait écrit il y a deux décennies, l’auteur reconstitue quelques clichés imagologiques que la société transylvaine avait déjà connus dans quelques moments historiques de l’époque moderne. Ainsi, aussi bien en Bucovine qu’en Transylvanie, « la diversité ethnique à généré la suspicion, l’arbitraire, l’hostilité […], elle a contribué plus qu’on ne saurait le croire au clivage entre l’État et ses citoyens » (p. 119). L’appel à l’instrumentaire de l’histoire des mentalités et de la psychologie sociale, aux techniques de communication, le contact avec les


sources écrites et la découverte de sources inédites portant l’empreinte d’une autre sensibilité historiographique ont permis au professeur Liviu Maior d’écrire des pages entières sur les états d’âme des combattants, de leurs familles restées derrière le front et de mettre en avant les préjugés et l’horizon mental séculier des paysans soldats obligés de vivre de nouvelles expériences.

Le VIIIe chapitre, « La Bucovine, la Serbie et la Bessarabie, théâtres de guerre », passe en revue la fluidité des fronts sur cet espace oriental, le chan-gement fréquent de rôles pour la population civile de Bucovine à la suite de la mobilité périodique des théâtres des opérations, ce qui a compliqué davantage la vie pendant ces années-là. Les expressions « tantôt amis, tantôt ennemis », « la peur de fratricide » etc. reflètent en partie un contenu idéel complexe, une réalité rencontrée pendant la Grande Guerre aussi bien dans le cas des Roumains de Bucovine et du Nord de la Transylvanie que dans le cas des Polonais, qui étaient également divisés en trois empires différents. Les soldats et les officiers roumains participant à des combats en Bucovine et en Galicie ont vécu le drame de pou-voir à tout moment tuer leurs frères enrôlés dans l’armée tsariste. « Les relations à ce sujet sont impressionnantes, notamment au sujet du choc subi à rencontrer parmi les blessés capturés des Roumains de Bessarabie. Le phénomène inverse est tout aussi fréquent. On fait mention de soldats transylvains blessés qui ont été transportés aux confins des villages par des patrouilles formées de Roumains. La peur de fratricide nationaliste a constitué une permanence qui a profondé-ment marqué les consciences » (p. 228).

Le dernier chapitre est dédié au jour du 27 août 1916, le moment de l’entrée de la Roumanie en guerre contre les Puissances centrales pour la libération de la Transylvanie. L’auteur évoque les implications de cette décision politique, les états d’esprit à Bucarest ainsi que les attitudes des cabinets des États belligérants. La caractérisation d’un important général allemand, Ludendorff (« Nous avons vaincu l’armée roumaine, l’annihiler c’est avéré impossible ») et l’analyse lucide d’un grand politicien britannique, David Lloyd George (« En 1916, nous avons répété dans le cas de la Roumanie les erreurs fatales que nous avions commises en 1915 dans le cas de la Serbie ») sont deux exemples tirés d’un chapitre qui, au-delà du drame et des souffrances vécues par des millions de Roumains de Tran-sylvanie et du Vieux Royaume entre 1916 et 1918, révèle la complexité d’un processus historique qui s’est achevé par la formation de la Grande Roumanie.

Le professeur Liviu Maior nous offre un ouvrage rigoureux et bien documen-té, qui se remarque par des interprétation profondes et équilibrées. Se servant de la méthodologie des sciences sociales, l’auteur interroge les actants, à la fois les facteurs de décision et les gens ordinaires, les combattants et leurs familles. L’ouvrage a une architecture logique et la lecture s’avère un exercice intellectuel et professionnel élevé.

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Eine Suche nach dem Sinn des Kriegesr u d O l f G r ä f

Unter den zahlreichen, dem Ersten Weltkrieg gewidmeten Büchern der letzten Jahre, nimmt das Buch Herfried Münklers, Professor an der Humboldt-Universität Berlin eine besondere Stel-lung ein. Denn schon durch den Un-tertitel erhebt der Autor den Anspruch nicht nur eine Geschichte des Krieges, sondern auch eine „Weltgeschichte“ oder besser gesagt eine Studie über die Welt während der Kriegsjahre dem Le-ser zu bieten.

Der Verfasser untersucht den Weg in den Krieg und erwähnt die zwei gewohnten Perspektiven: den kurzen Weg in den Krieg oder die Kriegsauslö-senden Ereignisse und Faktoren (Sara-jevo, die Balkankriege) und die langen Wege in den Krieg oder die entschei-denden Ursachen des Krieges: „langfri-stige Prozesse, kollektive Mentalitäten, Entwicklungen und ökonomische Ent-wicklungen“, Imperialismus und Mili-tarismus. Er bringt den üblichen Unter-schied zwischen Anlass und Ursache in die Diskussion und stellt aber die „Qua-si Determination“ des Kriegsausbruchs durch die „langen Wege“ in Frage die eigentlich die Handlungsspielräume der Entscheidungsträger des Sommers 1914 von Vorneherein eigeschränkt ha-ben sollen.

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Rudolf GräfUnternehmensführung, wissenschaftli-cher Mitarbeiter des Zentrums für siebenbürgische Studien der Rumä ni-schen Akademie und Univ.-Prof. Dr., Babeş-Bolyai-Universität Klausenburg.


Münkler sieht eher in den Entwicklungen auf dem Balkan – Annexion Bosni-ens und Herzegowinas – einen auslösenden Faktor der verändernden „machtpo-litischen Konstellationen“ in Europa als in der deutsch-englischen oder deutsch-französischen Rivalität die er für den Sommer 1914 als eher „entspannt“ betrach-tet. Münkler messt eher den beiden Balkankriegen von 1912 und 1913 und dem italienisch-türkischen Krieg von 1911 eine entscheidende Rolle für den Ausbruch des Krieges, weil diese der Groß Serbischen Idee Wind in die Segeln brachten, die Bündniskonstellationen durch die Entfernung Italiens und Rumäniens von den Mittelmächten veränderte, in Russland der antideutschen Partei zum Durchbruch halfen und in Deutschland und England für eine trügerische Entspannung sorgten so dass diese im Juli 1914 „viel zu lange unbedacht“ agierten.

Münkler bemerkt, dass paradoxerweise der deutsch-britischen Entspannung in der Zeit 1911-1914 „im deutschen Generalstab die Vorstellung eines Präven-tivkriegs immer stärker Platz griff“ den man nur bis 1916-1917 führen konnte weil bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt in Frankreich die Verlängerung der Militärdienst-zeit und in Russland die Vergrößerung des Heeres abgeschlossen sein sollten.

Dabei bringt er einige Korrekturen den der Literatur gewohnten Erklärungen für den Kriegsausbruch: ich erwähne nur eine: wie z.B. wenn er vom deutschen Militarismus spricht und zu dem Schluss kommt dass, was die Waffenausbildung der Bevölkerung betraf, die Mittelmächte „sehr viel weniger militarisiert“ waren als Frankreich und Russland, ebenso gab Deutschland weniger Prozente (3,5%) seines Bruttosozialproduktes für das Militär aus als Frankreich (3,9%) oder Russ- land (4,6%). Hingegen deutet Münkler den immer wiederkommenden Vor-wurf des Militarismus Deutschland und besonders Preußen gegenüber „der dort dominierenden Hochschätzung alles Militärischen und dessen gesellschaftlichen Vorrang“, so dass das Militär in der Bevölkerung als Garant der nationalen Ein-heit gesehen wurde. (Das Reich kam letztendlich, so Münkler infolge von drei Kriegen zustanden.) Münkler jedoch bringt gute Argumente für den Klassen-charakter des Heeres auf den die preußische Aristokratie nicht verzichten wollte, von der ungenügenden Vorbereitung auf den Krieg sowohl was die Truppen-stärke wie auch die Munitions- und Lebensmittelvorräte betrifft wie auch was die Uneinigkeit der deutschen Eliten gegenüber den militärischen Fragen so dass Münkler mit dem Satz „Von dem Militarismus des deutschen Reiches kann unter diesen Umständen keine Rede sein...“ Dieser beeinflusste, so Münkler „eher die innere Struktur des Reichs [...] als dessen Außenpolitik. Aber er schuf ein Bild der Deutschen das sie bevorzugt mit Pickelhaube und Schnurrbart zeigte und viel dazu beigetragen hat, dass sie bei Kriegsbeginn bei den neutralen Mächte wenig Sympathien fanden“. Dies soll die Ursache gewesen sein warum sie „den Krieg der Bilder und Worte“ schon im Herbst 1914 verloren haben.


Den Einkreisungsängste der Deutschen, den Niedergangs Ängsten der Briten schenkt Münkler seine Aufmerksamkeit wenn er von der deutschen Kriegspla-nung spricht (Schlieffen Plan, Zweifrontenkrieg mit der Voraussetzung eines schnellen Sieges gegen Frankreich), Furcht der Briten vor der deutschen wirt-schaftlichen Konkurrenz, so dass Großbritannien den Ausgleich mit Frankreich und Russland gesucht hat was letztendlich dazu führte, dass „weltpolitisch“ Großbritannien nun gegen Deutschland stand.

Während, so Münkler, Österreich-Ungarn dem Tempo der modernen Welt nicht mehr gewachsen war und nach dem Attentat von Sarajewo zu viel Zeit vergehen ließ um noch den Zusammenhang zwischen Ultimatum und Kriegser-klärung und Attentat wahrgenommen werden konnte, stellte sich das Deutsche Reich hinter Österreich mit defensiven und offensiven Motivationen: Deutsch-land konnte es sich nicht leisten den letzten sicheren Bündnispartner zu verlieren und hatte unterdessen eigene Interessen auf dem Balkan zu verteidigen.

Zum Thema der Verantwortung für den Krieg schreibt Münkler, dass diese sich auf alle europäischen Großmächte verteilt. Er verneint die Störenfried Rolle des Deutschen Reiches (Fritz Fischer) wie auch die These über die „sozialimperiali-stische Grundierung der deutschen Außenpolitik im Wilhelmismus“. Auch zeigt Münkler dass die, von allen Großmächten der Zeit praktizierten Präventivkriegs-planungen, „damals zu den selbstverständlichen Optionen eines Staates“ gehörten.

Nachdem die schnelle Entscheidung nicht erreicht werden konnte (auf der Suche nach der schnellen Entscheidung) sucht Münkler „Sinn und Ziel des Krieges“ und erkennt im „Augusterlebniss“ den Ausdruck der Veränderungen aus der deut-schen Gesellschaft die besonders in den großen Städten ihre Bereitschaft Opfer zu bringen geäußert hat und der Kriegserklärung einen festlichen Charakter verlieh.

Sinn des Krieges schien es nach Max Scheler, den Geist des deutschen Volkes wiederzufinden, und dies sollte bedeuten gegen England und den Kapitalismus zu kämpfen. Gegen Russland war der Krieg heilig zur „Verteidigung der Kultur gegen Despotie und Barbarei“, gegen Frankreich wollte man einen ehrenhaf-ten Krieg führen und schnell zu einem großmutigen und weisen Separatfrieden kommen da die Franzosen bei der Verteidigung Europas unverzichtbar seien (so Münkler mittels Simmel).

Eine wahre Skizze des deutschen Denkens gegen die von den Alliierten ge-startete Identifikation der Deutschen mit der „Barbarei“ und dem „Militaris-mus“ nennt Münkler einen „intellektuellen Sündenfall“. Wie tief jedoch der Vorwurf des Militarismus die deutschen Gelehrten und Intellektuellen getrof-fen hat zeigt Münkler an der Reaktion hochkarätiger deutscher Autoren die in ihren Schriften sich zum deutschen Militarismus als Schutz deutscher Kultur bekannten. (Erklärung an die Kulturwelt vom 4. Oktober 1914, von 93 deutschen


Wissenschaftlern, Künstlern und Schriftstellern unterschrieben.) Hier zeigt Münkler, dass die deutschen Intellektuellen aus ihrer Defensivposition diesem deutschen Militarismus einen zweifachen Sinn zusprachen: den Kampf gegen den Utilitarismus (England) und die Verteidigung der westlichen Welt gegen die Gefahr vom Osten (Russland) eine Konstante der deutschen Geschichte auf-tauchen wird, besonders nach der russischen Oktoberrevolution. Und von hier die „deutsche Freiheit“ und das deutsche Sonderwegbewußtsein der deutschen Intellektuellen als Vertreter eines Volkes das eine „höhere Form des Zusammen-lebens“, der „Volksgenossenschaft des nationalen Sozialismus“ gefunden hatte, so dass Deutschland einen „Kreuzzug im Dienste des Weltgeistes“ führen sollte.

In diesem Zusammenhang ist das Unterkapitel über die deutschen Kriegs-ziele extrem interessant: Münkler behandelt das Thema anhand der bedeutend-sten Schriften und Programme, z.B. das Septemberprogramm des Reichskanz-lers Bethmann Hollweg, der den Autoren zum Schluss gelingen lässt dass „die deutschen Kriegsziele ebenso wenig von langer Hand vorbereitet waren wie der Krieg selbst“ dann die radikalere Eingabe Seeberg (mit 1347 Unterschriften darunter 352 Professoren) sowie die Schriften Hans Delbrücks, Gegner der All-deutschen und der annexionistischen Kriegsziele oder Max Weber der in einer unveröffentlichten Schrift behauptete und bewies, dass die Verlängerung des Krieges besonders Nordamerika zugunsten kommen wird.

Die gebührende Aufmerksamkeit schenkt Münkler der Mitteleuropa Idee, im Septemberprojekt Bethmann Hollwegs (mitteleuropäischer Wirtschaftsverband), Friedrich Naumanns Mitteleuropa als Zeichen der Aussperrung Deutschlands vom Welthandel, Mitteleuropa als Aufgabe der Deutschen als Beschützer Euro-pas und der europäischen Kultur (Riezler).

In den folgenden Kapiteln behandelt Münkler die eigentlichen Kriegsjahre: die enormen Verluste und die sich einsetzende Erschöpfung beim Jahreswechsel 1914-1915 die die Entscheidungsträger trotzdem nicht veranlasst haben Alter-nativen zur Weiterführung des Krieges zu finden obwohl sie, zum Unterschied von der Mehrheit der Zeitgenossen, sich über das Ausmaß des Krieges für die nächsten Jahre bewusst sein mussten (Riezler).

Diesbezüglich schenkt Münkler den strategischen Optionen Deutschlands nach dem Scheitern des Schlieffenplans eine besondere Aufmerksamkeit und erläutert die Absicht Falkenhayns mit mindestens einem Gegner einen Sepa-ratfrieden zu schließen was, so Münkler, mit den Erwartungen des Militärs ei-nen Siegfrieden zu erreichen im Gegensatz kam und was dazu führte, dass dies Schlussfolgerung Falkenhayns überhaupt nicht in die Öffentlichkeit gebracht wurde weil dies ein „Sakrileg gegenüber der Semantik des Sakrifiziellen war“. Und Münkler bemerkt mit gutem Recht, dass in einer Zeit in der „so viel physi-scher Mut für Kampfhandlungen aufgebracht“ wurde, „der moralische Mut für


Initiativen, die sich gegen den Strom der Ereignisse stemmen und ihn aufzuhal-ten versuchen, überaus gering oder gänzlich fehlt“.

So dass die strategischen Entscheidungen Folge von harten Auseinanderset-zungen zwischen Falkenhayn (dem die Hausmacht fehlte) und der die Entschei-dung im Westen suchte und der Gruppe um Hindenburg und Ludendorff die mit einem entscheidenden Sieg gegen Russland rechneten und folglich die Ver-legung von großen Truppenkontingenten nach Osten verlangten. Alternativ gab es auch die Möglichkeit Truppen auf den Balkan gegen Serbien zu schicken und die Verbindung zum Osmanischen Reich herzustellen.

Diese Frage der strategischen Schwerpunktbildung, zeigt Münkler, führte auch im Rahmen der Entente zu Meinungsverschiedenheiten zwischen Churchill und Joffre dem französischen Generalstabschef der die alliierten Kräfte in Frank-reich konzentrieren wollte und, so Münkler, als hauptstrategische Idee den kon-tinuierlichen Kräfteverbrauch immer wieder vertrat: „Ich knabbere sie auf...“ zitiert Münkler Joffre.

Den großen Schlachten des I. Weltkriegs wird die gebührende Aufmerksam-keit geschenkt: die Tannenbergschlacht (26.-30. August 1916), die alliierte Win-teroffensive vom Dezember 1914 die die Franzosen 90 000 Mann kostete ohne dass sie territoriale Gewinne gebracht hätten, die Winterschlacht der Deutschen in Masuren vom Februar 1915, ein taktisch glänzender Sieg der deutschen 8. und 10. Armee die die russischen Truppen aus Ostpreußen heraus gedrängt ha-ben (90 000 russische Soldaten in Gefangenschaft), die erfolglose Karpaten-schlacht die das österreichisch-ungarische Heer Verluste in einer Größenord-nung von 600 000 an Gefallene, Verwundete und Gefangene gekostet hat, die Auseinandersetzungen im Nahen Osten, in den Kolonien und die Niederalge der britischen Truppen in Gallipoli aber auch die Uneinigkeit, die Rivalitäten und sogar gegenseitigen Intrigen in der deutschen Heeresleitung zwischen der Ober-sten Heeresleitung unter Falkenhayn einerseits und dem Hindenburg, Oberbe-fehlshaber der deutschen Streitkräfte im Nordabschnitt der Ostfront (Oberst) der angetrieben von Ludendorff auf einen Truppentransfer von der Westfront auf die Ostfront bestand, was auch geschehen ist und zum Durchbruch, unter dem Kommando von Mackensen, von Gorlice-Tarnów geführt hatte. Münkler hebt hier den „Innovationsvorsprung“ des deutschen Heeres (Stabschef der 11. Deutschen Armee, Gen. Hans von Seekt, der seine Erfahrungen von der West-front hier anwendete) hervor. Münkler bemerkt jedoch, dass die großen strategi-schen Erfolge der Deutschen im Jahre 1915 konnten nicht in politisches Kapital umgewandelt werden (durch einen Sonderfrieden mit Russland). Und auch die Initiative an der Westfront konnten die Deutschen nicht mehr ergreifen.

Interessant dass Münkler in den Erfahrungen der deutschen Soldaten an der Ostfront den Grund dafür erkennt, dass sich in der Nachkriegszeit die Vorstel-


lung durchgesetzt, dieses Gebiet solle definitiv an Deutschland angeschlossen werden.

Wenn Münkler über den Stellungskrieg im Westen spricht bringt er die The-se britischer Historiker in die Diskussion (David Stevenson) die die taktische Überlegenheit der deutschen Seite bis Juli 1918 behaupten, ja mehr noch, die wie Nial Fergusson die den Mittelmächten eine Vernichtungseffektivität berech-net hat die um ein Drittel größer war als das der Alliierten trotz deren Über-legenheit an Menschen und Material. Münkler zeigt dass diese Überlegenheit im Taktischen auf die größere Lernfähigkeit der Deutschen, eine Lernfähigkeit die sich jedoch nur im Taktischen so erfolgreich äußerte da die „strategischen Lernerfolge“ der Deutschen „begrenzt waren“. Folglich, so Münkler waren die taktischen Erfolge der Deutschen, Grundlage „verhängnisvoller Lerndeffizite“ (dass man den Krieg noch gewinnen könnte, im Felde unbesiegt usw.) die sich in der Zukunft verheerend auf die deutsche Politik auswirken sollten.

Besonders wichtig, Münkler hebt am Beispiel der massenhaften und über lange Zeiträume hin, Anwesenheit der Toten in unmittelbarer Nähe der Sol-daten (weil man die Toten nicht bergen konnte und sie einfach zwischen den Linien liegen gelassen hat), das kriegsgeschichtliche Novum hervor und den „beispiellosen Bruch mit aller bisheriger Zivilisation, deren Anfang dadurch ge-kennzeichnet ist, dass die Menschen dazu übergingen, ihre Toten zu bestatten“.

Gaskrieg (mit technischen und moralischen Implikationen) und die gravie-renden Implikationen der Tradition des preußischen Generalstabs die Politik „kolonisieren“ zu wollen war sowohl unter der Heeresleitung Falkenhayns der dadurch, dass er seine Kriegsziele für 1916 den Reichskanzler daran verhindert hatte einen Separatfrieden mit einzuleiten, wie auch später unter der der Gegen-spieler Falkenhayns, dem militärischen Duo Hindenburg und Ludendorff ein Fakt der letztendlich zur Katastrophe von 1918 führen sollte: „Deutschland hat den Krieg verloren, weil seine politischen und militärische Elite die Paradoxie militärischer Politik nicht begriffen hat und daher nicht wusste, wie sie auf das daraus erwachsene konkrete Dilemma antworten sollte.“

Die strategischen Schlussfolgerungen Falkenhayns Frankreich als dem schwä-cheren Gegner müsse der Wille zum Kämpfen genommen werden und zwar mit einer Ermattungsstrategie die der Oberkommandierende „Ausbluten“, „Weiß-bluten“ oder „Blutpumpe“ bezeichnet. Mit dieser Argumentation sucht die deut-sche Kriegsführung die Schlacht von Verdun. Aufschlussreich definiert Münkler Verdun als das Symbol der Franzosen für Standhalten und Unbezwingbarkeit während Verdun für die Deutschen der Ort wurde „von dem die Todesnachrich-ten kamen“. Münkler schätzt Verdun nach der Schlacht an der Marne zum zwei-ten großen Fehlschlag der Deutschen ein die unter anderem den Unklarheiten Falkenhayns zu verdanken sind aber auch der für die deutschen Bataillonskom-


mandanten neue und ungewöhnlichen Lage strikt nach operativen Vorgaben zu handeln und nicht nach eigenen Einschätzungen der Lage. Übrigens, zeigt Münkler, wurden bei Verdun drei neue Waffen eingesetzt die zu Symbole des Ersten Weltkriegs werden sollten: Giftgas (anders als bei Ypern, abgeschossen), Flammenwerfer und das neue Stahlhelm.

Falkenhayns Kriegsplan bei Verdun war letztendlich gescheitert und er wurde am 29. August entlassen. Münkler zeigt aber, dass ausschlaggebend dafür nicht der Misserfolg von Verdun war, sondern der Kriegseintritt Rumäniens, am 27. August, unter „dessen Eindruck der Kaiser den Krieg zeitweilig für verloren hielt“. An die Spitze des Heeres berief der Kaiser Hindenburg und ihm zur Seite Ludendorff was Münkler als den Anfang des Endes der Hohenzollernmonarchie in Deutschland betrachtet. Hindenburg, der, so Münkler, „weder ein glänzender Taktiker, noch ein genialer Stratege oder tatkräftiger Organisator war“ sollte die Person sein auf die sich die Hoffnungen der Deutschen richten sollten.

Ein besonders Kapitel widmet Münkler dem „Krieg der Donaumonarchie“. Er weist auf die Schwachpunkte der österreichischen Heeres im Jahre 1916 hin (obwohl militärisch gesehen die Lage nicht schlecht war, man hatte Galizien von den Russen zurückerobert, Serbien war geschlagen, die Front am Isonzo hatte sich stabilisiert). Jedoch die großen Verluste konnten nicht so leicht wieder gut gemacht werden (37 000 gefallene, verwundete oder gefangene Offiziere und zwei Millionen Soldaten). Im Grunde, sagt Münkler verfügte Conrad von Hötzendorf über eine Milizarmee, von den 2,3 Millionen Soldaten konnten nur 900 000 an der Front eingesetzt werden. Auch weist Münkler darauf hin dass die Logistik die größte Schwachstelle Österreich-Ungarns bildete, die Haltung Ungarns zur Frage der Ernährung der Truppen, das Alter des Kaisers und das Fehlen des Vertrauens in Deutschland (war auch gegenseitig gültig) erschwerten nur die Kooperation zwischen den beiden Heeren. Sowohl im Osten wie auch im Süden erlitt die Autorität des Offizierskorps einen schweren Schlag was na-tionale und soziale Konflikte nur noch leichter zum Vorschein treten ließ und „nun ihre ganze Zentrifugalkraft entfalteten“. Dies führte zu massiver Fahnen-flucht von Seiten von tschechischen oder ukrainischen Truppen.

Dem Kriegseintritt Rumäniens gegen die Mittelmächte widmet Münkler einige Reihen, sieht diesen als Anlass für den Kaiser Falkenhayn zu entlassen und Hindenburg zu befördern. Münkler schätzt dann die Lage Rumäniens beim Kriegseintritt als „denkbar ungünstig“, da es im Norden und Westen von Un-garn und im Süden von Bulgarien bedroht war.

Münkler bemerkt, dass wenn Rumänien vier Wochen früher in den Krieg eingetreten wären „hätte ihr Angriff bei den Mittelmächten eine Panik auslösen und zu deren militärischen Zusammenbruch führen können“. Dadurch, dass aber unterdessen die Brussilow Offensive zum Stillstand gekommen war konn-


ten die Russen den Rumänen nicht mehr helfen und diese waren auf sich allein gestellt. Der Sieg über Rumänien, so Münkler, brachte den Mittelmächten ma-terielle (360 Geschütze, zwei Millionen Tonnen Getreide, neun Millionen Ton-nen Erdöl) und psychologische Vorteile. Er verstärkte aber auch die Macht von Hindenburg und Ludendorff.

Veränderungen von Taktik (tiefes Verteidigungs- anstatt des geschlossenen Grabensystems), Einsatz von neuen Waffen, Panzern und Flugzeuge, sollten während der Schlacht an der Somme wegen der britischen Artillerie-und Luft-überlegenheit die Ausdauer der deutschen Verteidigung mehrmals an die Grenze des Zusammenbruchs bringen. Mehr noch als die Schlacht von Verdun wird die Schlacht an der Somme als eine enorme Materialschlacht mit Sinnlosen Verlusten wahrgenommen. Münkler bemerkt dass infolge dieser Schlachten die Gesellschaft die Gebrachten Opfer immer mehr als sinnlos und erzwungen betrachtete (zum Unterschied vom Jahr 1914 als man noch bereit war Opfer zu bringen).

Helden und Heldenbilder sowie ihrem Gegenbild, dem Drückeberger wid-met Münkler ein ganzes Unterkapitel. Dieses verändert sich im Zusammenhang mit den taktischen Veränderungen der Jahre 1916: nicht mehr das stürmische Vordringen sondern das stoische Standhalten sollten nun das Merkmal des he-roischen werden. Bis zum Ende des Krieges als man sich bewusst wurde den Krieg nicht mehr gewinnen zu können setzte sich, so Münkler der neue Typus des Kämpfers als Resultat des Krieges durch, so dass man nicht mehr nach dem Zweck sondern nach dem Sinn des Krieges suchte.

Wichtige und interessante Seiten widmet Münkler dem Bau und der Rolle der deutschen Flotte wobei er darauf hinweist, dass es zwischen der britischen und der deutschen Kriegsflotte eine Asymmetrie der Aufgabenbestimmung exi-stierte. Während für die Briten die Flotte sowohl ein politisches wie auch ein militärstrategisches Instrument war, hatte die deutsche Flotte in der Auffassung ihrer Befürworter eine abschreckende Funktion die die Verhandlungsposition des Kaiserreichs stärken sollte und den Deutschen den Anteil am globalen Im-perialanspruch der Briten teilhaben sollte. Dabei bemerkt Münkler dass „Eher waren die Briten bereit, ihren imperialen Globalanspruch aufzugeben als die Deutschen daran teilhaben zu lassen“. Münkler zeigt, dass sich die deutschen Planer die britische Kräftekonzentration in der Nordsee nicht antizipiert haben und folglich auch die daraus entstehenden Handlungsspielräume der britischen Politiker was letztlich für die Gruppe von Politiker, Militärs und Unternehmer um Churchill den Krieg zu einer machtpolitischen Notwendigkeit gemacht hat „der wann möglichst bald Genüge tun musste, um die Kapazitäten für die globale Dominanz wieder freizugeben“, das heißt, mit anderen Worten, dass Churchill den Krieg gewollt und dann auch gehabt hat, wie es sich übrigens, zwei Jahr-zehnte später wiederholen wird.


Nach dem Sieg im Osten (Friede von Brest-Litowsk bzw. Bukarest) hatte Deutschland die Hände frei im Westen. Die Frage die sich jetzt stellte war die Fortführung des Krieges (Ludendorff) oder den Frieden zu suchen (Sozialde-mokraten, Intellektuelle – Friedrich Naumann, Hans Delbrück) aber auch hoch-rangige Offiziere und Beamte war für das Schicksal Deutschlands entscheidend. Herfried Münkler bemerkt zurecht, dass während dem Kaiser, der Hindenburg und Ludendorff von ihren Posten vom Kommando des Heeres abberufen hätte können es aber nicht getan hat weil ihm die „politischen Zügel bereits weitge-hend aus der Hand geglitten“ waren, bedeutete das Gegenteil, also Ludendorf auf seinen Posten als Generalquartiermeister zu belassen, eine Hochrisikopolitik zu betreiben die gerade „selbstmörderisch“ war. Die Entschlossenheit Luden-dorffs den Krieg weiterzuführen und zu gewinnen und die Unentschlossenheit der anderen deutschen führenden Akteure führte dazu, sagt Münkler, dass Lu-dendorffs „operativen Planungen zum Politikersatz in Deutschland wurden und alle Friedensinitiativen im Ansatz steckenblieben“. Es liegt aber nicht nur an Deutschland, dass auch 1918 der Krieg gnadenlos geführt wurde denn auch Großbritannien durch die Stimme von David Lloyd George und Frankreich durch Georges Clemenceau zogen es vor ihre kriegsmüde Bevölkerung weiter-hin den Strapazen des Krieges auszusetzen und endgültig die Macht Deutsch-lands zu brechen.

Kriegsmüdigkeit und Rückgang der Kampfmoral, setzte sich überalldurch, überhaupt nachdem die usa in den Krieg eingetreten (Deutschland konnte auf keinen weiteren Alliierten hoffen), der Unterseebotkrieg nicht die erhofften Er-folge gebracht hatte. Trotzdem, bemerkt Münkler war die Anzahl der Deserteu-re nicht so groß, dass sie die Kampffähigkeit der Truppe in Gefahr setzt.

Unter diesen Bedingungen verfolgte die deutsche Frühjahrsoffensive 1918 das Ausschalten der Briten, denn man hoffte, dass auf dieser Art dann die Fran-zosen, deren Widerstandskraft zermürbt war, an den Verhandlungstisch ge-zwungen werden. Münkler zeigt dass, trotz des Beweises glänzender taktischer Fähigkeiten, Ludendorff strategisch gescheitert ist da er sich unter anderem nicht für den ausschlaggebenden Angriff entscheiden konnte. Außerdem spielte Hindenburg, der Ludendorff noch dazu hätte zwingen können, im Entschei-dungsprozeß keine Rolle mehr. Interessant ist die Deutung die Münkler den 14 Punkten von Woodrow Wilson gibt: der „Frieden ohne Sieg“ sollte eigentlich „der Deckmantel für den Aufstieg der usa zur Weltmachte“ sein. Dass die Deut-schen die Vorschläge Wilsons nicht angenommen haben ist für Münkler unver-ständlich denn eben für die „nationalen Selbständigkeitsbestrebungen“ haben die Deutschen mehr getan als alle Länder der Entente. Dabei bezieht er sich auf die Staaten die im Raume zwischen Finnland, Baltischen Staaten, Polen und Transkaukasien in dem Staaten entstanden, die „zwar Vasallen des Deutschen


Reiches [...] über ein Maß an Unabhängigkeit“ verfügen konnten „wie es im Zarenreich unvorstellbar gewesen war“.

Die vierzehn Punkte waren kurzfristig gegen die Mittelmächte gerichtet, mit-telfristig jedoch sollten sie die Alternative zu der von dem neu entstandenen Sowjetreich angestrebten Weltordnung bieten.

Münkler analysiert dann die unterschiedlichen Deutungen der Verantwortung der Kriegsparteien für den Ausbruch aber auch für den Ausgang des Krieges aber auch die Legende vom „Dolchstoß“ im Rücken des Heeres. Es geht, sagt Münkler um das Dekonstruieren der „beiden großen Lügen“ zur Geschichte der Deutschen die dann während der Zwischenkriegszeit später während der Bun-desrepublik die Politik vergifteten. Münkler beweist, dass die neuere Geschichts-forschung die These Fischers von der alleinigen Verantwortung Deutschlands für den Ausbruch des Krieges („der zufolge Deutschland den Krieg bewusst vom Zaun gebrochen habe“) relativiert hat. Ebenso wird auch die Erschöp-fung der deutschen Truppen und deren Folgen, die Bereitschaft sich kampf-los in Gefangenschaft zu begeben, Desertation usw. nicht unbedingt als „Dolch im Rücken“ oder „verdeckter Kampfstreik“ gedeutet sondern als Ausdruck der übermenschlichen Erschöpfung der das deutsche Heer ausgesetzt wurde, für die, so Münkler, Ludendorff, der auch für eine realistische Beurteilung der Lage unfähig war, keine Sensibilität gezeigt hat, was letztendlich zum Zerbrechen der deutschen Streitkräfte von den Rändern und vom Zentrum her geführt hat.

Münkler schein mit der Meinung Max Webers über die Folgen des deutschen Zusammenbruchs einverstanden zu sein der in einem Brief an Otto Crusius das Ende der weltpolitischen Rolle Deutschlands und die angelsächsische Weltherr-schaft feststellt, dabei nicht zugeben will, dass die deutschen Opfer im Krieg sinnlos gewesen waren und deren Sinn darin sieht, dass von nun an die domi-nierende Macht die usa und nicht Russland geworden ist.

Das Buch Herfried Münklers ist eine der tiefsten Untersuchungen zum The-ma des Ersten Weltkrieges, der Ursachen, des Verlaufs, der Verantwortungen, der taktischen und strategischen Entscheidungen und Erneuerungen, der Be-ziehungen zwischen dem Politischen und dem Militärischen, der Folgen für die Welt und Weltpolitik, der Mächteverschiebungen in Europa und in der Welt. Es ist aber auch eine Analyse der Verantwortungen deren, die die Welt des 20. Jh. in eine Richtung geführt haben die zwar die Übermacht Deutschlands vermieden, jedoch den Weg für die totalitären Systeme des 20. Jh. eröffnet und letztendlich zwischen der russischen und der deutschen Dominanz auf dem Kontinent zu-gunsten Russlands, dem wirtschaftlich schwächeren und weniger konkurrenzfä-higen Partner gewählt hat.

q

T RA N S S I LVA N I C A

Elena Crinela HolomSenior researcher at the Center for Population Studies, Babeº-BolyaiUniversity, Cluj-Napoca.

Romanian Families and Households in Northeastern TransylvaniaEarly 20th Century

e l e n a C r i n e l a H O l O M

Introduction

The family and the household make up the environment in which we spend a significant part

of our lives, therefore these two notions have always been in the researchers’ field of interest. Most of these studies are fo-cused on family, as an important element of society (consisting of males, females and children), but also on households, as a co-residence group (besides the basic family, it could also include other rela-tives, servants, tenants etc.).

Because almost all of us grow up with-in a family, in a household, the study and the analysis of the two notions becomes

This work was possible due to the financial support of the Sectorial Operational Pro-gram for Human Resources Development 2007–2013, co-financed by the European Social Fund, under the project number posdru/159/1.5/s/132400 with the title “Young successful researchers—professional development in an international and inter-disciplinary environment.”

Woman with child, breastfeeding Rebra, Bistriþa-Nãsãud County, 1931

(Photo by D. Galloway)


even more justified. Moreover, lately, we have noticed a great openness towards this subject from both sociologists and historians. The former are increasingly interested in the multiple aspects of intergenerational issues and in the matter of old persons. They aim to discover whether several couples living together within a single household develop a strategy of adaptation to current economic conditions or if they are only subjected to a particular historical tradition. Also, concerning old persons, historians wish to find out how these persons were taken care of in the past and to what extent older people lived their lives within the same household together with close relatives. Historians, especially those from Central and Eastern Europe, are more and more pre-occupied to discover what households used to look like in the past, based on concrete and exact data, eliminating generalizations that classified households only as simple, nuclear or complex.

In the well-known 1965 scheme, which divided Europe into two distinctive camps according to the type of marriage, statistician John Hajnal brought into dis-cussion the issue of household structure, arguing that it was more complex in East-ern and Central Europe than it was in the West and North.1

Nevertheless, the merit of placing the historical study of the household and of the family on factual bases belongs to the researchers from the Cambridge Group for the History of Population and Social Structure. The book of Laslett and Wall, Household and Family in Past Time, proposed a standardized code classification of the domestic group, a manner of determination and classification, which would later be adopted by a series of researchers.2

Later, in the article published in 1982, Hajnal returned to the subject of the household, establishing the existence of some specific rules of structure. Simple households, usually encountered in the northwestern part of Europe, were charac-terized by late marriages, by the fact that after marriage the man used to become the head of the household and by the circulation of young people as servants before marriage. Regarding households with a complex structure, specific to the rest of Europe, marriage took place at an earlier age, the young couple starting their life alongside an older couple. In the case of households consisting of several couples, there was a tendency to split in order to form two or more households, each con-taining one or more couples.3

After applying this classification scheme on the available data, Laslett concluded that the nuclear type of family was a widespread feature for the western part of Eu-rope, where households with a simple structure exceeded 75% of the total amount.4

Many researchers complained that he ignored the international disparities. A tougher critique was related to “murdering” the hypothesis concerning the existence of the stem family (sprout), without studying in depth those areas of Europe where the sociologist Frédéric Le Play (mid–19th century) suggested it might have existed (southern France, parts of Germany, Austria, northern Italy and Spain).5

transsilvaniCa • 93

The classification scheme developed by the Cambridge historians was used by many scientists as a starting point in the analysis focused on the issue of the compo-sition and structure of the family and household. Moreover, the historiography of the Western area is extremely productive, with a large number of books6 and well documented and scientifically valuable articles.7

Lately, these dichotomous schemes began to be increasingly questioned,8 as re-searchers support, in fact, the existence of a variety of family systems in modern Europe. In order to achieve a high quality research, most historians based their investigations on consistent data extracted from databases. Information regarding households was collected from databases such as ceurfamform Database,9 Histori-cal Sample of the Netherlands10 or Mosaic.11 Last but not least, the demographic analysis increasingly focused on the individual12 within an approach focusing on the course of life, also using longitudinal data.13

In the Romanian historical writing, the issue of the household is scarcely present. Generally speaking, the works completed until now support the preponderance of households with a complex structure for 18th–19th centuries Transylvania.14 A very recent and well documented research has proved the supremacy, during the mid–19th century, of the simple households for two towns situated in the Szeklers area.15

For the 20th century, anthropologists support the idea that households generally used to have a simple structure (the case of the Transylvanian villages of Breb and ªanþ). Households with a complex structure are found only in the areas inhabited by Slovaks in Transylvania, by Serbs in Banat and by Romanians in the former Aus-trian military border between Banat and Transylvania.16

The fact that researchers lack specific data, a shortcoming often recognized by the authors themselves, is further proof that based only on their works is impossible to draw relevant conclusions.

The fact that foreign researchers have associated the Romanian household ei-ther with the expanded household, or with the Balkan zadruga, or with the nuclear household specific for some parts of Hungary represents a serious motivation to start a research aiming to outline what the Romanian household actually looked like. An-other important reason is related to the correction of certain inaccuracies launched by some researchers. For example, research carried out in the village of ªanþ in 1936 by Roman Cresin speaks of the existence of a higher proportion of simple house-holds,17 while a relatively recent research, belonging to Gheorghe Şişeştean, speaks of the existence, even during the interwar period, of extended households, such as “house communions.”18 The problem is that none of these researchers provide clear data in order to illustrate the share of households with a simple or complex struc-ture. The fact that historical endeavors have so far pictured realities earlier than the 20th century is another reason for launching an investigation to deal with the issue of the Transylvanian household at the beginning of the 20th century.


This paper is a case study on the households in the villages of Budeşti and Miceºtii de Câmpie (Bistriþa-Nãsãud County) around the year 1901.19 Lo-cated in the northeastern part of Transylvania, separated by a distance of

17 km, the two villages had in 1900 an ethnic structure defined by a Romanian ma jority of over 90%; over 90% of the population embraced the Greek-Catholic con fession.20

The sources we used were printed books named “nominal assessments of souls.” Consisting of more “family sheets,” they present the main identification data on the family, such as the house number, and the name and occupation of the head of family. Besides this information, the sheets also contain data on “persons belonging to the family”: their full name, day, month and year of birth, marriage and death, religion, occupation and a column for comments. In addition, the name of the priest who prepared these records is also mentioned, as well as the starting date of their completion.

Based on this data, the main objective of our research is to outline some aspects regarding the households in the two villages in the year 1901. We want to see which was the average household size and the distribution according to size. We aim to capture the specific structural hypostases of the household. We would also like to re-veal the relationship between marriage and establishing an independent household. And one last aspect we keep in mind concerns the relationship between the age of the head of household and its typology.

The Household: Size and Structure

In the case of the analyzed villages, the average household size was 4.4 mem-bers in 1901. In 1925, households of the village of Poiana Ilvei had an average size of 4.5 members.21 This average was very similar to the realities encoun-

tered in other areas of Southeast Europe. For instance, the Christian community of the Bulgarian village of Čepelare had, in 1920, an average household of 4.7 members,22 and in the Serb village of Orašac, in 1928, the average size was of 4.82 members.23

The analysis of the households from Budeºti and Miceºtii de Câmpie in 1901 revealed that the average household size was small. The situation was encountered, as we have seen, in other parts of Southeast Europe, and is similar to the one in Eng-land and Wales. Here, the average household size was of 4.49 members in 1901.24

In the case of the villages of Budeşti and Miceºtii de Câmpie, the highest per-centage was held by households consisting of 3–6 members (71.5%). Households consisting of only a single person had a modest percentage of only 0.9% (Table 1). The share of households consisting of only 2 persons was of 13.8%, and roughly the same percentage was held by households with a high number of people (7 or more).


All this illustrates the propensity towards creating families, ensuring the existence of heirs and mutual help in a society where life was difficult to bear alone.25

On the other hand, the individual perspective showed a reduction in the share of people who lived alone or in smaller households, but led to an increase in the share of those who lived in large households. Thus, 69.3% lived within households con-sisting of 3–6 people, only 0.10% in households consisting of a single person and 6.28% in households consisting of 2 people. Nearly 25% of individuals lived within large households made up of more than 7 members.

However, the household size was very much influenced by the dynamics of births, marriages and deaths, a more thorough analysis of natural movement com-ponents being able to provide more comprehensive explanations in this direction. On the other hand, possible explanations for the household size in the cases of the analyzed villages can be found in the analysis of their structure.

table 1. distributiOn Of HOuseHOlds and persOns by HOuseHOld size

1901

Households IndividualsN % N %

1 person 3 0.9 3 0.19

2 persons 48 13.8 96 6.28

3–6 persons 248 71.5 1,060 69.3

7–8 persons 40 11.5 295 19.3

9 persons or more 8 2.3 74 4.8

tOtal 347 1,528

sources: See note 19.

In order to identify the structural aspects specific for household size in the investi-gated villages based on the available data, the classification scheme of Laslett-Ham-mel has been applied.26 They proposed the following categories: 1. solitaries (1a. widowed, 1b. single), 2. no family households (2a. co-resident siblings, 2b. other co-resident relatives, 2c. unrelated persons), 3. simple households (3a. married cou-ple alone, 3b. married couple with children, 3c. widowers with children, 3d. widows with children), 4. extended family households (4a. extended upwards 4b. extended downwards 4c. extended laterally 4d. combinations), 5. multiple family households (5a. secondary units up, 5b. secondary units down, 5c. second unit laterally, 5d. frérèches, 5e. combinations).


table 2. HOuseHOld struCture based On CateGOries (%)

Categories1901

Households IndividualsN % N %

1. Solitaries1.a Widowed 2 0.5 2 0.11.b Single 1 0.3 1 0.061. tOtal 3 0.8 3 0.16

2. No family households2.a Co-resident siblings 2 0.5 6 0.42.b Other co-resident relatives 1 0.3 2 0.12.c Unrelated persons 7 2 28 1.82. tOtal 10 2.8 36 2.3

3. Simple family households3.a Married couple alone 44 12.7 95 6.23.b Married couple with children 204 58.7 997 65.23.c Widowers with children 14 4 50 3.23.d Widows with children 24 6.9 99 6.43. tOtal 286 82.4 1,241 81.3

4. Extended family households4.a Extended upwards 17 4.9 69 4.54.b Extended downwards 1 0.3 5 0.34.c Extended laterally 2 0.5 8 0.54.d Combinations 1 0.3 6 0.44. tOtal 21 6.0 88 5.7

5. Multiple family households5.a Secondary units up 0 05.b Secondary units down 22 6.3 130 8.55.c Secondary units laterally 0 05.d Frérèches 4 1.1 25 1.65.e Combinations 1 0.3 5 0.35. tOtal 27 7.7 160 10.5

1–5. tOtal (%) 100 100

1–5. tOtal 347 1,528


The processed data showed that an overwhelming proportion (82.4%) of house-holds had a simple structure: 58.7% were made of married couples with children, 12.7% of couples alone, 6.9% of widows with children and 4% of widowers with children (Table 2). A very similar structure was encountered during the period


1877–1928 in the case of the households from Široka Lãka and Čepelare. The analy-sis of these households located in Bulgaria showed that, in a proportion of 80.8% and 80.7%, their structure was a simple one.27

The same high proportion regarding the structure of the households was discov-ered in the village of Poiana Ilvei, where, in 1925, 73.6% of the households had a simple structure.28

Regarding other types of households, on the next position there were those with a multiple family structure (7.7%), closely followed by those with an extended fam-ily structure (6%). Most of the extended households included the widowed mother or father of the head of the family or similar descendants belonging to the spouse of the head of the family (households extended upwards). They also included the unmarried or widowed brothers of the husband or wife (households extended lat-erally). Perhaps, in this case we can speak of a cohabitation of several generations determined by the need to help old parents or younger orphaned brothers, or those who were widowed and alone.

Of the households in the Bulgarian village of Čepelare, 7.9% had an extended family structure during 1877–1928.29

Households with a multiple family structure represented up to 7.7% of all ana-lyzed households. The most common form of cohabitation included households consisting of at least two generations—that of the married parents and the family of the married son/daughter (multiple households with the second unit downwards). Moreover, the cohabitation within the same household of some married couples of brothers (siblings, frérèches), even if it was not so common, was nevertheless identi-fied in the analyzed villages.

In the case of the Bulgarian village of Čepelare, during the period 1877–1925, the percentage of households with a multiple family structure amounted to 6.8%, while in Široka lãka the percentage reached 7.1%.30

We consider that the presence of households with generations extended upwards and with multiple generations, having the second unit downwards, was linked to an intermediary transition process experienced by the household. It already included those meant to inherit the household, even if the actual accession to the status of “head of household” would occur only after the death of the elder head.

Households without a family structure represented a modest percentage of only 2.8%, and these usually consisted of unrelated persons or orphaned siblings. A per-centage of 2.8% of the households from Čepelare had no family structure.31 More-over, the share of single persons was almost insignificant (0.8%), most of them being widowed. In the case of Široka Lãka, the percentage was of only 0.9%.32

If we take into account individuals as a unit of analysis, the data is very similar to the one that targeted household as the unit of study. A more significant aspect that stands out is connected to the fact that 10.5% of the individuals inhabiting the two villages in 1901 lived within households with a multiple family structure.


The Relationship between Marriage and the Creation of an Autonomous Household

An indicator of the connection between marriage and the creation of an autonomous household is the relationship between the percentage of those married and those who are heads of families. Given the fact that most of the

household heads were male, we applied the analysis only on to the male segment of the population.

The processed data show a significant increase in the number of married men af-ter the age of 25. Therefore, of the total number of males 25 to 29 years of age, 69% were married, 45% being also heads of households, compared to 13% and 10% in the case of males with ages ranging between 20 and 24 years (Figure 1).

fiG. 1. tHe relatiOnsHip between Men’s MarriaGe and tHe establisHMent Of an autOnOMOus HOuseHOld, 1901

0102030405060708090

100

15–1

9

20–2

4

25–2

9

30–3

4

35–3

9

40–4

4

45–4

9

50–5

4

55–5

9

60+

Perc

ent

Age

Ever-Married males

Head of households


Moreover, for the 25–34 age group, among the 82.4% of married men, 60.1% were heads of families. In their case, marriage represented a new status: head of house-hold. Other men began their marital life within extended or multiple households, where older persons, usually parents, held the supremacy.

The almost simultaneous achievement of becoming spouse and head of house-hold role characterized the men belonging to the 40–59 age group, and especially those from the 55–59 age group. Concerning the latter category, out of 30 men, 29 were married and, at the same time, heads of households. It seems that the “with-drawal” from the position of head of family in some cases used to take place later, probably only on the occasion of death, given that among the 90.7% married men over the age of 60, 81.4% still led the household.

m


The Age of the Head of Household and the Typology of the Domestic Group

The aspects regarding the size and composition of domestic groups were not at all fixed issues. Throughout their lives, individuals experienced liv-ing within various types of households, and transitions from one form to

another depended on a number of economic, social and cultural factors.33

I what follows we analyze the relationship between the age of the head of house-hold and the typology of the household, and in order to achieve this we established a series of categories. Extended and multiple domestic groups were graded as complex family groups, groups with a simple structure were placed in the simple category and single individuals and those living outside a family group category were placed in the solitary category.34

fiG. 2. tHe prOpOrtiOn Of siMple and COMplex faMily HOuseHOlds and tHOse Of sOlitaries by tHe aGe Of HOuseHOld Heads

0102030405060708090

100

25–29 30–34 35–39 40–44 45–49 50–54 55–59 > = 60

Perc

ent

Ahe of household head

ComplexSimpleSolitaries


In 1901, most households had a simple structure (88%), being led by young people 20–49 years of age. On the other hand, about 27% of the complex households were headed by a person aged over 50. Also, solitary households became more numerous after the age of 50 (Figure 2).

g


Conclusions

The analysis of the households in the two villages around the year 1901 highlighted their small size (4–5 members). The dominant structure of the household was the simple one, mostly consisting of a married couple and

children. Complex households were also present, but in a slightly lower proportion, as they were a form of support for the elderly, and an intermediate stage of accession to the position of head of the household. On the other hand, solitary life outside the family was not specific in the past in Budeºti and Miceºtii de Câmpie.

The relationship between the percentage of married persons and those who were heads of household showed that marriage meant immediate accession to the posi-tion of head of household, but only for some men. The rest began their marital life within extended or multiple families where the supremacy was held by the parents, sometimes until a very old age.

The relationship between the age of the household head and its typology showed that most complex households were headed by older individuals, aged 50 or more, while simple households were headed, generally, by people younger than 50. How-ever, solitary households were led in most cases by heads over 50 years of age.

q

Notes

1. John Hajnal, “European Marriage Patterns in Perspective,” in Population in History: Essay in Historical Demography, eds. D. V. Glass and D. V. Eversley (London: Eduard Arnold, 1965), 101–143.

2. Peter Laslett and Richard Wall, eds., Household and Family in Past Time: Comparative Studies in the Size and Structure of the Domestic Group over the Last Three Centuries in England, France, Serbia, Japan and Colonial North America, with Further Materials from Western Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972).

3. John Hajnal, “Two Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation System,” Population and Development Review 8 (1982): 449−494.

4. Peter Laslett, “Mean Household Size in England since the Sixteenth Century,” in Laslett and Wall, 85.

5. Michael Anderson, Approaches to the History of the Western Family 1500–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 13.

6. Maria N. Todorova, Balkan Family Structure and the European Pattern: Demographic De-velopments in Ottoman Bulgaria (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2006); Alan Duben and Cem Behar, Istanbul Households: Marriage, Family, and Fertility, 1880–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).

7. David I. Kertzer, “The Impact of Urbanization on Household Composition: Implica-tions from an Italian Parish (1880-1910),” Urban Anthropology 7, 1 (1978): 001–023; David Sven Reher, “Household and Family on the Castilian ‘Meseta’: The Province of Cuenca from 1750–1970,” Journal of Family History 13, 1 (1988): 59–74; Irini Renieri,


“Household Formation in 19th-Century Central Anatolia: The Case Study of a Turkish-Speaking Orthodox Christian Community,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34, 3 (2002): 495–517; Sigfried Gruber and Pichler Robert, “Household Structure in Albania in the Early 20th Century,” The History of the Family 7, 3 (2002): 351–374; Violetta Hionidou, “Independence and Inter-dependence: Household Formation Pat-terns in Eighteenth Century Kythera, Greece,” The History of the Family 16, 3 (2012): 217–234.

8. Mikołaj Szołtysek, “Three Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation System in Historical Eastern Europe: A Challenge to Spatial Patterns of the European Family,” The History of the Family 13, 3 (2008b): 223–257; id., “Rethinking European Europe: Household Formation Patterns in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and European Family Systems,” Continuity and Change 23, 3 (2008b): 389–427.

9. Szołtysek, “Three Kinds of Preindustrial Household Formation,” 223–257; id., “Re-thinking European Europe: Household Formation Patterns,” 389–427.

10. http://www.iisg.nl/hsn/abouthsn/. 11. www.censusmosaic.org. 12. Jan Kok and Kees Mandemakers, “A Life-course Approach to Co-residence in the

Netherlands, 1850–1940,” Continuity and Change 25, 2 (2010): 285–312; Siegfried Gruber, “The Development of Family and Household Structures in Serbia in the 19th and 20th Centuries,” in Household and Family in the Balkans: Two Decades of Historical Fa-mily Research at University of Graz, ed. Karl Kaser (Vienna–Berlin: lit, 2012), 273–287.

13. Christer Lundh, “Households and Families in Pre-industrial Sweden,” Continuity and Change 10, 10 (1995): 33–68; Kok and Mandemakers, 285–312.

14. Adriana Florica Muntean, “Grupul domestic din nord-vestul Transilvaniei în cea de-a doua jumãtate a secolului al XIX-lea,” in Populaþia României: Trecut, prezent, viitor, eds. Traian Rotariu, Sorina Paula Bolovan, and Ioan Bolovan (Cluj-Napoca: Presa Univer-sitarã Clujeanã, 2006), 215; Barbu Ştefãnescu, “Coabitation ‘In Bread’ in Bihor at the Beginning of 18th Century,” in Families in Europe between the 19th and 21st Centuries: From the Traditional Model to the Contemporary paCs, eds. Antoinette Fauve-Chamoux and Ioan Bolovan (Cluj-Napoca: Cluj University Press, 2009), 111–112.

15. Levente Pakot, “Households and Families in Rural Transylvania: A Case Study of Vlãhiþa and Cãpâlniþa, 1868,” Romanian Journal of Population Studies 7, 2 (2013): 21–41.

16. Henri H. Stahl, Istoria socialã a satului românesc: O culegere de texte (Bucharest: Paideia, 2003).

17. Roman Cresin, “Monografia comunei ªanþ,” Sociologie româneascã (Bucharest) 1, 7–9 (1936). 18. Gheorghe ªiºeºtean, “Populaþie ºi structurã socialã în Graniþa Militarã (Militärgrenze)

austriacã: O supravieþuire traversând istoria: Grupul domestic extins din zona Graniþei Militare nãsãudene,” in În cãutarea fericirii: Viaþa familialã în spaþiul românesc în secolele XVIII-XX, eds. Ioan Bolovan, Diana Covaci, Daniela Deteşan, Marius Eppel, and Elena Crinela Holom (Supplement of Romanian Journal of Population Studies) (Cluj-Napoca: Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2010), 275–291.

19. The National Archives of Romania, Bistriþa-Nãsãud County Branch, Budeşti Greek-Catholic Parish Office, Register 15, 1901; Miceºtii de Câmpie Greek-Catholic Parish Office, Register 39, 1901–<1948>.

20. Varga E. Árpád, Erdély etnikai és felekezeti statisztikája: Beszterce-Naszód megye települé-seinek etnikai (anyanyelvi/nemzetiségi) adatai (Budapest–Csíkszereda: Pro-Print, 2001).


21. Elena Crinela Holom, “Characteristics of the Romanian Household in Transylvania be-tween the Second Half of the 19th Century and the First Quarter of the 20th Century: A Case Study,” Romanian Journal of Population Studies 7, 1 (2014): 94.

22. Ulf Brunnbauer, “Families and Mountains in the Balkans: Christian and Muslim House-hold Structures in the Rhodopes, 19th–20th Century,” History of the Family 7, 3 (2002): 344.

23. Gruber, 281. 24. Laslett, 138. 25. George Em. Marica, Satul ca structurã psihicã ºi socialã (Cluj-Napoca: Argonaut, 2004),

172–179. 26. Eugene A. Hammel and Peter Laslett, “Comparing Household Structure over Time and

between Cultures,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 16, 1 (1974): 96. 27. Brunnbauer, 335. 28. Holom, 95. 29. Brunnbauer, 335. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid. 33. Duben and Behar, 62. 34. Pakot, 30.

Abstract Romanian Families and Households in Northeastern Transylvania: Early 20th Century

This paper is a demographic analysis of the Romanian household in Transylvania at the beginning of the 20th century. The case study on the Greek-Catholic communities in Budeºti and Miceºtii de Câmpie (Bistriþa-Nãsãud County) is based on the “nominal assessments of souls” from 1901. The processed information revealed that the domestic group was small (4–5 members) and that households with a simple structure predominated. Investigating the relationship between the per-centage of married persons and those being heads of household showed that marriage meant im-mediate accession to the position of head of household, but only for some men. The others began their marital life within extended or multiple families, where supremacy belonged to parents, sometimes until a very old age. The relationship between the age of the head of household and its typology underlined that most of the complex households were headed by an old man, while households with a simple structure were led by a young person.

Keywordshousehold size and structure, household formation, Transylvania at the beginning of the 20th century

Der JosephinismusEin regional wenig erforschtes Phänomen?K u r t s C H a r r

Die Miszelle basiert auf einem Vortrag, der anlässlich der Enthüllung des Bass-Reliefs für Joseph II. in der Österreich-Bibliothek Klausenburg/Cluj-Napoca am 26. Oktober 2015 gehalten wurde. Der Beitrag ist Teil eines vom österreichischen Fonds zur Förder-ung der Wissenschaft (fwf) geförderten Pro-jektes Der Bukowinaer griechisch-orientali-sche Religionsfonds 1783-1949 (P 24661; 2012-2016).

ÜBer Joseph ii. hat die Geschichts-schreibung uns bisher nur einseitige Darstellungen geliefert. Denn die Mit-glieder seiner Familie, besonders seine Nachfolger, betrachteten ihn als den Totengräber der Monarchie, weshalb die amtlichen Historiker sein Andenken ziemlich lieblos behandelten. Die öster-reichischen Liberalen dagegen feierten ihn als Initiator des Liberalismus. Da die einen wie die anderen von vorge-fassten Meinungen ausgingen, scheinen sie weder seinen wahren Charakter noch die vielfältigen Widersprüche in seinem Wesen verstanden zu haben.

françois fejtö (franz plan), Joseph II. Kaiser und Revolutionär, 1954

T A N G E N C I E S

Kurt ScharrPriv.-Doz. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Institut für Geschichts-wissenschaften und Europäische Ethno-logie, Universität Innsbruck.

Kaiser Joseph II. des Heiligen Römischen Reiches und Erzherzog von Österreich.

Farblithographie des 19. Jh. nach einem Ölgemälde von

Gertrude COrnélie Marie de péliCHy (1743-1825) im Groeningemuseum Bruges.


AusGehend von der Einschätzung Fejtös ist aus dem Blickwinkel Sieben-bürgens und der 2015 in Klausenburg/ClujNapoca erfolgten Einweihung eines Reliefs für Joseph II. eine zentrale Frage zu formulieren: Wie kön-

nen wir dieses komplexe und in der Forschung weithin immer noch vernachlässigte Phänomen „Josephinismus“ (ist es denn überhaupt eines?) insgesamt fassbar ma-chen, ohne darüber die Wirkmächtigkeit in seiner Langen Dauer aus dem Blickfeld zu verlieren? Einer der zentralen Angelpunkte der josephinischen Reformen lag in der Neugestaltung des Verhältnisses zwischen Kirche und Staat. Nicht nur, dass die Kirche im ausgehenden 18. Jahrhundert in ihrer (Herrschafts-)Struktur immer noch eine weitgehend vormoderne Verfasstheit aufwies, sie stand etwa dem vom Staat intendierten direkten Zugriff auf die Untertanen (die künftigen Staatsbürger) im Wege; sie lieferte über ihr Vermögen aber eben auch einen bedeutenden fi-nanziellen Beitrag für die Durchführung der Reformen selbst. Zudem – und hier sehen wir die zeitübergreifende Wirkmächtigkeit der Prozesse des Josephinismus deutlich – bezieht die Kirche in Österreich bis heute Mittel aus dem Staatsbudget. Die Grundlage dafür geht auf der Einrichtung des Religionsfonds unter Joseph II. zurück.1 Diese Gesichtspunkte sollenim Folgenden ein stärkeres Augenmerk erhalten. Zugleich will der Beitrag auf einen bislang in der Beschäftigung mit dem Josephinismus kaum ausreichend beachteten Aspekt – dessen regionale Auswirkun-gen im Vergleich – als Desiderat der Forschung hinweisen.

Der Josephinismus als eine bedeutende jedoch – zugegeben – spezifische Variante des aufgeklärten Absolutismus gilt in der Forschung unbestritten als eine gesamtge-sellschaftliche Reformbewegung. Sein deklariertes Ziel lag in der Durchsetzung des modernen Staates. Zu den Charakteristika dieses Phänomens in den habsburgischen Ländern zählt, dass dieser Reformansatz weniger von einem übergeordneten phi-losophisch begründeten Ideengebäude, denn vielmehr von der eigentlichen Praxis der Aufklärung selbst ausging.2

Die dadurch angestoßenen prozesshaften Veränderungsbewegungen bzw. die Langzeitwirkungen sind in ihrer beträchtlichen Tiefe bislang noch viel zu wenig ausgeleuchtet worden.3 Dazu kommt ein nicht unbedeutender Faktor, seine regional differenzierte Wirkung.4 So widmen sich bis dato nur einige wenige Studien gerade den „Josephinismen“ auf Ebene der österreichischen Länder.5 Noch spärlicher ver-läuft die Auseinandersetzung über das durch den Joseph II. neu begründete Ver-hältnis von Kirche und Staat innerhalb konkreter Regionen des Habsburgerreiches.6

Es sind vor allem vergleichende Studien, die fehlen, und, die vorhandene Ergeb-nisse zur Wirkmächtigkeit dieses Reformphänomens zusammenführen könnten, um damit letztlich ein neues, räumlich differenziertes jedoch komponiertes Gesamtbild des Josephinismus für die Habsburgermonarchie zu schaffen.7

Schon mit den Reformansätzen unter Maria-Theresia kristallisierte sich die Kirche immer mehr als ein „störendes Element für den absolutistischen Verwaltungs- und Wirtschaftsstaat”8 heraus. Einerseits standen die Klöster für eine nicht mehr zeit-gemäße Feudalordnung. Sie verhinderten in ihrem Machtbereich den unmittelbaren Durchgriff des Staatsapparates auf die Untertanen.9 Zum anderen sah die Staats-

tanGenCies • 105

verwaltung in der Kirche als größtem Grundbesitzer eine weitgehend tote Hand, in der sich beachtliche Vermögenswerte angehäuft hatten, die nach den zeitgenös-sischen Vorstellungen keine effiziente Nutzung mehr erkennen ließen.10Auch an der staatsloyalen Erziehung der Untertanen war die Kirche dringend angehalten, ihren Beitrag zu leisten. Zielte das Theresianische Schulwesen etwa noch hauptsächlich auf die tiefere Verwurzelung des Katholizismus in den unteren Volksschichten ab11, so hatte die Kirche unter Joseph II. bereits als loyaler Diener am Staat insgesamt zu fungieren. Ihrerseits war es aus der Perspektive des Staates mithin Aufgabe, eine möglichst breite wie direkte Kontaktmöglichkeit des Staates mit seinem Volk her-zustellen.12 Dafür musste allerdings andererseits die einheitliche Ausbildung der Priester (außerhalb der bischöflichen Seminare) und deren regelmäßiges wie standes-gemäßes Einkommen garantiert werden.

Dergestalt war klar, dass das fiskale Element, die Finanzierung des Staates und seiner neuen Aufgaben, zum Dreh- und Angelpunkt der Reformen der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts geriet.13 Eine dafür vermeintlich ausreichend gut schüt-tende Quelle glaubten der Staat und sein oberster Diener, der Kaiser, im Kirch-envermögen entdeckt zu haben. Die Patente von 1781 bis 1783 regeltenin der Folge den Umgangmit jenem Vermögen, das durch die Säkularisierung frei gewor-denen und über neu geschaffene Religionsfonds zu verwaltenwar.14 Eine völlige Abhängigkeit der Kirche von der Staatsgewalt war in den katholischen Ländern hingegennicht durchsetzbar15, wohl aber eine über die Religionsfonds mithin aus-geübte zentrale Kontrolle. Über diese neu geschaffene Institution gelang es letztlich, Bischöfe wie Klöster fast gänzlich aus der Verwaltung des Kirchenvermögens (und den Ent scheidungen darüber) hinauszudrängen.16 Der aus Kirchenkreisen (gele-gentlich bis heute) eingebrachte Vorwurf, damit lediglich Kapital „auf kirchlicher Seite aufzulösen [...] um [es] auf staatlicher Seite in großen Fonds anzuhäufen”17 ist in dieser Form kaum haltbar. Im Gegenteil, die Mittelverwendung dieser Fondswar streng zweckgebunden, zu Gunsten der Kirche.18 Das erlöste und im Religionsfond verwaltete Kapital blieb in seiner rechtlichen Natur „fideikommissarisch“, wonach „das ganze geistliche Vermögen nach dessen echtem Ursprung und Endzweck, auch nach dem wahren Geist der Kirche als ein für das Beste des Seelenheils und der Armuth bestimmtes Patrimonium anzusehen sei.”19 Der Staat übte dabei die Ver-waltung und – in Person des Kaisers – die letzt entscheidende Instanz aus.20 Indes blieben die Rechtsverhältnisse, also die Frage, wem nun das Eigentum an diesen in den Religionsfonds gelagerten Kirchenvermögen zustand, im Unklaren.

Wenn die Fonds (die – was die katholische Kirche betrifft – in der Folge zu einem einheitlichen Fonds zusammengeführt wurden) auch den geistlichen Stän-den als eine der Ursachenihres persönlichen Machtverlustes erschien, so befand sich nun mehr doch der Staat gegenüber der Kirche in der Pflicht. Der mit dem Reli-gionsfonds geschaffene Modus war insgesamt besser in der Lage, diese zu erfüllen als es die Partikularinteressen regional agierender kirchlicher Institutionen ermögli-cht hätten. Eine totale Sequestrierung hingegen hätte hier wahrscheinlich in einem für die Kirche letztlich ungünstigeren Verhältnis resultiert.21 Die Weltpriesterschaft


akzeptierte dies weitgehend22, konnte damit doch die langfristige Finanzierung der Schulen sowie der Pfarren sichergestellt werden, freilich nicht selten unter notwen-diger Beteiligung der Staatskassen, da der Religionsfonds dazu in der Regel nicht in der Lage war.23

Der vorwurf einer im Allgemeinen inkonsequenten wie sprunghaft agie-renden Politik Josephs II.24 mag sich am Beispiel des katholischen Reli-gionsfonds bestätigt finden. Insgesamt wäre es indes verfehlt, den Jose-

phinismus ähnlich der französischen Aufklärung als von vornherein kirchenfeindlich zu deuten. Die Kompromisshaltung im Hinblick auf das übergeordnete Ganze – der Neuaufstellung des Staates – stand hier deutlich im Vordergrund und war weithin bestimmend.25 „Die josephinischen Reformen – so der Historiker Franz Hermann – entbehren vielfach des geschlossenen, festen Aufbaues. Sie stellten eine Verbind-ung von finanzpolitischen, sozialreformerischen und reformkirchlichen Absichten dar. Sie können fast alle als einzelne, selbständige Reformwerke angesehen werden, aber auch mit manchem Recht als Teil der großen, umfassenden, im Religionsfonds verkörperten Idee.”26 Dass sich mit dem Religionsfonds auch die zentrale „Idee von der Einheit [... des] Landes verband und diese im josephinischen Staate zur Recht-sauffassung geworden ist”27, trifft letztlich für den katholischen Religionsfonds in seiner Wirkung vielleicht in geringerem Maße zu als für den einzigen ostkirchlichen, den griechisch-orientalischen Religionsfonds der Bukowina. Gerade hier, an der Pe-ripherie des Reiches, zeigten die Reformintentionen Josephs II. bis zur Auflösung der Monarchie die meiste Kontur. Der Bukowinaer Religionsfonds geriet zu einer jener Stellschrauben des Herzogtums, die nicht nur für die ökonomische Ausgestal-tung des Kronlandes, sondern auch für die Identitätsstiftung ihrer Bewohner einen nicht zu vernachlässigenden Beitrag leisteten; mithin ein Grund, den Josephinismus in Forschung und Wahrnehmungseiner Langen Dauer verstärkt auch von den Rän-dern des Reiches herverstärkt ins Blickfeld zu rücken, als dies bisher der Fall war.

q

Anmerkungen

1. Faktisch war das Vermögen des Fonds durch den Ersten Weltkrieg und die nachfolgende Inflation arg geschädigt worden. Die Finanzierung der Kirche musste daher durch das Konkordat von 1933 neu geregelt werden. Der Religionsfonds selbst wurde 1939 mit der Einführung der Kirchensteuer durch das Deutsche Reich kassiert, womit auch die Aufhebung der staatlichen Patronatsverpflichtung verbunden und der Fonds 1940 de facto aufgelöst worden war; Karl W. Schwarz (2007): Das Verhältnis von Staat und Kirche in Österreich. In: Zeitschrift für evangelisches Kirchenrecht 52/3, S. 464-494, hier S. 485 f.; Irene Bandhauer-Schöffmann (2004): Entzug und Restitution im Bereich

tanGenCies • 107

der Katholischen Kirche (= Veröffentlichungen der Österreichischen Historikerkommis-sion. Vermögensentzug während der ns-Zeit sowie Rückstellung und Entschädigungen seit 1945 in Österreich 22/1), Wien u.a., S. 39ff. De jure jedoch kommt der katholische Religionsfonds in Österreich (nach der formalen Wiedereinsetzung durch den Staatsver-trag 1955, Art. 26) erst 1988 zur Auflösung; vgl. Bundesgesetz v. 22.I.1988 betreffend die Auflösung der Religionsfonds-Treuhandstelle, bGbl. Nr. 98/1988.

2. Helmut Reinalter (2010): 1790. Tod Joseph II. Aufklärung und Josephinismus. In: Martin Scheutz und Arno Strohmeyer (Hrsg.), Von Lier nach Brüssel. Schlüsseljahre österreichischer Geschichte (1496-1995), Wien, S. 153-165, hier S. 153.

3. Michael Maurer (1999): Kirche, Staat und Gesellschaft im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (=Enzyklopädie Dt. Geschichte 51), München, S. 84; Werner Ogris (1981): Joseph II. Staats- und Rechtsreformen. In: Peter F. Barton (Hrsg.), Im Zeichen der Toleranz. Aufsätze zur Toleranzgesetzgebung des 18. Jahrhunderts in den Reichen Joseph II, ihren Voraussetzungen und ihren Folgen (= Studien und Texte zur Kirchengeschichte und Geschichte, Zweite Reihe, Band VIII), Wien, S. 109-151, hier S. 151; Anton Schindling (1997): Aspekte des „Josephinismus“. Aufklärung und frühjosephinische Reformen in Österreich. Ein Essay zu dem klassischen Werk Eduard Winters. In: Erich Donnert (Hrsg.), Europa in der Frühen Neuzeit (= Festschrift f. Gunter Mühlpfordt zum 75. Geburtstag; Aufbruch zur Moderne 3), Weimar u.a., S. 683-690, hier S. 690.

4. Schindling (1997), S. 683 (vgl. Anm. 3). 5. Helmut Reinalter (Hrsg.) (1993): Der Josephinismus. Bedeutung, Einflüsse und Wirkun-

gen (=Schriftenreihe der Intern. Forschungsstelle Demokrat. Bewegungen in Mit-teleuropa 1770-1850, 9), Frankfurt a. M. u.a., S. 8; vgl. Dslb. (2008): Josephinismus als aufgeklärter Absolutismus – ein Forschungsproblem? Gesellschaftlicher Strukturwandel und theresianisch-josephinische Reformen. In: Wolfgang Schmale, Renate Zedinger und Jean Mondot (Hrsg.), Josephinismus – eine Bilanz (Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Gesell-schaft zur Erforschung des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, Bd. 22), S. 19-33.

6. Vgl. Hermann Franz (1908): Studien zur kirchlichen Reform Joseph II., mit besonderer Berücksichtigung des vorderösterreichischen Breisgaus, Freiburg i. B.; Bernhauer (1989): Kirche sowie Vincenc Rajšp (2002): Die Religionsfonds auf dem Gebiet des heutigen Slowenien und der Ankauf der Wälder in Oberkrain durch den Krainer Religionsfond. In: Alenka Šelih (Hrsg.), Država in cerkev (=Razprave. Slovenska Akademija Znanosti in Umetnosti, Razredza Zgodovinske in Družbene Vede 19), Ljubljana, S. 433-442.

7. Vgl. Karl Gutkas et al. (Hrsg.): Österreich zur Zeit Kaiser Joseph II. Mitregent Kaiserin Maria Theresias, Kaiser und Landesfürst (Stift Melk 29.III.-2.XI.1980 Niederösterrei-chische Landesausstellung), Wien.

8. Schindling (1997), S. 688 (vgl. Anm. 3). 9. Ogris (1981), S. 122 u. 136 (vgl. Anm. 3). 10. Karl Otmar Freiherr v. Aretin (1985): Der Josephinismus und das Problem des katholis-

chen aufgeklärten Absolutismus. In: Richard G. Plaschka et al. (Hrsg.) (1985), Ös-terreich im Europa der Aufklärung. Kontinuität und Zäsur in Europa zur Zeit Maria -Theresias und Josephs II., Band 1, Wien, S. 509-524, hier S. 515.

11. Schindling (1997), S. 688 (vgl. Anm. 3). 12. Fritz Valjavec (1945²): Der Josephinismus. Zur geistigen Entwicklung Österreichs im

achtzehnten und neunzehnten Jahrhundert, Wien, S. 62 u. 65.


13. Georgine Holzknecht (1914): Ursprung und Herkunft der Reformideen Kaiser Josefs II. auf kirchlichem Gebiete (=Forschungen zur inneren Geschichte Österreichs, Heft 11), Innsbruck, S. 66 u. 79.

14. Verwendung des Vermögens der aufgehobenen Klöster, Kropatschek, Handbuch II, S. 272; abgedruckt in Harm Klueting (Hrsg.) (1995): Der Josephinismus. Ausgewählte Quellen zur Geschichte der theresianisch-josephinischen Reformen, Darmstadt, S. 295 Nr. 121; im Überblick Max v. Hussarek (1909): Religionsfonds. In: Ernst Mischler und Josef Ulbrich (Hrsg.), Österreichisches Staatswörterbuch. Handbuch des gesamten ös-terreichischen Rechtes, Band 4 (R-Z), S. 92-103, hier S. 92.

15. Herbert Rieser (1963): Der Geist des Josephinismus und sein Fortleben. Der Kampf der Kirche um ihre Freiheit, Wien, XI; Aretin (1985) S. 521 (vgl. Anm. 10).

16. Friedrich Hörtnagl (1950): Die Stellung der Religionsgesellschaften im österreichischen Kaiserstaate zur Zeit Maria-Theresias und Josef’s II., Dissertation Universität Innsbruck, Innsbruck, S. 106.

17. Rieser (1963), S. 43 (vgl. Anm. 15). 18. Sebastian Brunner (1874): Joseph II. Charakteristik seines Lebens, seiner Regierung

und seiner Kirchenreform, mit Benutzung archivalischer Quellen, Freiburg i. B., S. 200 u. 225; a. d. Kabinettschreiben Joseph II. a. Graf Blümegen 27.II.1782, zit. nach Hus-sarek (1909), S. 92 (vgl. Anm. 14).

19. Carl Hock und Hermann I. Bidermann (1879): Der österreichische Staatsrath (1760-1848). Eine geschichtliche Studie, Wien, S. 418.

20. Dieter Binder (1999): Religionsfonds. In: Walter Kasper (Hrsg.), Lexikon für Theolo-gie und Kirche, Freiburg u.a., Band 8, Spalte 1049.

21. Franz (1908), S. 252 (vgl. Anm. 6). 22. Valjavec (1945²), S. 66 (vgl. Anm. 12). 23. Franz (1908), S. 119 f. u. 254 (vgl. Anm. 6). 24. Schindling (1997), S. 690 (vgl. Anm. 3). 25. Aretin (1985), S. 519 (vgl. Anm. 10). 26. Franz (1908), S. VI (vgl. Anm. 6). 27. Ebd.

AbstractJosephinism: A little investigated regional phenomenon?

The policies of Joseph II were sometimes described as somewhat inconsistent, as indicated, for example, by the seizure of the religious funds belonging to the Catholic Church. However, as in the case of the French Enlightenment, it would be wrong to consider Josephinism as being from the very beginning fundamentally hostile to the church. On the contrary, a tendency to seek a compromise can be clearly seen in the background and its basic elements can be identified.

KeywordsJoseph II, Catholic Church, fiscal measures

Andreea Dãncilã IneoanResearch assistant, Center for Population Studies, Babeº-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca.

Marius EppelSenior researcher, Center for Population Studies, Babeº-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca.

The Ties That DivideNationalities and Confessions in the Debate on Civil Marriage in the Hungarian Parliament (1894–1895)

a n d r e e a d Ãn C i l Ã i n e O a n

M a r i u s e p p e l

This work was supported by the strategic grant uefiscdi, pn-ii-ru-te-2014-4-1231.

Methodology

The speeches made by the mem-bers of the ecclesiastical elite in the Upper House of the Hun-

garian Parliament can certainly be read through the lens of the political activity they conducted over a period of time that was marked by formidable polemi-cal effervescence. The political modern-ization of Dualist Hungary cannot be understood outside a reconsideration of the reactions, strategies and goals of these high prelates, who had numerous goals on their agendas.

Far from being an approach under-taken strictly from the vantage point of ecclesiastical historiography, this study aims to explore aspects of the church–state relations in Dualist Hungary at the interface between various fields of analysis (historical, political, religious and discur-sive) using a source that has rarely been investigated in the context of this debate, namely, the parliamentary speeches occa-sioned by this bill of law. We shall there-

“Political decay and national catastrophes are always preceded by the ethical disease to which society falls prey.” (Lørincz Schlauch)


fore use, as a relevant support for our analysis, the speeches delivered in the Budapest Parliament,1 speeches that may reveal both the official positions of the church and the state representatives and the dialogue between these two categories of authorities.

The Upper Chamber (the equivalent of the House of Lords) of the Hungarian Parliament, also known as the House of Magnates, included ex officio the represen-tatives of all the recognized churches. With approximately 750 members until the 1885 Reform and 350 members after that date, the Upper Chamber of the Hungar-ian Parliament comprised 50–60 high prelates (their number varied depending on the vacancies of episcopal sees), metropolitans and bishops, representatives of the dioceses on the territory of Transleithania, all of them forming a genuine spiritual aristocracy.2 By definition a conservative institution during the period of dualism, the House of Magnates tended to be a passive, non-intrusive legislative partner (except in a few situations that included the issue of civil marriage).3 From 1867 to 1918, it was the Chamber of Deputies that functioned as the decisional body of the Hungarian Parliament, operating like a genuine legislative laboratory that reflected the pace of modernization in society.4

In the course of our research, a legitimate question arose concerning the degree of representativeness of the Mosaic cult in the House of Magnates. In this context, we should mention the fact that the Mosaic cult was not officially recognized until the second half of the nineteenth century. The Hungarian state refused to recog-nize the Mosaic religion and to grant it full reciprocity and equality with the other religions in Hungary. It was not until the summer of 1849 that the Hungarian politicians demanded that Parliament should adopt a series of amendments for the recognition of the Mosaic religion. Then, several years later, references to the Mo-saic faith were introduced in the Patent of 29 May 1853 for the implementation of the General Civil Code in the Principality of Transylvania.5 As regards the participa-tion of the leaders of the Mosaic religion in the sessions of the House of Magnates, historians insist that this occurred only after 1895.6

The parliamentary setting of the House of Magnates is highly relevant for our analysis on the dilemmas experienced by the church representatives, as they had to adopt a clear position on the issues under debate and to manage several types of rela-tions: church vs. state, the Catholic/Reformed/Orthodox/Greek-Catholic denomi-nation v. Hungarian liberalism, interfaith dialogue, the representatives of the church vs. confessional leaders and/or national leaders, etc.

The parliamentary rostrum is a public space of official, normative, ritualized po-litical action. Hence, the context in which speeches are delivered from the rostrum should be taken into account in any analysis of parliamentary debates.7 This per-spective on the chronotope of parliamentary debates channels the subject of our presentation towards the sphere of political analysis. As members of the House of Magnates, hence, as contributors to a platform of political debate, the higher clergy were compelled to employ a political type of discourse, to negotiate with the politi-cal class and, ultimately, to assume the role of interlocutors in the process of finding political solutions to various issues.

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We were inspired, in this research, by the approaches initiated by Rogers Brubaker, who considers that understanding certain conceptual categories like na-tionalism or modernism is not possible without analyzing how these concepts are used at the level of discourse.8

Context

E specially after 1867, the religious denominations and the consciousness of belonging to one church or another became essential factors in the transfor-mation of Hungary’s national minorities into “genuine nations pre–1918.”9

The multiethnic composition of Dualist Hungary was further complicated by inter-esting confessional differentiations, in what was an already very tense context of the modern period.

Up until the reform of 1894, in Hungary there were eight marriage laws regu-lated by the church.10 Whereas the state-church relationship was governed by clear laws and statutes in Western societies, the so-called customary laws prevailed in Hungary and in other Eastern European areas. These laws had generated a variety of administrative practices, which allowed each of the churches to operate within the limits of their own religious lives.11

The Liberal Hungarian Party had made numerous attempts at legislative stan-dardization, including in the religious sphere, and at adjustments that reflected the principles of secular modernity. Hungarian political liberalism requires different grids of interpretation than those applicable to Western Europe: the competition between Vienna and Budapest, the heterogeneity of Hungary’s population and the political monopoly exerted by the Hungarian nobility entailed a different configuration of liberalism here than those consecrated elsewhere.12 The virulent insistence on matters pertaining to the construction of the national unitary Hungarian state turned this current of opinion into a form of national liberalism predicated on Magyarization, which came into conflict with the other nationalisms emerging in the area.13 A politi-cal current like this, built at the intersection of the liberal and the national programs, prepared the grounds for a highly combative and creative political culture, which, in crisis situations, was willing to equate the idea of progress with the idea of the home-land in order to mobilize significant segments of the population.14

On 7 May 1894, the first debates on the aforementioned bill began in the Up-per Chamber of the Budapest Parliament. This bill of law had already obtained the approval of the Chamber of Deputies. The series of debates continued on 8, 9 and 10 May 1894, when the bill was rejected. Discussions were subsequently resumed on 21 June 1894, when the majority of the House of Magnates voted in its favor.15

The presence of these hierarchs in the Upper Chamber of the Hungarian Parlia-ment did not automatically mean that all of them expressed their positions verbally. On the contrary, the criterion of representativeness and of rhetorical prowess pre-


vailed during those debates. Generally, only the best two orators from each confes-sion took the floor at these meetings.

The positions adopted in relation to this bill are relevant because two distinct camps were delineated among the higher clergy: on the one hand, the representatives of the Catholic, the Greek-Catholic and the Orthodox Churches distinguished themselves as stark opponents of the bill; on the other hand, the Protestant clergy supported it. This division of the clerical elite should not surprise us, for the predictability of the positions the clerics advocated was rooted in Hungary’s more or less recent history.

An examination of the arguments invoked by the church dignitaries in this de-bate will reveal the existence of several antagonistic positions that were significant for the divided responses this problem generated at the level of the entire Hungarian society in the late nineteenth century. Our analysis will focus on the fractures that appeared inside the House of Magnates at the time when this bill was discussed in Parliament, summarized succinctly as follows: the Catholic Church vs. the Liberal Hungarian Government; the Catholic Church vs. the Reformed Church; the Ortho-dox Church vs. the national unitary Hungarian state.

The Rift between the Catholic Church and the Liberal Hungarian State

The first split, which is also the most intensely exploited in historiography, was the opposition between the Catholic Church and the liberal Hungarian state.16

The Dualist Pact of 1867 led to ever bolder challenges concerning the status of the Catholic Church, as the top-tier Hungarian political representatives had begun to be increasingly recruited from among the Protestant liberal intellectuals. Even though it remained dominated by conservative Catholic elements, the House of Magnates was reformed in 1885, when the titular Catholic bishops were removed from the structure of this parliamentary body, as a consequence of the fact that Hun-garian political nationalism was conceived now in supra-denominational terms.17

At the beginning of the first sitting devoted to the subject of civil marriages, the lawyer Bódog Czorda briefly presented the political context that had led to the discussion of this legislative initiative. The denominational pluralism of Hungary had determined the Hungarian political class to embark on a process of successive legislative adjustments to this context, in which the national interest was to prevail. However, a remark in this argument (“the Hungarian state has always maintained its independence from Rome”18) triggered a tense dialogue between the Hungarian political leaders and the leaders of the Catholic Church. Czorda’s statement was a covert attack against the Catholic Church, suspected of placing the interests of the Vatican above the Hungarian national interests. The liberal politicians had used, from the very outset of this debate, a sort of discursive Manichaeism (Vatican vs.

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Budapest) in order to mobilize their followers and thus block, by recourse to the na-tionalist sentiment, any possible theological explanations coming from the Catholic hierarchy. The representatives of secular Hungarian politics attempted to under-mine the potentially dogmatic background of the discussion by shifting the focus of attention onto considerations on the functions and the role of the Hungarian state. After the anti-Vatican argument invoked by the Hungarian speaker, the legal aspect was brought into question, as the introduction of civil marriage was deemed to achieve the goal of legislative unification, in a state where matrimonial law dif-fered according to the subjects’ residence, religious denomination or ethnic group membership. The—otherwise predictable—conclusion of the Hungarian Liberal was as follows: it is not the priests, but the state that should play the role of judge in the case of marriages and divorces.19 The rationale of the argument made by the representative of liberal politics revolved around a historical parallelism (past vs. present), used precisely in order to bring out even more poignantly the mutations that the newly envisaged formula of the rule of law could bring about in the sphere of ecclesiastical legislation.

The first to reply was Kolos Vaszary, Primate of Hungary, archbishop of Esz-tergom, the most authoritative voice of the Catholic Church. According to him, the civil matrimonial law was “offensive” not only to the church, but also to the Home-land.20 The historical arguments used by the archbishop of Esztergom in his dem-onstration, which descended in time all the way to the Council of Trent, had a two-fold legitimizing role: they reflected the order established by the Catholic Church, which had survived intact across many centuries, and, even more importantly, they associated the history of this church with the history of the Hungarian nation. The rationale for the rejection of this bill by the Catholic Church rested on fundamental doctrinal principles, impossible to ignore in this situation: “The principles of civil marriage are profoundly detrimental to the dogmas of the Catholic Church,”21 for which marriage was a sacrament that only the church could validate. The tense dialogue between the Catholic Church and the advocates of Hungarian liberalism was translated, in the context of this debate on civil marriage, into two phrases that reflected rigid positions, impossible to be reduced to a consensus: marriage-as-a-sacrament vs. marriage-as-a-civil-contract.

When they gave the reasons for their rejection of the bill, the high Catholic clergymen (besides the archbishop of Esztergom, the Catholic bishop of Oradea /Nagyvárad), Lørincz Schlauch also made a consistent intervention) did not hesitate to accuse the dualistic legislation, considered responsible for giving rise to chaotic situations, such as the one under consideration here. The experiments that the Hun-garian political body had carried out since 1868 had unsettled both churches in Hungary and their believers. The state’s interference in the legislation of the church, especially after 1867, had produced an unprecedented turmoil in the ecclesiastical domain: “The reason for the chaos that prevails in today’s ecclesiastical legislation and in our interdenominational life (an unknown situation before 1868) should be sought not in the canons of the Catholic Church, but in the civil laws. . .”22


The representatives of the Catholic Church admitted, during this debate, that there were some civil consequences of marriage, but did not agree with the phrasing of the bill, which mentioned the existence of two distinct components of this law, one civil and the other ecclesiastical, the civil component being nonetheless binding. This dissociation attempted by the Hungarian authorities led the Catholic bishop of Oradea, Lørincz Schlauch, to address an essential topic, the separation of church and state, an experiment that would represent, according to his opinion, the “begin-ning of a dissolution.”23

Both the Catholic Church and the political parties involved in this debate insisted on arguments borrowed from their own fields of action, this situation explaining the deadlock that ensued. The replies of the Catholic representatives were grounded in truths of faith that were difficult to conceive through the logic of liberalism, for which societal regulation had to prevail over other, competing types of loyalties, be they of an ecclesiastical nature.

After the historical and doctrinal arguments invoked by the Catholic prelates, they switched, at the end of their interventions, to a more dynamic approach, in-sisting on the negative social effects of this legislation. It was not only the church, but also the state that would have to suffer from this liberal law, which was bound to spawn social libertinage. The Catholic Church drew attention to the increas-ingly materialistic climate in which marriage could become the object of financial speculation or could even be removed from the horizon of expectation of the young individuals, through the propaganda that was made in support of this law: “In an age when everything is in motion, we cannot change the institution of marriage and, through it, public morality.”24

In order to avoid limiting the point of view of the Catholic Church to doctrinal details, the archbishop of Esztergom spoke about the natural principles underly-ing marriage: “Because natural law claims that the bond between man and God, between the citizen and the homeland, or between the child and the parent is in-dissoluble, let the bond between the spouses also be indissoluble.”25 The reply was articulated in such a way that by using an argument that was dear to Hungarian nationalist liberalism, the almost metaphysical relationship between the citizen and the homeland was to achieve the same effect, through a semantic transfer, at the level of the relationship between man and God.

Another strategy through which the Catholic Church endeavored to stave off the bill proposed by the political authorities was the use of exemplarity, by identifying among their adversaries personalities of great renown who had publicly expressed their opinion in favor of the ideas upheld by the Catholic clergy. References to famous liberals like Prime Minister Gladstone or the American Minister Phelps26 were intended to counter a strong argument that had been extensively used by the opposing camp, namely, an alignment to the requirements of liberal modernity and of the “civilized world.”

Trying to clarify the state–church relationship, the Catholics steered the course of the debate by insisting that canon law should be accepted by the state, but not is-

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sued by the state. This argument was important because it cancelled the right of the state to intervene in a matter where no interferences were permissible: “The church has not received this right from any state; on the contrary, the Christian states have recognized the right of the church in this respect.”27 Because it affected the “national conscience and morality,” this law had become a political issue, as detrimental here, in the opinion of the Catholic leaders, as it was in the ecclesiastical field.

For Lørincz Schlauch, Catholic bishop of Oradea, the confrontation between state and church occasioned by this debate was based on a crude exercise in ma-nipulation: the attempt to pass civil marriage for an interest of national import.28 As Schlauch contended, the regulation of family life could not be dependent on the political whims of a fickle government that refused to admit that marriage was, in fact, “a social institution, not a state or a political institution.”29 A marriage based on a civil contract represented a way out of the bounds of morality and a symptom of the political decline of the nation: “Political decay and national catastrophes are always preceded by the ethical disease to which society falls prey.”30 When this law was introduced in France, the “sick society”31 there developed the idea of the “rule of law” introducing a system of principles that has not been, to this day, clarified, in which “there are a lot of vague and arbitrary things, whose content and limit is difficult to ascertain even by the most distinguished scholars of the law. . . It is true that there is no nation that could live without the law; but it is also true that there is no nation that could live solely on the law.”32 Schlauch’s arguments triggered the response of Justice Minister Dezsø Szilágyi, who showed that the public good was an area reserved exclusively for the state and not the church and who refused the indications offered by the Catholic prelates as to how societal order should be man-aged. The reply of the Catholic bishop of Oradea was prompt and amounted to a warning addressed to the entire Hungarian political class: “Can [Hungary] afford to reject a tested and loyal partner in the midst of so many centrifugal forces? A nation that is, so to say, still in the stage of fighting for its existence should not try to find its regenerative force by undermining an institution that has the power to give the nation strong and truly patriotic characters only if it remains untouched by profane hands. . . . Is the state in Hungary sufficiently strong to break up a relationship that has lasted for eight hundred years and that has become embedded in the customs, the traditions and the very blood of the Hungarian people. . .?”33

When the archbishop of Esztergom had to explain his vote against this bill of law, he stated that he had decided to act this way after having meditated on all his personal stances: as a Catholic, he deemed this bill to be an “insult” against the doctrines of his church; as a Hungarian citizen, he could foresee the devastating moral and material effects it would produce, especially as regards public morality; and as a member of the House of Magnates, he believed that this act would be an “inexhaustible source of constant complications in our political, social and religious life.”34 The speech of the Catholic prelate and the interrogations around the bill of law led him to ponder the dilemma of loyalties: when he had been sworn in as the highest ecclesiastical authority in Hungary, he swore allegiance to both the head of


his church and the king, so what position should he adopt on this bill so as to not appear to be unfaithful to either of these authorities? He should simply reject the bill, the archbishop of Esztergom curtly concluded.35

The position of the representatives of the Catholic Church in this debate was emblematic for the shock they had experienced in relation to a political class that could no longer imagine the ecclesiastical institution as the nation’s unifying factor.

The Split between the Catholics and the Protestants

This divide at the heart of the Hungarian nation was, in fact, the result of the conflict between one religious denomination that had played a decisive role in the state-building process and another religious denomination that

had been prevalently associated with the nation-building process.36 These were two facets of a well-established mythology in Hungarian political culture, but they also represented the obverse and the reverse facets of an extremely important trope of re-ligious denomination in the imaginary of nationalist liberalism: Calvinists were seen as the supreme defenders of the Hungarian nation, while Catholics were considered Habsburgtreue or manipulated by the Vatican.37

Returning to the debate that revolved around the issue of civil marriages, this rift between the Catholic and the Protestant hierarchs appeared, at times, to have been widened by the political decision makers, who were directly interested in de-stabilizing and dividing the ecclesiastical bloc in the House of Magnates. When the bill was introduced in Parliament, the liberal Bódog Czorda claimed that as long as Catholicism had represented the dominant denomination in the country, the canon law of the church had posed no difficulty to the state, but after the religious edicts of 1790–1791 the context had substantially changed and the legislative projects initiated by the state were now imperative.38 The Catholic higher clergy had been aggravated by the fact that this civil marriage law was of definite Protestant inspi-ration: “Because if this bill of law is passed, then the Catholics will be bound by a civil marriage legislation that has been inspired by the Protestant ideology. . . . Be-cause, according to the Protestants, marriage is: l. a civil contract, 2. dissoluble, 3. its validity can be decided by the state.”39 The Catholic Archbishop Kolos Vaszary rhetorically asked why certain rights granted to the Protestants had been denied to the Catholics, who would be directly affected by this law.40 Vaszary did not forget to caution that if civil marriages were to be introduced, the Catholic clergy would adopt, in the future, the belligerent attitude of their Protestant colleagues in their fight against these deleterious principles. This basically amounted to a relinquish-ment of the attitude of cooperation with the central power and to an allusion to the divergent positions that the two parties would assume as of that moment. It should be noted that throughout his speech, the Catholic archbishop made consistent re-course to the idea of an overlap between the Magyar state and Protestantism. React-

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ing to repeated analogies made by the Catholic speakers, for whom the matrimonial bill of law was, as shown above, the result of a Protestant laboratory experiment, Justice Minister Dezsø Szilágyi intervened firmly and prohibited the confiscation of the subject of civil marriages by these interfaith disputes.

The Protestant camp, attacked by the Catholics, responded initially through the voice of Bishop Pál Zelenka. The bishop claimed that even if the Catholic Church was to lose some of its privileges, the Hungarian society would not be imperiled in any way. On the contrary, he saluted the “amicable separation between the power wielded by the Catholic Church and the sphere of functioning of the state.”41 The ecumenism advocated by the Protestant bishop also conveyed the idea of a weak-ening of the powers of the Catholic Church. Zelenka’s argument borrowed here a famous thesis of Hungarian liberal theology: the idea that religiosity is above the religious denominations.42 Moreover, in many of their interventions on this issue, the representatives of the Reformed Church appeared to behave as ex officio defend-ers of the state and of Hungarian liberalism. Religious arguments were also brought in support of this bill, which was accepted without reservations by the members of this clergy: the desiderata of the liberal state were but the principles of the Gospel put into practice. Moreover, the national, state interests were to prevail over eccle-siastical interests: “I want the citizens to feel that belonging to the state is stronger and more important than belonging to a church or to a denomination” (Protestant Bishop Károly Szász).43

Although the Protestant bishops acknowledged that under this law “the church would give up a great privilege,” this did not represent, in their vision, “an unjusti-fied or a worrisome fact.” The Catholic Church stood to lose the most because of this legislation, but even though this institution was to be deprived of some of its privileges, it had to become an active participant in “the process of building the Magyar state.”44 For the Reformed, the Hungarian state was a project constantly in the making. This could explain the dynamic, much more open solution they proposed for the country’s internal problems. The challenges of modernity and the assaults on the church were regarded with undissimulated serenity by Pál Zelenka and Károly Szász. The two Reformed bishops spoke on this topic in the House of Magnates, stating that at the end of this process the church would find again its true vocation of providing spiritual guidance to the people and that it would withdraw from the political sphere, where the state should be the main organizing power. The representatives of the Protestant Church laid emphasis not upon marriage as a theological topic (unlike the Catholics), but on the usefulness of this legislative ini-tiative for the development of the state: “Do we want to develop side by side with the other nations, in a liberal and national spirit, or do we want to lag behind, to lapse back into the past centuries, into the period before the Reformation, into the Middle Ages?” (Protestant Bishop Szász).45

The two lines of argument, offered in a mirror by the representatives of the Catholic and, respectively, the Protestant Churches, are relevant for the competition these denominations engaged in from 1890 to 1914, when their ultimate goal was


the creation of a religious nationalism.46 The debate was significant for the positions adopted by the two religious denominations in relation to the state: strong rupture in the case of the Catholics, but growing consolidation in the case of the Protestants. Not at all incidentally, in the speeches they made in the House of Magnates, the representatives of the Catholic Church invoked most often the effects this law would have upon their believers, while the members of the Protestant Church made refer-ence primarily to the Hungarian citizens. The two discursive referents are relevant for the different approaches of the two ecclesiastical institutions and for the different ways in which they maintained a dialogue with the Hungarian state.

The Orthodox Churches vs. the National Unitary Hungarian State

In a monarchy in which the Dualist solution had created the need to keep under control and manage the centrifugal forces of the numerous ethnicities residing on its territory, civil marriage legislation was interpreted as an unwarranted interfer-

ence in the internal affairs of the national churches.47 The higher clergy of these ethnic groups, which had no or very few representatives in the Chamber of Deputies of the Parliament in Budapest, took on the role of promoting the political goals of these ethnicities, becoming thus major decision makers among their own nations. It should be noted that the Romantic ideology of bishops as national-political figureheads pre-vailed, in this area, until the end of the nineteenth century and, in some cases, until the eve of the war. The translation of the clerical elite into a political elite should not be shocking in this context, in which such “confusions” of status were customary.

In a multi-ethnic and multi-denominational state, secularization was tantamount to de-nationalization from the point of view of the non-dominant groups, the stakes of this process being related to the ethnic survival of these communities and not necessarily to the terrors that modernization had brought upon the church. The arguments of those high prelates borrowed heavily from the vocabulary of the po-litical leaders and were targeted at an impregnable bastion: ecclesiastical autonomy. The defensive reaction of these churches should be seen in the context of the eccle-siastical-educational legislation that was passed in the latter part of the nineteenth century and that was unfavorable to the development of the national minorities in Transleithania.

The justice minister made direct accusations in the House of Magnates against the representatives of the national churches, who had allegedly used this legislative pretext to alarm the people and to build a victimizing discourse around their own nationality.48 The turmoil created on this occasion had actually fueled covert pro-tests against the Hungarian Government, according to the same justice minister. It was a dangerous situation because it showed the exact measure of loyalism among these ethnic groups. The minister made a direct recommendation to the Romanian

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and the Serbian metropolitans, present in the room: “The high prelates had better enlighten and appease the people...”49

Because of the intense pressure to which the Hungarian power holders had subjected them, the representatives of the Serbian Orthodox Church and of the Romanian Orthodox Church—the only spokesmen of the non-Catholic and non-Protestant minorities that took the floor in this debate—reassured the Hungarian politicians that their point of view would not adversely affect the interests of the Hungarian state. The legalist position consistently upheld by the two Orthodox rep-resentatives was visible throughout the duration of these debates. When the Serbian patriarch was reproached by Prime Minister Sándor Wekerle for having organized a protest meeting in Sremski Karlovci concerning the envisaged civil marriage legisla-tion, he immediately attempted to exculpate himself, using an utterly unconvincing argument: he had been unaware that the meeting in question would be organized, even though he had given his blessing to it. At the end of his specious argument, the metropolitan stated that “I will never stray off the legal path.”50 This exchange of replies is relevant for the power relations between the Hungarian officials and the non-dominant ethnic groups: the latter were always bound to express their al-legiance to the Hungarian state, even when they had to explain gestures or reactions that proved otherwise.

When the politicians attempted to justify their position by presenting the civil mar-riage bill as a project that would strengthen the political unity of the nation, the Ro-manian Orthodox Metropolitan Miron Romanul replied by bringing into discussion the laws of 1868, around which the idea of the Hungarian state had been built. He re-sumed the discussion on the legislative package under the auspices of which the Dualist era had made its debut and which was supposed to ensure also the “free development of the non-Hungarian nations in the country.”51 He did so in order to demonstrate the huge gap between the theoretical premises of these laws and the reality of the year 1894, by which time Romanian-Hungarian relations had severely deteriorated.

The Serbian patriarch and the Romanian metropolitan agreed with the doctrinal arguments provided by the Catholic prelates (“a civil covenant cannot create, in Christian terms, a marriage”52). For many representatives of this clergy, the adop-tion of this law meant a step further in legitimizing the Magyarization policy carried out by the Hungarian state with ever greater intensity in the late nineteenth century.

In order to reinforce this argument but also to avoid a radicalization of his own discourse, Metropolitan Miron Romanul chose to read before the members of the House of Magnates a decision that had been reached in a sitting of the Transylvanian Orthodox Archdiocese and sent to him by telegraph.53 This strategy of detachment from the serious accusations leveled at those who opposed this legislation revealed the difficult task of representation assigned to the higher clergy of Transleithania. When the justice minister made a series of comments on the Romanian metropoli-tan’s intervention, the latter tried to exculpate himself by saying “I was merely quot-ing!”54 This gesture was adeptly speculated by the experienced Hungarian politician, who ironically remarked, to the amusement of the entire audience: “If he was merely


quoting, I will refrain from ascribing to him an opinion that he does not share, but he ought to have made that very clear.”55

From the standpoint of the Orthodox archbishop of the Romanians, the examples from other countries used by the justice minister were annulled by the fact that the tre-mendously diverse ethnic and denominational situation in Hungary did not lend itself to comparative approaches. His point of view was endorsed by the Serbian patriarch, who spoke, in front of the magnates, about a concrete impasse that could arise in the ecclesiastical institution under his tutelage. The Serbian patriarch had jurisdiction over the territories of Croatia and Slavonia, where the effects of this law would not be ap-plicable. A double measure in addressing this matter would produce a major confusion and “even a schism in the Metropolitan Church of Karlovci.”56 Both the Serbian and the Romanian metropolitans concluded that the law under consideration ultimately represented a serious breach of ecclesiastical autonomy. The Serbian patriarch believed that the law would face the Orthodox priests with a difficult dilemma, as they had a duty to follow the doctrines of the church and were forced, at the same time, to take note of the legislative limitations imposed by the state. There were internal regulations of the Orthodox Church governing the marriage of those who were to become priests and the ecclesiastical authorities could not allow the authorities to intervene in these matters. According to the Serbian patriarch, the legislative proposal violated one of the basic principles of liberalism, namely, religious freedom: “We cannot speak of religious freedom when the state forces the good Christian to contract a civil marriage which, according to his faith and conscience, desecrates the very institution of marriage; on the other hand, the religious ceremony, which confers marriage its sacred character, is degraded to the status of an accessory of the civil covenant.”57

As mentioned above, the representatives of the Orthodox Church shared the platform of arguments used by the Catholic hierarchy when rejecting this project on doctrinal grounds, but reserved their right to come up with some amendments referring strictly to the rapports between their church and the Hungarian political establishment. Visibly annoyed by the arguments of the two prelates, the justice minister intervened and requested that they should both dissociate themselves from a dangerous distinction: the citizens’ obligations towards the state vs. those towards the church. Given that the church represented a national institution for the Serbs and the Romanians in Transleithania, the mere suggestion of such a distinction could create an open conflict between the nationalities and the Hungarian state.

The heated debate on this bill of law stood under the aegis of a phenomenon identified by Rogers Brubaker as the “nationalization of the public space,”58 a strong indicator of modernity in general, increasingly visible in Dualist Hungary at the end of the 19th century.

In the context of the one-hundredth commemoration of the outbreak of World War I, the reopening of this huge field of research cannot avoid investigating the internal vulnerabilities of the great empires that were dissolved in the aftermath of this global conflagration. In analyzing the dysfunctionalities that existed in Dualist Hungary prior

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to 1914, the issue of civil marriages can be regarded as a litmus test that will provide important data on the challenges brought about by modernity in a space in which the political establishment was constantly besieged by waves of competing nationalisms.

At the end of four intense sessions in the House of Magnates and after an initial rejection, the civil marriage bill of law received the approval of this parliamentary body and came into force in 1895. As the arguments above have tried to show, this bill of law and the debates it generated recalibrated not only the relations between the Catholic Church and the Hungarian state, but also those of the Protestants with the state or with the other religious denominations, including the Orthodox, who were extremely sensitive to any interference of the central authorities. As a direct consequence of this law, Hungarian Catholicism embarked on a political project that would serve as a counterweight to liberalism, setting up the Catholic People’s Party in 1895; the Protestant churches consolidated their dialogue with the state; the Orthodox created resistance structures against the danger of Magyar assimila-tionism and formed a political and cultural elite increasingly attuned to the practices of challenging the national unitary Hungarian state.


Notes

1. The speeches are fully reproduced in Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója 3 (Budapest: Hiteles Kiadás, 1894).

2. For a history of the House of Magnates and a list of the projects for reforming this par-liamentary institution, see Szalai Miklós’s study “Førendiházi reform Magyarországon 1885-ben,” Történelmi Szemle 6 (2012): 1294–1338.

3. The political positions of this parliamentary body should be seen in the context of the pres-sure exerted by the Hungarian political leaders, who constantly came up with projects for re-forming the Upper Chamber of the Hungarian Parliament, including through the appoint-ment of new members, so as to fundamentally change its orientation. Ibid., 1329–1338.

4. Ibid., 1311. 5. Ioan Bolovan and Marius Eppel, “Churches and Interfaith Marriages in Transylvania:

From 1895 to the Present,” in Intermarriage throughout History, eds. Luminiþa Dumã-nescu, Daniela Mârza, and Marius Eppel (Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), 282–283.

6. The Jewish population had much better representation in the House of Magnates after the adoption of Law 22 in 1926, when the Upper Chamber of the Hungarian Parliament was restructured. László Péter, “Church-State Relations and Civil Society in Hungary: A Historical Perspective,” Hungarian Studies 10, 1 (1985): 28.

7. For several other seminal remarks on the importance of context in the analysis of par-liamentary debates, see Teun A. van Dijk, “Text and context of parliamentary debates,” http://www.discourses.org/OldArticles/Text%20and%20context%20of%20parliamen-tary%20debates.pdf. Accessed 28 February 2016.


8. Rogers Brubaker, Nationalism Reframed, Nationhood and the National Question in the New Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 7.

9. Jenø Gergely, “Churches since the Establishment of the Hungarian Kingdom up to Modern Times,” 4. http://www. mfa. gov. hu/NR/rdonlyres/0C80E8AE-8214-4B2E-B535-031407D28DCB/0/Egyhazak_en. pdf. Accessed 29 February 2016.

10. Andrea Nagy, “A házassági perek szabályozása az 1894. évi XXXI. Tc. hatályba lé-pését követøen,” Sectio Juridica et Politica Miskolc 25, 2 (2007): 635–654. http://www.matarka.hu/koz/ISSN_0866-6032/tomus_25_2_2007/ISSN_0866-6032_to-mus_25_2_2007_635-654.pdf. Accessed 16 February 2016.

11. László Péter, “Church-State Relations and Civil Society in Hungary: A Historical Per-spective,” Hungarian Studies 10, 1 (1985): 4. http://www. epa. hu/01400/01462/00016/pdf/003-033. pdf. Accessed 2 March 2016.

12. Nóemi-Emese Chimpan (Kovács), “Politica statalã religioasã ºi Biserica Romano-Catolicã din Transilvania (1867–1900),” Ph.D. thesis, Babeº-Bolyai University, Cluj-Napoca, 2011, p. 18.

13. For an ampler demonstration, see László Kürti, “Liberty, Equality and Nationality: Na-tional Liberalism, Modernization and Empire in Hungary in the Nineteenth Century,” in Liberal Imperialism in Europe, ed. Matthew P. Fitzpatrick (New York: Palgrave Macmil-lan, 2012), 84.

14. Robert Nemes, “The Uncivil Origins of Civil Marriage: Hungary,” in Culture Wars: Secular-Catholic Conflict in Nineteenth Century Europe, eds. Christopher Clark and Wolf-ram Kaiser (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 315.

15. The members of the clergy who participated in these intense discussions within the House of Magnates were the following: Evangelical Dioceses—Sándor Karsay (Dunántú-li egyházkerület, Gyør), Pál Zelenka (Tiszai egyházkerület/Miskolcz), Friedrich Baltik (Dunáninneni egyházkerület); Greek-Catholic Dioceses—Gyula Firczák (Mukačevo/Munkács), Victor Mihali (Lugoj/Lugos), Mihail Pavel (Oradea/Nagyvárad), Ioan Sabo (Gherla/Szamos-Újvár), Julije Drohobeczky (Križevci/Körös), Ján Vályi (Prešov/Ep-erjes); Greek-Orthodox Dioceses— Ioan Meþianu (Arad), Nicolae Popea (Caransebeº/Karánsebes), Miron Romanul (Sibiu/Nagy-Szeben), Georgije Branković (Sremski Karlovci/Karlóca), Nektarijie Dimitrijević (Vršac/Versecz), Miron Nikolić (Pakrac/Pa-krácz), German Opačić (Bač/Bács), Nikanor Popović (Timiºoara/Temesvár), Mihailo Grujič (Karlovac/Károlyváros); Reformed Dioceses—Bertalan Kun (Tiszáninneni egy-házkerület/Miskolcz), Gábor Papp-Kovács (Dunántúli egyházkerület/Rév-Komárom), Károly Szász (Dunamelleki/Budapest); Roman-Catholic Dioceses—Imrich Bende (Ni-tra/Nyitra), František Benedek (Jasov/Jászó), Zsigmond Bubics (Košice/Kassa), György Császtka (Kalocsa), Nándor Dulánszky (Pécs), Kálmán Ipoly Fehér (Pannonhalma), Kornél Hidassy (Szombathely), Károly Hornig (Veszprém), Ferenc Lönhart (Erdély), János Majorossy (Knin/Tinnin), Gyula Meszlényi (Satu Mare/Szatmár), Juraj Posilović (Zagreb/Zágráb), Károly Rimély (Banská Bystrica/Beszterczebánya), József Samassa (Eger), Lørincz Schlauch (Oradea/Nagyvárad), Juraj Schopper (Rozsnyó/Rozsnyó), Konštantin Schuster (Vácz), Fülöp Steiner (Székesfehérvár), Pavol Smrečáni (Spiš/Szepes), Kolos Vaszary (Esztergom), János Zalka (Gyør), Sándor Dessewffy (Cenad/Csanád), Josip Juraj Strossmayer (Bosnia, Djakovo/Diakovár and Srem/Szerém).

16. Christopher Clark and Wolfram Kaiser, eds., Culture Wars: Secular-Catholic Conflict in Nineteenth Century Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Moritz

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Csáky, Der Kulturkampf in Ungarn: Die kirchenpolitische Gesetzgebung der Jahre 1894/95 (Graz–Vienna–Cologne: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1967); Andreas Gottsmann, “Austria-Ungheria e Santa Sede Dall’‘Ausgleich’ Fino Alla Prima Guerra Mondiale,” in Gli Archivi della Santa Sede e il Regno d’Ungheria (secc. 15-20), eds. Gaetano Platana, Matteo Sanfilippo, and Péter Tusor, Collectanea Vaticana Hungariae, Classsis I, vol. 4 (Budapest–Rome, 2008).

17. Szalai, 1338. 18. Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója, 3 (7.05.1894), 124. 19. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 124–127. 20. Ibid. (21.06.1894), 280–281. 21. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 131. 22. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 128. 23. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 200. 24. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 129. 25. Ibid. (7.05.1894). 26. William Walter Phelps (1839–1894), us ambassador to Germany (1889–1893) and Aus-

tria-Hungary (1881–1882). 27. Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója, 3 (7.05.1894), 131. 28. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 196. 29. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 197. 30. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 198. 31. Ibid. (9.05.1894). 32. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 199–200. 33. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 200. 34. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 133. 35. Ibid. (7.05.1894). 36. Peter Török, “Hungarian Church-State Relationships: A Socio-historical Analysis,”

Ph.D. thesis, University of Toronto, 2000, 74–75. 37. Nemes, 316–318. 38. Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója, 3 (7.05.1894), 125. 39. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 132. 40. Ibid. (7.05.1894), 131. 41. Ibid. (21.06.1894), 266. 42. Olga Lukács, Biserica Reformatã din Ardeal în a doua jumãtate a secolului al XIX-lea (Cluj-

Napoca: Limes, 2006), 260. 43. Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója, 3 (9.05.1894), 192. 44. Ibid. (21.06.1894), 265. 45. Ibid. (9.05. 1894), 195. 46. Paul A. Hanebrink, In Defense of Christian Hungary: Religion, Nationalism and Antisem-

itism 1890–1944 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006), 10. 47. Ioan Bolovan, Diana Covaci, Daniela Deteºan, Marius Eppel, and Crinela Elena Ho-

lom, eds., Legislaþia ecleziasticã ºi laicã privind familia româneascã din Transilvania în a doua jumãtate a secolului al XIX-lea (Cluj-Napoca: Academia Românã, Centrul de Studii Transilvane, 2009); Marius Eppel, Politics and Church in Transylvania 1875–1918 (Frank-furt am Main–Berlin–Bern–Bruxelles–New York–Oxford–Vienna: Peter Lang, 2012); id., “The Family: Some Theological and Orthodox Matrimonial Law Aspects,” in Fami-


lies in Europe between the 19th and the 21st Centuries: From the Traditional Model to Con-temporary paCs (Supplement of Romanian Journal of Population Studies), eds. Antoinette Fauve-Chamoux and Ioan Bolovan (Cluj-Napoca, 2009); Ioan Bolovan and Marius Eppel, “Între stat ºi bisericã: identitate ºi alteritate prin cãsãtoriile mixte în Transilvania (a doua jumãtate a secolului al XIX-lea ºi începutul secolului XX,” in In Honorem Alexan-dru Moşanu: Studii de istorie medievalã, modernã şi contemporanã a românilor, ed. Nicolae Enciu (Cluj-Napoca: Centrul de Studii Transilvane and Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2012), 327–332.

48. Országgyülés Førendiházának Naplója, 3 (9.05.1894), 213. 49. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 213. 50. Ibid. (10.05.1894), 232. 51. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 206. 52. Ibid. (8.05.1894), 152. 53. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 206–207. 54. Ibid. (9.05.1894), 213. 55. Ibid. (9.05.1894). 56. Ibid. (8.05.1894), 153. 57. Ibid. (8.05.1894). 58. Brubaker, 4.

AbstractThe Ties That Divide: Nationalities and Confessions in the Debate on Civil Marriage in the Hungarian Parliament (1894–1895)

Regarded as an indicator of secularization or as just one battle in the long series of cultural wars waged by modernity, the introduction of civil marriage across the European continent caused intense debates about the position of the church not only in relation to the state, but also in rela-tion to society, whose denominational affiliations were becoming increasingly fragile. When such polemics took place in multi-ethnic and multi-denominational contexts, the rhetorical disputes deployed a diverse array of arguments and the stakes appeared to go beyond the ecclesiastical domain. Although it represented a case of “belated secularization” (Sándor Nagy), since civil marriages were introduced here only in 1895, Hungary is one of the most challenging fields of re-search, as its ethnic-denominational landscape is unique in Europe. Our research sets out to exam-ine the official positions adopted by the clerical elite in the eastern half of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy towards the enactment of civil marriage legislation in 1894. Although the ecclesiastical elites, as representatives of the churches, defined themselves primarily in denominational terms, the political role they played in the Upper Chamber of the Hungarian Parliament often put them in a situation where they had to manage difficult relations with multiple partners.

Keywordscivil marriages, Hungary, Upper Chamber, debate, clerical elite

Anton N. Gazetov Deputy head of the Department Institute of Legislation and Comparative Law under the Government of the Russian Federation, Moscow.

The Foreign Sloboda As a Historical Russian Experience for Present Timesa n t O n n. G a z e t O v

To the Doctor of Laws, Professor l.v. andrichenko for his valuable criticism of the publication.

Introduction

AccordinG to the observers1 of the economic and political events of 2014, approximately 0.5 m

citizens of Europe, North America, Aus-tralia and New Zealand left Russia. The number of German citizens decreased by 100,000 people: from 348,000 in Janu-ary 2014 to 240,000 in January 2015. In recent decades, this has been the first mass exodus of experts from scientifically and technologically developed countries.

That being said, we think that the exodus of citizens from developed coun-tries only worsens the existing structure of incoming migrants, which is of little promise for the technological and inno-vative development of Russia (including those migrants who become new citizens of our country). We suppose that expa-triation to Russia (for permanent resi-dence) should significantly compensate for the demographic losses of the ’90s and early 2000s, which continue with a

Our scientific community should think of possible tools and mechanisms for the establishment of new economic “Slobodas.”


drain of qualified Russian scientists towards foreign countries (usa, Germany, Great Britain, China, etc.) regardless of the establishment of the Skolkovo, innovation centers within universities, and of the state support for the research centers (Nauko-grads) from the Soviet era.

It is obvious that foreigners from more economically developed and rich countries can bring into Russia not only their business skills, but also a part of their private as-sets, as well as the skills necessary for the implementation of investment projects.

However, out of the total number of foreigners coming for permanent residence in Russia in 2011–2013,2 only 23,700 are citizens of countries with a per capita Gdp higher than that of Russia (the target group of foreigners),3 meaning 6.8% of the total number of those arrived (see Fig. 1). The main counties outside of the cis whose citizens arrived for permanent residence in Russia in 2011–2013 are China (10,640), Mongolia (9,400) and Turkey (7,080). As to the cis countries, most mi-grants come from Kazakhstan (86,400), Belarus (62,140) and Ukraine (61,170).

We suggest that a complex set of measures for the development of the Rus-sian legislation regulating the inflow of investments, citizens, technologies and skills from the target group of counties (Switzerland, Israel, Germany, France, Italy, etc.) can be used to bring in citizens from the abovementioned countries.

The existing structure of migration can be justified by the system of Russian mi-gration legislation, which is currently a separate branch of legislation.4 According to experts from the institute for legislation and comparative jurisprudence within the Government of the Russian Federation, the establishment of new legal statuses for migrant workers and the new categories of migrant workers (highly-skilled profes-sionals, skilled professionals, key personnel, patent workers etc.) simplified, on the one hand, the previous administrative procedures but, on the other hand, did not lead to a desired influx of highly-skilled workers or people willing to develop their business—primarily high-tech and export-oriented—in Russia.5

fiG. 1. tHe inCrease in tHe nuMber Of fOreiGn Citizens frOM COuntries witH HiGHer (1) and lOwer (2) per Capita Gdp (COMpared tO russia), in usd, 2013

23,662

325,087

0

50,000

100,000

150,000

200,000

250,000

300,000

350,000

1 2

tanGenCies • 127

The current migrant legislation stimulated a rise in xenophobia,6 which forces the Russian Government, on the one hand, to increase the quality of sociocultural ad-aptation for migrants, and, on the other hand, to make administrative and financial efforts to develop a tolerant attitude in society towards the representatives of other cultures. The development of modern Russia as a country of migrants (including migrants from Islamic countries) also involves the additional risk of imported ex-tremism, which took ordinary citizens and the power elites by surprise.7

The History of the Development of Slobodas

In order to find solutions to current problems, researchers often refer to past epochs. This approach, in particular, is used to put into perspective the devel-opment of the Russian diaspora in France, which greatly influenced the cultural

and scientific advancement of this European country.8Referring to the historical experience of Russia, we see that since the times of Peter

the Great and, largely, Catherine the Great, the rulers of Russia pursued a policy of bringing in foreign experts for military and civil service, and of settling foreigners as colonists in undeveloped Russian areas in the Volga region, Novorossiya and Siberia. Thus, until the 18th century, the foreigners were for the most part settled in specially organized “foreign Slobodas.” This generated a great number of historical figures who are considered to be Russians but have foreign surnames. There are a number of them in our military history, science, art, literature, architecture and constructions, or medicine.

What mechanism was used to bring foreigners in? What comes to mind are the foreign slobodas—for example, the German sloboda of Kukui (see Fig. 2). The word “sloboda” (Rus. Слобода) is an old Russian one, which phonetically (in the Russian language) and semantically is perceived as indicative of a “lessening” (послабление), or a place where certain norms, rules or other obligations are suspended. Except for Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, this word is also used in Croatia, Serbia and other countries of the former Yugoslavia. In Romania and Moldova there is a word, “slo-bozia” (slobodzeya), with a similar meaning, which is found in the names of many settlements (for example, Slobozia Veche, Slobozia-Adjud). In Slovenian, Serbo-Croat and other Balkan languages, the primary meaning of the word “sloboda” is “freedom”. (In the Czech language the word “freedom” (Rus. свобода) sounds the same—“svoboda,” as well as in Bulgarian. However, there is no such notion or “sloboda” settlement, nor any of its derivatives. The same is the case in the Polish language.) Thus, in most countries of Central and Eastern Europe, the semantics of the word “sloboda” is quite similar.

The origin of this word in the Russian language9 shows very little variation. In the 11th–17th centuries (until 1649), a sloboda was defined as a “free settlement”—free from serfdom and taxes. As a rule, slobodas were established by the state as commons or by great landowners in order to attract different craftsmen.


It should be noted that synonyms of “sloboda” such as bronnitca, butyrka, kukui, posad, rabad, slobodka, forshtadt are out of use and have been substituted by the following no-tions: settlement, purlieu, or township. It is possible that the phenomenon of foreign slobodas as compact settlements for foreigners in Russia contributed to the preserva-tion of this word in modern Russian, even in names of popular foods (mayonnaise, vodka), construction materials and numerous hotels. The word “sloboda” can also be found in the names of dozens of settlements in Russia, Ukraine and Belarus.

The remarkable thing is that slobodas started to appear in Russia in the 11th century. There used to be “white slobodas” and “black slobodas”. (The other no-tion, “belomesttcy,” is from old Russian legalese. It used to denote town dwellers, exempt by a diploma or an edict, for special services, personal or inherited, from all or some of the taxes. Thence, the household of these people were called “belomest-nyi dvor,” as opposed to “chernoslobodskii”—taxpaying.) In “white slobodas” there were no state taxes except for fees to the landowner—that is, a “special tax treat-ment.”10 In “black slobodas” there used to be a system of state taxes, but the land was public. However, craftsmen were bound to the place of residence and could not leave it. Thus, the residents of “black slobodas” were in fact bondsmen, but not to the feudal lord. In this context, the commons bore state taxes.

After the 17th century the slobodas started to lose their meaning as exemptions from general rules. After the “white slobodas” were abolished in 1649, this word was mostly applied to city quarters united by a common activity and having a right to local government—for example, marksman slobodas, horse slobodas etc. At that time, in Moscow the streets were starting to take shape: Kuznetsky Most, Pushkin-

fiG. 2. GerMan slObOda. “departure Of tsar peter i frOM lefOrtOvO palaCe.” artist: benOis

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skaya, and others. The Kukui was established in Zamoskvorechye district. It was a compact settlement of foreigners, later called “the German Sloboda.” Foreign slobo-das can be considered the major exceptions to the general rule, as they used to enjoy freedom of religion and local government. For example, in slobodas where ethnic Germans and Dutch lived there were Lutheran churches (it should be noted that back then Lutherans were oppressed by the Catholic Church; in Germany there are still two separate zones: the Catholic one and the Protestant/Lutheran one)..

Peter the Great established a new state institution—the Burgomaster Cham-ber,11 overseeing territorial and tax administration (later becoming the seat of local government). Its main task was to set a fair system of taxation for the permanent residents of the slobodas and the temporary residents or “guests” (in medieval Rus-sia, the commune [Rus. Община] was the main “tax agent,” and the resident was the taxpayer, attached to the place of residence after 1649). The German slobodas also came under the control of the Burgomaster Chamber, losing a part of their self-regulation in what concerns economic decisions. On the modern territory of Moscow, the German sloboda was located in Baumanskaya street and included Ap-tekaskiy passage (“the Pharmacy passage”) named after a private pharmacy of Ya. G. Gregory, opened there in 1701 (see Fig. 3).

According to historians, the German sloboda was home to military experts, but after the 16th century other craftsmen working in metal were also actively brought in, as well as artists, sculptors and carvers. Afterwards, the foreigners residing there were allowed to provide services not only within the court workshops and cannon yards, but also at home in the sloboda.12

fiG. 3. tHe GerMan slObOda, 19tH Century


The foreigners were allowed to invite masters and journeymen from abroad for private hire, as well as to take apprentices from among the residents of the German sloboda and the local people. By doing that foreign craftsmen could produce and sell their products to private persons, expanding their business. In the 18th century the craftsmen business was already an important factor of development in Russia.13

Thus, a foreign craftsman was invited by way of a state order, which allowed him to settle down at a new place. Later he helped the local market to develop and provided his produce, passing his skills on to the local people and journeymen.

Furthermore, after the time of Peter the Great (characterized by the active en-gagement of foreigners, mainly for military and civil service), Catherine the Great issued several manifestos in 1762, 1763, 1764, 1770, and 1782 to attract a massive number of foreigners of different religions (including Christian sects) as colonists for the underpopulated Russian territories (the list of territories can be found in the manifesto of 22 July 1763).14

Mass migration was organized for groups of people, united by a common fea-ture—creed. This promoted their settlement in new places.

It should be noted that the migration of these nations—not only Germans, but also ethnic groups from modern Netherlands—was comprehensively orga-nized.15 The Office for the Patronage of Foreigners (Rus. Канцелярия опекунства иностранных) was established as a ministry with a high status and with the possibil-ity to directly address the empress. (The annual budget of the ministry is estimated to have been approximately €36 m in today’s money. After 1802 the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Russia was in charge of the settlements, then this function was passed on to the Ministry of State Property. In 1857, in order to regulate the life of isolated colonists, the Charter on the Colonies of Foreigners in the Russian Empire was adopted. It provided for the governance of the colonies, their division, prop-erty rights, and the responsibilities of the colonists.) Within this program differ-ent grants and loans were provided (large sums to ease the difficulties of the early stages; equivalent to app. €53,500 today), as well as land for 1,000 families, taking into account the probable increase in population. Thus, for one household (family) there were 30 arpents of land (or 33 ha), as well as “free land, representing a sixth of the whole of delineated grounds for increasing population of a given settlement” and “the same amount of land for craftsmen and other masters.”16

In addition, because of poverty and of the needs of those arriving, the govern-ment defrayed part of the expenses for pastors and offered credits for the construc-tion of churches, “furnishing it [a church] with all the necessary things.” Govern-ment expenses were to be repaid after the exemption period was over with a sum of money added to the existing debt of every household.

The most successful colonies—such as the Evangelists of the Sarepta colony, immigrants from Saxony—were granted a period of tax exemption and debt repay-ment for the community till 1806, that is, for 30 years (see Fig. 4). During that period the colonists built manufactories for the production of different goods and consumer commodities.

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By the end of 19th century the colony nearly lost its isolation and the colonists developed their business activity beyond the settlement. At present there is still a memory of Sarepta, with the remnants of its buildings still identifiable in the Kras-noarmeyskiy Region of Volgograd.

In the period from 1763 to 1766, up to 6,342 German families arrived in the Volga region and settled there.

Except for financial support and pieces of land, the colonists also got: “freedom of religion; quality lands; self-governance of the colony and litigation; free trading and establishment of plants and factories; free alcohol-distillation; free fishing and hunt; a 30-year period of tax exemption, except for excise duty; no military duty and a right for free leave with a fifth part sent to treasury (in case of permanent departure).”

fiG. 4. pHOtO Of a buildinG Of tHe state HistOriCal-etHnOGrapHiC and arCHiteCtural MuseuM-preserve Of tHe Old sarepta, vOlGOGrad (fOrMerly stalinGrad)

The migration process also continued to other regions of Russia. From 1782 the flow of German colonists (mainly from the town of Danzig) was directed to the Novorossiya Region, after 1813 migrants from the Duchy of Warsaw and Würt-temberg started to settle in Bessarabia (Moldova), and in 1817 settlers from Würt-temberg appeared in Transcaucasia. In 1852 migrants from Bessarabia and the Tau-rida Governorate became the pioneers of German landholding in Kuban. By 1886 they had established 13 colonies there. In 1882 there were 10,142 German people in the Kuban Region.17


However, at the beginning of World War I, Russia started a campaign for land seizure from the German colonists, who by that time had become Russian subjects. There were efforts to migrate further from the probable theaters of war. Thus, it is possible to say that the placement of foreigners in the south of Russia and other bor-der areas caused major concern in Soviet times, as well as in the czarist years, even though the historians have not found any instances of wholesale “betrayal.” Instead, the ethnic Germans-Mennonites did not participate in open battles for conscientious reasons, but worked in the corps of engineers or were sent to the Caucasus to fight against the Turkish army (allies of Germany).

Effectively, the historical experience shows that in order to make a political de-cision to attract people from Western Europe to Russia under new terms and to settle them on Russian territory, the historical experience and possible conflicts in wartime should be taken into account.

Results of the Migration Policy of the Russian Empire

The miGration from Germany, the Netherlands and other countries continued up to the middle of the 19th century, in several stages. During 1764–1770, 117 colonies were established: 46 in the Saratov Governorate, 56 in the Samara

Governorate, etc. During 1800–1850, 218 more settlements were established. In the 1860s there were 513 German colonies in Russia, with lands totaling 5 m arpents (5.5 m ha); more than 2 m were in private property or used on the basis of long-term rent. Even after the Germans almost ceased to migrate to Russia, the German population in Russia continued to increase. This is partially explained by the preferential condi-tions granted to colonists (large land allotments, tax exemptions, no conscription duty until the 1870s).18 According to the census of 1897, the German-speaking population amounted to 1.8 m (with 1.03 m people in Moscow and 1.26 in Sankt Petersburg).19 According to last complete census of 2010, the population of Moscow is 11.5 m, that of Sankt Petersburg—4.8 m, and of Russia—142.85 m. We suggest that the 1897 census underrated the number of people with nationality other than Russian, as the second generation of migrants gave Russian as their native language, but according to the modern perspective they could be considered German or French.

It should be noted that in 1989 in the Soviet Union there were 2,040,000 ethnic Germans, 842,000 of them in Russia. However, in 20 years the German population decreased by a factor of 2.13—to 394,000 people.20

At the turn of the 21st century, other groups of people from Western Europe were not very numerous: only 16,000 were French-speaking and 7,000 English-speaking. In the meantime, the issues of the Southern Railways of the Russian Em-pire clearly indicate that 75% of their advertisements refer to companies established by foreigners of European descent (see Fig. 5). In Sankt Petersburg there were companies with names that are still well-known: factories of the Siemens Brothers,

tanGenCies • 133

Erikson, the Nobel Brothers, MacPherson, as well as dozens of other companies established by foreigners.21 Effectively, the agents of modernization in tsarist Russia were, for the most part, foreigners, who could bring in some know-how or com-mercial and industrial capital. However, the Russian merchants and nobility also made a significant contribution to the modernization of Russia (companies like those of Morozov, Strogonov, Maltsov, Putilov and others).

Migration to Siberia at the beginning of the 20th century affected all groups of Russia’s population. Among such groups there are several European nationalities, which established rural diasporas in Siberia: Latvians, Germans, Ukrainians, Esto-nians and others. Internal migration and the establishment of rural communities was promoted with the help of land reforms, government grants and a general im-provement of the social and economic situation.22

It would be wrong to assert that the government of Russia does not envisage any measures besides the erroneous (in our opinion) organizational and legal mecha-nisms governing migration policy and the legislation meant to attract low skilled labor from cis countries (including traditionally Islamic countries). On the contrary, the government has adopted state programs for the resettlement of compatriots (548,000 candidates for resettlement in Russia since 2006),23 targeted at people living abroad and having “signs of commonality of a language, history, culture, tra-ditions, as well as descendants of indicated people.”24 However, in this target group there are less than 1% re-settlers. Also, the new Russian citizens probably do not have the personal assets, business and other skills and needed for the development of businesses, not to mention large-scale investment projects.

fiG. 5. industrial advertiseMent Of russian sOutHern railways (1912). surnaMes Of fOunders Of serviCe COMpanies: sCHMidt, HartMann, rennenKaMpf, bary, westinGHOuse


We think that the development of complex measures for the establishment of Spe-cial Economic Zones (sez) is more promising. As the experience of China and India shows, this direction may promote economic development in legal and institutional context,25 regardless of the risks of irrational use of resources within the zone and of rental payments received by the governments. It should be noted that the rapid increase in labor migration to nearby regions is a side effect of the establishment of sez, as in the case of Shenzhen,26 which led to tensions on the property market. Also, there is a diffusion of business activity to nearby regions, which is an additional desired effect of the establishment of modern Slobodas as European centers of busi-ness and innovation activity. At the same time, the establishment of sez, according to the Russian legislation, is aimed at attracting Russian and foreign legal entities, which are to register their branches in the same municipal area where the Russian sez is registered. We can see a fundamental difference between modern Russian sez and the policy of the Russian imperial governors, who were more focused on private persons, sharing common characteristics: religion, place of residence and national-ity. Conversely, the new Russian Slobodas have to be oriented towards European people who feel “cramped” in modern Europe, but who are afraid of Russian reali-ties and the legal and financial risks associated with them.

Discussion

What lessons can we learn from the past experience of Russia? First: the governors of Russia during the last millennium pursued a policy of at-tracting foreigners to work in Russia, as they brought with them mod-

ern technologies in management and military affairs. Second: the foreigners greatly influenced Russian technological and scientific development, not only at the turn of 20th century, but even during the Petrine era and after it.

Third: the establishment of colonies-settlements and the mechanic adoption of a 200 years-old experience within present Russia is inadmissible for many reasons. The most important one is that we cannot allow the development of a high concen-tration of Europeans in the central, southern and European parts of Russia. Still, the experience of the development of Siberia and the Far East by the Europeans can present a solid counterweight to the Chinese labor migration observed during the last 20 years. It is also worth mentioning that the motivational part of the Manifesto of Catherine the Great of 22 July 1763 contained provisions which are still relevant for the present stage of development of Russia: “We are sufficiently aware of the vast extent of the lands within Our Empire . . . perceive that a considerable number of regions are still uncultivated which could easily and advantageously be made available for the productive use of population and settlement . . ., much of which hold hidden in their depth an inexhaustible wealth of metals; and because they are

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well provided with forests, rivers and lakes, and located close to the sea for purpose of trade, they are also most convenient for the development and growth of many kinds of manufacturing, plants, and various installations.”

Fourth: the establishment of “Slobodas” or ethnically homogenous enclaves does not have a historic perspective, but can still be regarded from the point of view of the territories offering “liberalization” or “exemptions” from federal norms and rules that prevent the modernization of modern Russia. Some experts27 note that a radical improvement of the business environment, capable of attracting specific groups of people, is possible within the organization of a special legal space in Rus-sia, which would closely resemble the British legislation.

Conclusion

I f we accept the need to attract large masses of people from Europe, we should develop a complex of legal, organizational and financial tools in order to pro-mote the successful establishment of free economic zones, innovation and tech-

nological centers, which the Russian economy currently needs (including regions of the Baikal-Amur Mainline: Ural, Siberia and the Far East). In this context the con-nection of foreign “Slobodas” to these zones would produce a positive effect upon their economic development.

Thus, we contend that our scientific community should think of possible tools and mechanisms for the establishment of new economic “Slobodas,” also aimed at fulfilling those ambitious tasks that will present a challenge for modern Russia in the coming decades.

q

Notes

1. Stepan Opalev and Elena Miazina, “Issledovanie rbk: kak iz Rossii uezzhaiut inos-trantcy,” accessed 4 February 2015, http://top.rbc.ru/society/04/02/2015/54d0c05e9a7947df123f23e1.

2. “Raspredelenie migrantov-inostrannykh grazhdan po tceliam poezdok,” Chislennost i migratciia naseleniia Rossiiskoi Federatcii, accessed 13 May 2015, http://www.gks.ru/ bgd/regl/b14_107/.

3. “The National Accounts Main Aggregates Database,” World Bank, accessed 10 April 2015, http://unstats.un.org/unsd/snaama/selbasicFast.asp.

4. T. Ya. Khabrieva, Migration Law of the Russian Federation: Theory and Practice (Moscow: ilcl, 2008).

5. L. V. Andrichenko, “Problems of Systematization of Migration Legislation,” Journal of Russian Law 12, 1 (2014): 5–15.

6. S. Spahn, “Managed Xenophobia Migration and the National Question in Russia,” osteuropa 64, 1 (2014).


7. V. S. Malakhov, “Russia as a New Immigration Country: Policy Response and Public Debate,” Europe-Asia Studies 66, 1 (2014): 1062–1079.

8. M. Sorokina, “Emigration, Abroad or Diaspora? Reflections on Changing Words and Concepts in Contemporary Russian Historiography,” Revue d’Etudes Comparatives Est-Ouest 45, 1 (2014).

9. Bolshaia Sovetskaia entciklopediia, 2nd edition (Moscow, 1957); Bolshoi Rossiiskii Entciklope-dicheskii Slovar (Moscow, 2003), 1448.

10. Art.18. Tax Code of the rf, accessed 10 May 2014, http://base.garant.ru/10900200/. 11. Brockhaus and Efron Encyclopedic Dictionary (1890–1907), accessed 26 October 2009,

http://www.vehi.net/brokgauz/index.html. 12. V. A. Kovrigina, “Nemtcy v remesle i promyshlennosti Moskvy vtoroi poloviny XVII-

pervoi poloviny XVIII v.,” in Working Paper: The Germans in Russia. Russian-German dialogue (Sankt Petersburg, 2001), 339–350.

13. L. Kopelev, “Fremdenbilder in Geschichte und Gegenwart,” in Russen und Russland aus Deutschen Sicht (Munich, 1985), 25.

14. V. A. Tomsinov, “Zakonodatelstvo imperatora Petra III: 1761–1762 gody: Zakonoda-telstvo imperatritcy Ekateriny II: 1762-1782 gody,” accessed 10 April 2015, http://tom-sinov.com›Articles/Misc/zak_imp_ek_ii.pdf.

15. T. V. Ivleva, “Russian State Legislation with Respect of the Russian Germans,” Vestnik KrasGAU 5 (2012): 464–470.

16. E. V. Malyshkina, “Initial Stage of Emigration of the Germans to Russia: The Difficulties of Adaptation and Definition of Geographical Range of Settlement,” Journal Nauchnye problemy gumanitarnykh issledovanii 7, 1 (2011): 47–55.

17. I. A. Tveritinov. “Campaign against ‘German Dominance’ in the Black Sea Province during the First World War,” Journal Golos minuvshego: Kubanskii istoricheskii zhurnal 3–4 (2014): 180–185.

18. Sergei Shramko, “Sergei Vazhneishie Kolonii Inostrantcev v Rossii,” accessed 27 No-vember 2013, http://www.proza.ru/2013/11/27/585.

19. “Pervaia Vseobshchaia Perepis Naseleniia Rossiiskoi Imperii 1897 g. T. II: Obshchii svod po Imperii rezultatov razrabotki dannykh pervoi Vseobshchei perepisi naseleniia, proiz-vedennoi 28 ianvaria 1897 goda. (1905),” accessed 15 June 2014, http://demoscope.ru/weekly/ssp/rus_lan_97.php.

20. Rosstat, Sotcialno-demograficheskii portret Rossii: Po itogam Vserossiiskoi perepisi naseleniia 2010 goda (Moscow: Statistika Rossii, 2012), 183; T. B. Smirnova, “Dynamic of Quan-tity of Germans in Russia from the Manifesto of Catherine the Great to Present Days,” Sovremennye Problemy Nauki I Obrazovaniya, accessed 26 March 2015, http://science-education.ru/106-8006.

21. F. F. Rybakov, “Evoliutciia Promyshlennosti Sankt-Peterburga (XIX vek),” Problemy Sovremennoi Ekonomiki 2, 26, accessed 12 March 2010, http://www.m-economy.ru/art.php?nArtId=1945.

22. E. Chernina, P. C. Dower, and A. Markevich, “Property Rights, Land Liquidity, and Internal Migration,” Journal of Development of Economics 110, 1 (2014): 191–215.

23. Rossii, Report “Monitoring Gosudarstvennoi programmy za IV kv. 2014 g.,” accessed 23 April 2015, http://www.fms.gov.ru/programs/fmsuds/monitoring/.

24. Rossii, “Pamiatka sootechestvenniku, zhelaiushchemu priniat uchastie v Gosudarstven-noi programme po okazaniiu sodeistviia dobrovolnomu pereseleniiu v Rossiiskuiu Fed-

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eratciiu sootechestvennikov, prozhivaiushchikh za rubezhom,” accessed 22 June 2011, http://www.fms.gov.ru›Соотечественники›files/pamatka.pdf.

25. L. Moberg, “The Political Economy of Special Economic Zones,” Journal of Institutional Economics 11, 1 (2015): 167–190.

26. Eem Hui Kh Yu and Yc Ye, “Housing Preferences of Temporary Migrants in Urban China in the Wake of Gradual Hukou Reform: A Case Study of Shenzhen,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 38, 1 (2014): 1384–1398.

27. A. Movchan, “Pravila ne dlia vsekh: kak poborot rentnoe gosudarstvo v Rossii,” accessed 9 April 2015, http://daily.rbc.ru/opinions/economics/09/04/2015/55262d189a7947ac2c12f803.

AbstractThe Foreign Sloboda as a Historical Russian Experience for Present Times

This article represents an overview of the assimilation of people from Western Europe, drawing on research combining migration policy and the policy of territorial and innovative development of Russia in historical perspective. We suggest that the 1897 census significantly marked down the number of people not identifying themselves as Russian, as the second generation of migrants to the Russian Empire indicated Russian as their native language. During 2011–2013, how-ever, only 23,700 people (6.8% of the immigration total) came from countries more developed than Russia. To balance an influx of immigrants we suggest using the experience of the Russian Empire, which set up settlements for foreigners from technologically developed countries—the Sloboda. A Sloboda enjoyed a special legal status providing for the observance of foreign law, within the limits of Russian law. The Slobodas can be territories adapted to the foreign residents’ economic and administrative system, and they may complete the Special Economic Zones in the Urals, Siberia and the Far East with European centers of business and innovative activity.

Keywordsmigration, Sloboda, special economic zones, assimilation, the Russian Empire, Russia, Catherine the Great, Russian Germans, Russlanddeutsche, colonies

C O N C E R T A T I O

Lucian-Vasile Szabo Senior Lecturer in the Department of Phi-losophy and Communication Sciences of the West University of Timişoara.

Actions of Repression Directed Towards the Democracy MovementDecember 1989 in Timişoara

l u C i a n -v a s i l e s z a b O

Introduction

The year 1989 was the year of democratic changes in Central and Eastern Europe. Romania

began to follow that trend of protests and democratic reforms rather late, as the changes were difficult and painful (Tismãneanu 2014). Ceauşescu’s coun-try is a discordant note in the series of peaceful revolutions, because the repres-sion forces of the communist regime decided to open fire, which led to 162 dead and 1107 wounded, until Nicolae Ceauşescu left his position of power on 22 December 1989. In Timişoara, a city located near the western border of Ro-mania, where the revolutionary move-ment started on 16 December 1989, 73 dead and 324 wounded were registered before the dictator’s escape (Szabo 2014, 32). 43 corpses were picked up from the morgue, taken to Bucharest, and incin-erated. The massacre was possible as a result of the actions that the repression teams had organized (Hall 2000). In the evening of 16 December, those actions

Memorial of the the Revolution of Timisoara, December 1989,

exhibition (Rome, 2014)

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were performed by the local forces of the Miliþie (Militia), the Securitate, the Fire-fighters, and the Rangers, with the involvement of the communist leaders in the administration.

In the morning of 17 December, several officials holding important positions began to arrive in Timişoara, one at a time, coming from Bucharest. On Sunday, but in the afternoon, the brigade led by the secretary for special problems of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party, Ion Coman, arrived as well. Impor-tant high officials from the Ministry of Justice, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the Ministry of National Defense, the General Prosecutor’s Office, and high-level activ-ists of the party accompanied Ion Coman on his arrival. Some of them stayed with him permanently, but others coordinated the repressive actions from subordinate units divided into sections. Wednesday, 20 December, saw the arrival of Constantin Dãscãlescu, the prime minister of the Socialist Republic of Romania at that time. Yet, he stepped aside (through the back door!) and was at no time available for a real dialogue with the protesters.

As regards the abovementioned command structure, there was no formal written decision to have it constituted. Yet, most certainly, such an order existed and oper-ated, considering the centralist system and the pyramidal stratification of command specific to the dictatorial communist regime. Of course, there were situations when the lack of coordination between the party leaders (the Romanian Communist Par-ty), those from the Army (the Ministry of National Defense, including the Patriotic Guards and the Civil Defense), and those from the Ministry of Internal Affairs (with several structures: the Militia, the Securitate, the Firefighters, the Rangers, and the Safety and Security units) gave the impression that the action was not conducted under centralized coordination. Yet, despite that dysfunctionality, the command structure was as real as it gets. Its role and actions can be clearly seen in the verdict given in the Timişoara Trial: “Through the concerted action of the forces under the command of the former secretary of cc of rcp, Ion Coman, the dissolution of the demonstrators was pursued in the first place, and not the annihilation of those who, by taking advantage of the events’ evolution, committed acts of destruction or cir-cumvention” (Orban and Rado 2010, 231). In Bucharest, Nicolae Ceauşescu and, in his absence, Elena Ceauşescu led the command structure, giving direct orders to the ministers and the secretaries of the Central Committee.

The Officials who Organized and Led the Repression

The bucharest team who coordinated the activities of the repression forces in Timişoara consisted of: Nicolae Ceauşescu, the general secretary of the Romanian Communist Party; Elena Ceauşescu, the first deputy prime min-

ister of the Romanian Government; Emil Bobu, the secretary of the Central Com-mittee of the Romanian Communist Party; Manea Manescu, the deputy prime min-


ister of the Government; Tudor Postelnicu, the minister of internal affairs; Vasile Milea, the minister of national defense; Nicolae Popovici, the general prosecutor of the Socialist Republic of Romania; Maria Bobu, the minister of justice; Iulian Vlad, the director of the Department of State Security. There were several party activists involved, as the leaders of the Romanian Communist Party used to have consider-able authority, while responsibility on the party line was of foremost importance to them (Mungiu-Pippidi 2006). The team commanded repressive measures, directed towards the people that manifested in favor of freedom and democracy, either by using the subordinates that led the institutions and military units in the area, or via the representatives from the center that were sent over from Bucharest or other locations in order to carry out actions against the protesters. Their actions were mas-sively supported by the huge repressive system of the communist state.

Among those who came from the center to suppress the movement in favor of civil liberties in Timişoara, we find: Ion Coman, the secretary of the Central Com-mittee of the Romanian Communist Party, who coordinated all the activities of the repression forces; Gheorghe Diaconescu, the deputy of the general prosecutor; Nicolae Bracaciu, the deputy of the minister of justice; Ilie Matei, the secretary of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party (former prime-secretary of the Party Committee of Timiş County); Cornel Pacoste, the first deputy premier of the Government of the Socialist Republic of Romania; Nicolae Mihalache, the deputy head of the organization section of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party; Constantin Nuþã, the deputy of the minister of internal affairs and the chief of the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Ştefan Guşã, the army chief of staff and the first deputy of the minister of national defense; Victor Atanasie Stãnculescu, the deputy of the minister of national defense; Mihai Chiþac, the com-mander of the Chemical Units from the Ministry of National Defense and com-mander of the Bucharest garrison; Velicu Mihalea, the deputy chief of the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Emil Macri, the head of the Directorate for Economic Counterintelligence of the State Security; Nicolae Ghircoiaş, the director of the Forensic Institute of the Ministry of Internal Affairs; Dumitru Rosiu, the head of the Judicial Service of the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Tudor Stanica, the head of the Directorate of Criminal Investigations within the General Inspector-ate of the Militia; Mihai Onþanu, the deputy chief of the Directorate of Criminal Investigations within the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Gheorghe Carasca, the deputy chief of the Directorate of Criminal Investigations within the State Se-curity; Dumitru Ştefan, the alternate of the chief of the Traffic Directorate within the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Filip Teodorescu, the alternate of the chief of the Counterintelligence Directorate within the State Security; Gabriel Anastasiu, the alternate of the chief of the Directorate of Internal Information within the State Security; Dan Nicolici, the head of the Information-Documentation Center within the General Inspectorate of the Militia; Gheorghe Glavan, the intelligence chief of the ras (the Romanian Anti-terrorist Service); Gheorghe Manta, instructor within

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the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party; Florea Carneanu, the alternate of the commander of the Antiaircraft Defense of the Territory; Dumitru Ionescu, an officer with the Army High Command; Teodor Ardelean, an officer with the Army High Command; Gheorghe Radu, the alternate of the chief of the Operations Directorate within the Army High Command.

The Local Repressive Command

At the county level, the prime-secretary, a position Radu Bãlan filled at the time, led the repressive command structure (called of “Defense” in the of-ficial documents). Vasile Bolog, the propaganda secretary, Florea Sofronie,

Viorica Boiborean, Teodora Avram, and other members of the County Committee of the Party supported it as well. Petru Moþ, the mayor (officially the prime-secretary of the Timişoara Municipal Committee of the Party) and Ioan Rotãrescu, the secre-tary for organizational problems, operated at the municipality level. As the prosecu-tors recorded within the indictment that was put together for the arraignment of the defendants in the Timişoara Trial, there were merely repressive intentions and no attempt at engaging with those who came out on the streets. Here is what they say about Radu Bãlan and Ilie Matei: “The demonstrators were brutally attacked in the evening of December 16, 1989 by intervention brigades of Militia and subunits of Securitate and Firefighters Troops, which used maces, tear gases, and water tanks against them. Through those acts of violence, the two defendants, who refused to discuss openly with the masses of demonstrators, manifested their overt intention to suppress any anti-dictatorial movement” (Orban and Rado 2010, 206).

Romeo Bãlan showed that some communist leaders of the country at that time were aware that it was all about people who sought rights and liberties. Among them there was Minister Vasile Milea. For the purpose of opening fire on the dem-onstrators, he specified: “The demonstrators will be seriously warned, and then shot at the feet level.” And because demonstrators were involved, the Army had no reason to shoot them: opening fire was murder, because “the order referred to dem-onstrators and not hooligans and apaches” (Bãlan 2011, 15–16). We must mention that, even against hooligans, legal measures did not refer to execution in the street.

If the people in the command structure of the repression coordinated many ac-tions against the peaceful demonstrators, some of them seeing to their direct execu-tion, there were officers who came from various areas of the country who, along with those from the local structures of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Min-istry of National Defense, carried out a wide range of actions to limit the protest and identify its leaders in order to silence them. They collected information by trailing and infiltrating the crowds, by interrogating those who were detained within the Penitentiary and the Jail of the Internal Affairs Inspectorate of Timişoara, as well as


the wounded in the hospitals (Szabo 2013b, 100). Gabriel Anastasiu, the alternate of the chief of the Directorate of Internal Information within the State Security, specified that he came to Timişoara accompanied by subordinate officers, naming Lieutenant-Colonel Ioan Pop and Captain Adrian Bãrbulescu, while Colonel Vic-tor Achim was brought in from Drobeta-Turnu-Severin. Lieutenant-Colonel Gavril Oniceag and Costicã Tãnase were already in Timişoara, and were ordered to stay put (Rado 2013, 111). Colonel Nicolae Glãveanu from the ras in Bucharest was also in Timişoara at the time (Radu 1990).

The People from the Securitate

The Timiş Securitate was involved via the activity of its chief, Colonel Traian Sima, and of his deputies, Lieutenant-Colonel Gheorghe Atudoroaie and Major Tinu Radu. Lieutenant-Colonel Petru Pele and Colonel Constantin

Cîntãreþu commanded the officers from the local Securitate, through Services I and II, and worked in teams to collect information. Another name that stands out is that of the chief interrogator, Lieutenant-Colonel Gheorghe Sãlãjan (sometimes written as Gheorghe Sãlãgeanu). Colonel Aurel Rogojan, lieutenant-colonels Felician Ceghi, Adrian Cârstea, Gheorghe Diaconescu, Dumitru Popescu (the head of the Spe-cial Anti-terrorist Unit—usla), Constantin Tãnasie, Andrei Uram, Ştefan Demeter, majors Ion Adamescu, Adrian Bradisteanu, Nicolae Zarcula, Nicolae Mavru, Ion Ungureanu, Petru Veltanescu, captains Aurel Cighi, Vasile Grui, Mihai Pereschin, Vasile Petrea, Ion Þepeneu, Ionel Ionescu, Mihai Florian Vidican, Eugen Zaharia, Saul Beloia, Marin Vasile, Mihai Petenchi, first lieutenants Liviu Dinulescu, Marian Ştef, Liviu Baniac, Mircea Novac, Vasile Marian, Aurelian Cioabã, lieutenants Ioan Clava and Valerica Fulga, all acted under their command. Some of those mentioned above were officers responsible for various industrial sites and were there at the time of the revolutionary events. They tried to intimidate the workers, so that they would not discuss what had happened, did not take an attitude, and did not organize to come out in the streets for massive protests. The impeded events became, eventual-ly, at the price of numerous victims, the reason for the fall of the communist regime.

Gheorghe Atudoroaie, one of the alternates of the chief of the Timiş Securitate, admitted, indirectly, the following aspects: “Around 7.30 pm, on December 16, 1989, I sent by order the officers from Securitate II to the economic objectives, without any munitions, with the mission to stay there overnight, as well, in order to control the state of mind of the working personnel, to firmly assure and secure the economic units, and to prevent events with grave consequences” (Rado 2013, 164). We can see in Atudoroaie’s declaration that his first objective referred to the people’s states of mind, as attacking the units was out of the question, while the reference to preventing serious events was simple rhetoric, to distract attention from the main

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idea. The officers in the industrial sites supplied periodic reports, while Captain Aurel Cighi collected and processed them together with the chief of the Second Service, Major Zarcula.

The People from the Militia

The chiefs from the center had as their subordinates Militia employees brought in from Bucharest and executing officers without any position be-sides those already mentioned. Among those, there were: Colonel Florescu

and Lieutenant-Colonel Obãgila from the Directorate for Safety and Order within the General Inspectorate of the Militia, Colonel Ardeleanu from the Judicial Ser-vice, Colonel Lupu, Lieutenant-Colonel Beldeanu, Major Mihaiasa, Mihai Florea, Captain Neagu, all from the Directorate of Criminal Investigations within the General Inspectorate of the Militia. Among the Timiş Militia officers who acted against the population during those days we find Colonel Ion Popescu, chief inspec-tor, Colonel Ion Deheleanu, the head of the institution, Lieutenant-Colonel Ion Corpodeanu and Major Ioan Popa, the alternates of Deheleanu, Colonel Constantin Ion, Lieutenant-Colonel Constantin Tufariu, Lieutenant-Colonel Gheorghe Farcasu, Colonel Fuieru, Lieutenant-Colonel Ioan Dumitrescu, Lieutenant-Colonel Ioan Haprean, majors Gelu Popovici, Iosif Veverca, Sabin Bãdescu, Gheorghe Dragoş, Traian Bolosin, Pavel Rãdulescu and Adam Mureşan, captains Pavel Þoia, Vasile Cândea, Mihai Matei, Ciocan, Flore Tocut, first lieutenants Dorin Iepure, Traian Olaru, Mircea Drãgan, Dorel-Aurel Mureşan, Codreanu, lieutenants Dorel Andras and Florin Dragomir. Lieutenants Ioan Bara and Mitariu were very active, especially in detaining the demonstrators, on the night of 16 December 1989.

Colonel Ioan Bunoaica and the chief of staff, Lieutenant-Colonel Tomuº, com-manded the units of the Safety and Security Brigades in Timişoara and ensured their continuous coordination. Lieutenant-Colonel Ion Sasu, with his subordinate officers, among which Horia Septimiu Bodocan, led the units of Firefighters, in strong connection with the intervention teams of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and of the Army. Firefighter units in the area came to support them. An officer called Dumitru Þãran led a team that came from Arad. The commander, Colonel Petre Teacã, coordinated from Bucharest the repressive actions that the Rangers were involved in. For a few days, their subordination changed from to the Ministry of National Defense to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The passing-receiving op-eration in Timişoara was over on 18 December 1989. Lieutenant-Colonel Neculai Nechita, the chief of staff at that time, and then the commander of the unit, as well as Lieutenant-Major Ion Clavac from the Rangers also became involved. Another name that stands out is that of Colonel Pantelimon Ciocoiu from Bucharest.


The Army People

The army had an overwhelming role in the repression, as the local forces gave their very best in that respect. We are talking about Colonel Gheorghe Rotariu, the commander of the local garrison and of the Antiaircraft De-

fense Division, Lieutenant-Colonel Constantin Zeca, appointed to command the 18th Mechanized Division of Timişoara, and Nicolae Predonescu, the chief of staff of the same unit, the officer who first ordered the troops to fire in Timişoara, on 17 December 1989, around 4.15–4.30 pm, in Liberty Plaza. The shots came from the balcony of the building of the 18th Mechanized Division of Timişoara (Szabo 2013a). Likewise, Lieutenant-Colonel Constantin Caraivan, who commanded the artillery of the 18th Division, Lieutenant-Colonel Ştefan Balaş, and Major Gheorghe Vlãduþ played an important role. Important names in the repression were Lieutenant-Col-onel Mihai Bulai, the former commander of the tank regiment at Giroc, Colo nel Constantin Rogin or Lieutenant-Colonel Gheorghe Viºinescu from the same unit. Majors Vasile Paul, Dorinel Biriş, Captain Neagu, Octavian Pruneanu, and First Lieu-tenant Dorel Romanescu operated on Girocului Lane. Majors Gheorghe Borodan, Ioan Burci, Ion Dincã, Aurel Dima, Moise Iercosan, Octav Pleºca, Ioan Ungur, captains Nicolae Benghia, Marin Chiriac, Constantin Miu, Marin Ene, Dumitru Caseriu, Nicolae Ilie, Iordache Mare, Adrian Neagu, Gheorghe Opriºoreanu, Marin Pãtrulescu, Florin Predescu, Tiberiu Savin, first lieutenants Daniel Botez, Constantin Gheorghe, Vasile Cindea, Maricel Cristea, Constantin Maiescu, lieutenants Traian Ardeleanu, Daniel Dinu, and Daniel Craiu also participated in the repressive ac-tions. First Lieutenant Maricel Cristea, who came with Vasile Paul’s unit from Lugoj, witnessed the repression measures on Girocului Lane and was the only one among those present who was honest and humane enough to relate what happened, indicating those responsible for the massacre.

Major Velicicu, the head of the Counterintelligence Service of the 18th Mecha-nized Division, was also involved. Other officers involved were Lieutenant-Colonel Vasile Ceuca, Major Constantin Judele, First Lieutenant Adrian Vlãdilã, but also Marius Bora and Dorel Rus. Other participants were Petrea Ioan Cristea, the chief of staff, Ion Partenie, Dãnuþ Eftimie, Gheorghe Vasile, and Ion Bãdãrãu, officers from the Timiş Patriotic Guards.

Among the officers from the Ministry of National Defense who came to Timişoara for the repression, one who stood out due to his actions was Lieutenant-Colonel Ilie Gurschi, the commander of a detachment of paratroopers who came from the Army base at Deveselu, Dolj County. On 21 December 1989, the detachment was involved in counteracting activities at the Banat Polygraphic Enterprise, where they tried to prevent the appearance of the manifesto of the Democratic Romanian Front. At the same time, Gurschi was part of the group constituted in the morning of 22 December 1989 that was sent to capture the leaders of the Revolution from the

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Balcony of the Opera House in Timişoara and destroy the amplification equipment. Tinu Radu, a member of the Timiş Securitate who took part in those preparations, testifies in that respect (Szabo 2013a). At the same time, Gurschi (with the soldiers under his command) saw to the evacuation of Prime Minister Constantin Dãscãles-cu and the other party and state leaders from the building of the former County Party Committee. Some of the victims among the Timişoara people recorded on the night of 22 to 23 December 1989 can be attributed to them, because they were the ones who acted in the Opera Plaza—Banat Museum—Central Hotel area, where several people were killed or wounded. Lieutenant-Colonel Daniel Dinu from the Ministry of National Defense was wounded in the left foot in the same area. In the evening of 22 December 1989, around 11 pm, he was patrolling in front of the Op-era House. Corporal Ioan Kantor reported to him that an armed paratrooper had refused to identify himself and disappeared. A few minutes later, the soldiers left in the direction of the Banat Museum to look for the paratrooper and the civilians that accompanied him. Then shots came from that area and Lieutenant-Colonel Dinu was wounded by a ricocheting bullet (Milin 2007a, 2495).

Other Institutions Involved

Heads of institutions or their employees also participated in the local re-pression teams. We should mention here Rodica Novac, the director of the Timiş Health Directorate, Ovidiu Golea, the director of the County

Hospital and deputy director of the Timiş Health Directorate, Elena Topalã, the president of the Timiş Court House, and Mihai Teperdel, the territorial inspector of the Department for Religious Denominations. Local prosecutors (coordinated by Laurean Tilinca), as well as those brought over from other parts of the country (Bucharest, Arad, Caraş-Severin, and Hunedoara) acted at the order of the deputy general prosecutor, Gheorghe Diaconescu (military magistrate), whom Nicolae Popovici, the general prosecutor, dispatched to Timişoara. Mihai Ionescu, Ion Ono-frei, Ioan Mihai Alexandru, and Gheorghe Mocuþa came from Bucharest together with Diaconescu. The role of the prosecutors who were thus brought in was to interrogate the demonstrators held in the Timişoara Penitentiary, situated on Popa Şapcã Street. On the morning of 17 December, when he landed in Timişoara on a Tarom flight, Diaconescu went to the Timiº Inspectorate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs to organize the repression together with generals Constantin Nuþã, Velicu Mihalea, and Emil Macrea (Milin 2007b, 3429). The prosecution did not issue any bench warrants during the Revolution period. Hundreds of people were arrested in Timişoara (around 800), while the issue of arrest came up in another 28–30 cases, concerning those found in possession of goods stolen from the devastated stores (Milin 2007b, 3533). The prosecution was not involved in the release of those who


were detained illegally, on whom no evidence had been found and who, at any rate, were there beyond the legal term of 24 hours.

But what is truly staggering is that the prosecutors did not make the slightest attempt to identify the persons who shot at the population! Of course, the corpses were examined, which required the arrival from Bucharest of additional prosecu-tors, Ovidiu Petrescu and Vasile Grevdea. Another team, which included many members of Romania’s Government, came to Timişoara at around 1 pm on 20 De-cember 1989. It was led by Constantin Dãscãlescu, the prime minister of the Social-ist Republic of Romania. Emil Bobu, the secretary of the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party, a person very close to the Ceauşescu family, accompa-nied him. Nicolae Vãidescu, the minister of the electro-technical industry, Eugeniu Rãdulescu, the minister of the automotive industry, Maria Fluºcã, the minister for light industry, and Ioan Toma, the general secretary of the Communist Youth Union, in fact the youth minister, were also part of the delegation. The ministers who were present in Timişoara had the task of going to the large companies under their jurisdiction to prevent the employees from taking to the streets and determine them to get on with their work. They did not even try to intervene, because the workers were already in front of the County Party Committee and in Opera Plaza (Victoriei). They merely had some discussions with the directors of the companies, most of which were empty of workers at the time. In fact, the ministers who came from Bucharest were surprised by what they found out in Timişoara, as in Bucharest the true magnitude of the revolutionary events had been unknown.

The Repressive Strategies

The teams who acted against the fighters for democracy, liberty, and a better life in Timişoara applied an entire range of repressive techniques:

1. Intimidation. First, intimidation techniques manifested themselves through the presence in the streets of several employees from the Ministry of Internal Af-fairs, either in uniform or dressed like civilians. Starting with the night of 16 to 17 December 1989, patrols of the Ministry of National Defense were sent in the city. Their presence had the purpose of discouraging people from getting together to constitute groups that would act in an organized manner. As early as 16 December, the demonstrators were intimidated by use of firefighter vehicles, Ministry of Internal Affairs automobiles, by the presence of the cars of those in high positions of power (with specific license plate numbers), as well as of Army vehicles, all of them a conspicuous and distinct presence in various places where demonstrators gathered. On Sunday at lunch, tanks and armored personnel car-riers (apcs) came into action and occupied the city.

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2. Misinformation. The most important act of misinformation took place on 16–17 December, when Nicolae Ceauşescu, the former general secretary of the Roma-nian Communist Party and the president of the Socialist Republic of Romania, was only informed that some shops had been broken into, and not about the fact that the protests concerned mostly democratic reforms. That act of cowardice on the part of the local communist activists, of Militia officers, and of the local members of the Securitate, favored the drastic, excessive measures dictated by Nicolae Ceauşescu against the Timişoara people. Previously, Ceauşescu had been informed that those involved were just a handful of fanatical churchgoers in the Reformed Church. Later, on 18 and 19 December, the Ceauşescu spouses were told another lie, according to which the demonstrators had attacked military units. In a speech broadcast on radio and tv, in the evening of 20 December, Nicolae Ceauşescu invoked the reasons above to justify the introduction of other drastic measures in Timişoara and around the country, not knowing that they were false. He was also misinformed as regards the involvement of some foreign agents and powers in the Timişoara revolt. Yet another piece of misinformation that was locally used was that the shot persons, removed from the morgue and taken to Bucharest in order to be incinerated, had fled across the border.

3. Threats and preventive measures. Beginning with 16 December, the Timişoara people were permanently threatened. There was a large variety of verbal phrases, combined with insults. They were used in an attempt to divert people from the sensitive issues. The families of those deceased were also threatened, as they were looking for their own. Many times, speech was accompanied by gestures, when the members of the forces of order raised bludgeons or weapons and pretended to fire. There were also threats involving the use of vehicles, when they moved towards the crowds in tanks and apcs. The city was blocked off, and on the main access ways checkpoints were set up to prevent the entrance of outsiders and the locals from leaving town. Telephone conversations were stopped, while the state of emergency was declared (Ban 2012).

4. Violence. The members of the repression teams resorted, beyond verbal violence, to a physical violence that is hard to imagine. People (men, women, and chil-dren, young or old) were slapped, punched, hit with wooden sticks, stones, crowbars, cables, rubber maces, and the stock of the weapons. Likewise, they were shot with submachine guns, flamethrowers, semi-automatic rifles (scoped), or machine guns from the apcs or tanks. Throughout the entire revolt, the dem-onstrators did not possess any firearms. From time to time, they also turned to bludgeons, stones, bottles, or jars (full or empty). They had a far more powerful weapon, though: the will to overthrow the regime (Szabo 2014, 16).


The Ways of Annihilating the Demonstrators

Between 16 and 22 December 1989, the repression in Timişoara developed along two coordinates: 1) direct actions against the demonstrators, resulting in arrests, beatings with various objects, as well as gunfire; 2) intelligence-

gathering actions that were meant to identify the leaders of the demonstrators’ groups, in an attempt to annihilate them (by detainment or shooting). Under these circumstances, the suffering of those wounded or arrested did not matter to the sol-diers, Militia officers, people from the Securitate, firefighters, rangers, and party ac-tivists. The drama that Adrian Costin went through perfectly illustrates this. In the evening of 17 December, he left home to pick up his wife from a different district of the city. He joined some groups of demonstrators and, in 700 Plaza, he was shot in the shoulder, as shots started to come from the Opera Plaza—Timişoara Hotel area. That was an area were several victims were recorded. Although he was wounded, A. Costin did not go to the hospital; instead, he went home, accompanied by his friends, without having found his wife. Near the Northern Train Station, they were arrested, taken to the Transportation Militia, beaten, and required to write declara-tions concerning their presence on the streets. From there, along with other arrested people, they were taken to the Inspectorate of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Timiş, where they were all brutally beaten by officers dressed in uniform or in civil-ian clothes. At dawn, they reached the Penitentiary. There, they were not beaten; instead they were interrogated as regards their reasons for taking to the streets and the shouted slogans.

Unlike other injured people, Adrian Costin informed the officials that he had medical problems with his shoulder. He was promised medical care, but no one tended to him. On 20 December, upon pressure from the demonstrators at the Opera House and the County Party hq, he was released, along with other persons. The wound did not look well, so he went to the New Clinics to get medical care. He refused hospitalization. After the winter holidays, he went to a policlinic, where he received treatment. On 2 February 1990 surgery was performed on his arm, and the bullet was eventually taken out (Milin 2007b, 3142–3143). This is a complex case, but most of the victims recorded in the Timişoara Revolution of December 1989 went through one or more of the sequences mentioned: arrest, beating, shooting, and interrogation. All those tragic events came as a result of the order that Nicolae Ceauşescu issued: “taking measures,” including opening fire, “measures” put into practice by the repression teams, became the first priority.

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Guilt, Lies, and Retracted Declarations

Ion coman, who commanded the repression of the demonstrators for democra-cy and civic liberties in Timişoara, explicitly admitted either that he gave orders to fire, or that he passed on Nicolae Ceauşescu’s order to shoot at the demon-

strators: “I had the representation that by giving the order that the fire should be opened, there will be a massacre, which, fortunately, did not occur” (Rado 2013, 8). During the trial, Coman retracted many of the declarations he had previously made to prosecutors. In some cases, he was right, as in the case of the order to fire, which was passed on at around 2.30 pm. Vasile Milea gave the order from the Ministry of National Defense, while Tudor Postelnicu issued the order from the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Both of them were ministers with competences in this respect, the only ones in a position to issue those orders. Later, in the declaration given during the arraignment, Ion Coman declared that he was informed of “only” 58 deaths, which, in his view, was proof that the number of those who had been shot was limited.

The easiest excuse, often invoked in court, was that the order to fire referred to hooligans, as they vandalized institutions and attacked the law enforcement or mili-tary units, an aspect that does not correspond to reality. Then, another excuse was that the shots were fired in conformity with the legal norms, that is, verbal warning, vertical warning shot, followed by firing at the legs. Yet, most of those hit by bullets had penetration orifices in the abdomen, chest, and head areas. Ion Coman recon-firmed the order to fire given by telephone by Nicolae Ceauşescu to the commander of the forces of repression within the Army, General Ştefan Guşã, as well as to the commander of the units of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, General Constantin Nuþã, around 6.30–7 pm, on 17 December, about an hour after he took command in Timişoara. Yet, as proven, the first gunfire victims appeared shortly after 4 pm, in Liberty Plaza in Timişoara, where soldiers from the 18th Mechanized Division fired their weapons. Ion Coman declared that he had not allowed the use of heavy weap-ons, such as tanks and artillery, although it is clear that machineguns from the apcs were actually used. The former commander of the repression in Timişoara specified, at his arraignment: “Even from the moment I arrived, I forbade the use of heavy munitions against the demonstrators. I ordered gun shooting by infantry weapons (automatic rifles) only. I gave the order that tanks, cannons, apcs, helicopters, and planes will not be used” (Rado 2013, 17–18). Yet tanks, apcs, and helicopters were used. The tanks played an intimidation role, while the helicopters served to observe the movements of the demonstrators.


The Fear Ceauşescu Provoked and His Misinformation

A few thinGs stand out as regards the actions of the huge mechanism of re-pression in Timişoara. First, Ceauşescu was told that the movement meant destruction caused by hooligans. No person in a position of power dared

to mention to him either the slogans in favor of democracy and fundamental liber-ties, or the fact that the requests were basic: bread, heat, electricity, and medication. Another aspect is that the shooting often occurred after the devastation of industrial sites. When shots were fired, the targets were not those involved in their destruc-tion, but the groups of demonstrators. Thus, fire was opened—and there were many victims—upon the persons gathered on the steps of the Cathedral, both in the eve-ning of 17 December and on the night of 18 December. The Cathedral was not at risk of being devastated. Instead, nothing was done to stop the devastation of the stores across the street, a few meters from those who opened fire.

Cristian Liviu Câmpean was 13 years old when he was wounded in Liberty Plaza. His lucidity and fresh mind helped him to recall the following aspect, which he later related in court: “After everything was broken, then they opened fire. Af-ter!” (Milin 2007a, 2842). That was an aspect the court retained when they gave their verdict in the Timişoara Trial, an occasion to emphasize that the forces of order had the role of protecting people and goods, not the role of killing: “The forces that were supposed to assure the protection of the stores involved in the shooting against the demonstrators, and the result consisted of many dead and wounded” (Orban and Rado 2010, 267). As a matter of fact, the court recorded that there was no legal ground for the shooting, as the devastation of the institutions and stores did not in any way justify the use of guns, especially since innocent people were exposed to danger, some of them being killed, and others only wounded (Orban and Rado 2010, 313).

The conclusion that we may infer is that in Timişoara, between 16 and 22 De-cember 1989, there existed a command structure of the repression. Even though it was not formally constituted, it acted directly against the persons who demanded civil and political rights. Out of fear and cowardice, the leaders of that command structure did not correctly inform Nicolae Ceauşescu about the protests. Instead, they supported his wrong decisions and actually commanded the repressive actions directed towards the insurrectionists. Moreover, they supported the decisions re-garding the elimination of any of trace of the revolutionary actions, including that of incinerating corpses.

After the removal of Nicolae Ceauşescu from his position of power, it would have been natural for Romania to head in the direction of democratic values and construct a society in which fundamental rights and liberties would be respected. In fact, the right to justice was almost totally ignored. There was no retribution for

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the practices and actions that the representatives of the communist regime had per-petrated. The conclusions of the Final Report of the Presidential Committee for the Analysis of the Communist Dictatorship in Romania, a report greeted with remark-able hostility, were presented only on 18 December 2007, in the Romanian Parlia-ment (Cesereanu 2008). A few days before, on 5 December 2007, generals Victor Atanasie Stãnculescu and Mihai Chiþac, two of those responsible for the Timişoara massacre, had finally been convicted. Their trial took a very long time because they both held very important positions within the first post-revolutionary government, the former as minister of the economy and then of national defense, and the latter as minister of internal affairs. In the Timişoara Trial, which started on 2 March 1990, against officers from the Militia and the Securitate, and against four leaders of the communist administration, few people were convicted. In such conditions, the lack of a sound judicial investigation that would shed light on the crimes committed in Timişoara and their authors affects Romania’s efforts at building a society centered on the rule of law and accountability for committed actions. Within this context, research should be continued to identify all the persons involved in the repression, and their actions, for the moral purpose of bringing them to justice.

q

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AbstractActions of Repression Directed Towards the Democracy Movement: December 1989 in Timişoara

This study aims at accurately presenting the structure that directed the repression of the manifesta-tions for democracy in December 1989, while detailing the actions that took place at that time. The repressive actions occurred under the coordination of a team. They were conducted directly from Bucharest, first through the agency of party and local administration institutions, alongside units from the Ministry of Internal Affairs and of the Ministry of National Defense. Later, officials in control of the Communist Party, the Army, the Militia (as the police was called during the communist regime), the Prosecutor’s Office, and the Securitate (the secret or intelligence service within the communist system) were also sent to Timişoara. On 17 December, around 4.30 pm, there was a shootout, and many people were killed and others were wounded. The repression forces occupied the city and made sure that the traces of the revolt were erased. The medical evidence was largely destroyed. Likewise, the authorities refused to engage in dialogue with the revolutionaries, as their only attempt in that respect occurred on 20 December 1989. Under such circumstances, the communist regime in Romania continued the repression until 22 December, at 12 am, when demonstrators toppled Nicolae Ceauşescu from his position of power.

Keywordsrepression, Nicolae Ceauşescu, Romanian Revolution, Timişoara, authoritarian regimes

B O O K R E V I E W S

Marele Rãzboi în memoria bãnãþeanã (1914–1919) (The Great War in the Memory of the People from Banat, 1914–1919) Vol. 3. Anthology, edition, studies and notes by valeriu leu, Nicolae BocşaN and MiHaela bedeCean, with the colaboration of iOnela MOsCOviCi Cluj-Napoca: puC, Academia Românã/ Centrul de Studii Transilvane, 2015

The more than 100 years that have passed since the outbreak of the First World War gave rise everywhere to occasions meant to mark the great event of the early twenti-eth century that changed the world. It was an opportunity to remember feats of bravery done by the soldiers, the prolonged depriva-tions of the civilians, the doctors rescuing efforts, the calls for peace from the Church, but also the fear, hunger, violence, despair, homesickness, the physical and mental suf-fering or the disagreements between politi-cians who often pave the way for armies, making them face each other. The moment of balance, reflection and compassion with the tragic fate of tens of millions of victims of the terrible cataclysm was not just as-sumed at the level of public sensitivity, but also by a number of specialists, able to un-derstand the subtleties of the Great War. One such category is the professional historians, who were soon to unveil the unseen facets of the war or to investigate it in terms of new interrogations. The results of their restitutive effort were soon to appear. Everywhere, the history books dedicated to the First World War increased not only quantitatively but also qualitatively, the topic being approached

from innovative perspectives, new sources of documentation being introduced into the circuit or those already known being re-assessed. The presence of specialists in the Great War and historians in general in the public space has become much stronger dur-ing these years, the media giving special at-tention to the popularization and awareness of some important moments in the chronol-ogy of the event.

The Romanian historiography was not only a mere spectator to these recent trends manifested in the field. Conferences, sym-posia, round tables, general or specialized works, studies, articles, research projects dedicated to The First World War, etc.—all these are the proof of a Romanian historiog-raphy fully synchronized with the current de-velopments in historical writing. Therefore, the internal historical research dedicated to the Great War was visibly enriched, not few of the published works resorting to new doc-umentary sources, an innovative methodol-ogy or to analyses that have deepened the understanding of the subject. One such cul-tural product, which recently came to the at-tention of specialists and the general public, is the book that we are now discussing. Part of an ambitious project of publishing the en-tire memoirs from Banat regarding the First World War I and the Union between Banat and Romania (1914–1919), the present vol-ume is the third in a series which began to be published in 2012. Back then, Professor Nicolae Bocşan began to put into practice the praiseworthy editorial plan which he thought about with his friend, Professor Valeriu Leu. Both historians from Banat were convinced of the importance that the publication of the texts, from public or private archives, of the actors or spectators of the First World War,


would have for a better knowledge of the great event. But this was not the only rea-son which led to the conception of such an extensive editorial process. Furthermore, one has to bear in mind the sense of duty that the two distinguished historians naturally felt towards their homeland, towards Banat in general. Therefore, the project of editing the journals, memoirs, memories of the people of Banat about the First World War assumes the value of an eulogy that the two eminent historians proposed to bring to Banat, to its sacrifice of blood during the war, but also to the contribution that it had in creating United Romania. Unfortunately, Valeriu Leu did not get to see any published volume of the expected series, but the project was not aban-doned. The man who assumed the mission of fulfilling it was Nicolae Bocşan who, by doing so, was merely honoring the memory of his good friend and fellow historian who had passed away in 2009. The volume that we focus our attention on is unfortunately the last that Bocşan got to see published. His premature death in the summer of 2016 is not only a great loss for the historical school of Cluj, but also for the Romanian histori-ography in general. This makes this volume the last great historiographical achievement of the late Nicolae Bocşan, which gives it a special symbolic importance.

Like the first two sister volumes, it is pre-ceded by an extensive introduction, designed to ensure a better understanding of the mem-oirs that it contains. From the notes of the 21 authors published in this volume, Nicolae Bocşan managed to extract the essence of each account and to build this interpretative part providing answers to some fundamen-tal questions. Such questioning is linked to the identity of the authors whose notes are published or reprinted in this volume. It is an opportunity for Bocşan to create some biographical medallions, in the case of Ioan Geþia, Nicolae Boldureanu (Lae from Banat), Cornel Grofşoreanu, Eftimie Gherman, Ion

Jurjac, Mihai Gropşianu, Ilie Gropşianu, Ştefan Lazãr, Ioan Ilie, Ştefan Jianu, Ioan David, Nicolae Linþia, Aurel Moacã, etc. The analysis of their social status, educational level, professional horizon and cultural-ideological framework before and after the experience of the war leads Bocşan to be-lieve that we are dealing with “people who are differentiated concerning the education, profession, social origin, especially in their participation at the events of 1914–1919.”

A second theme that emerges from the analysis of the Banat memoirists’ discourse on the First World War is the road in war-time. The theme of the road appears associ-ated with travel not only in space but also in time. The abundance of travel descrip-tions, especially of nature and landscapes, is explained by the fact that in the psychology of the combatants the peace and stability in nature strongly contrasted with the noise and turmoil of the war in which they were caught. In these circumstances, the emphasis on describing the nature was equivalent to a declaration of protest against a war which was held responsible for the destruction of the natural environment, for its perversion. Many times the memoirists reverberate the natural habitat specific to their homeland, familiar geographic coordinates, as an ex-pression of homesickness and longing after the loved ones. Therefore, Nicolae Bocşan believes, the attention to nature in the mem-oirs from Banat concerning the Great War betrays the authors’ nostalgia for their home-land, for Banat to be precise, but also their aversion to war, to the great problems that it produced in the world.

Another analytical level that the intro-ductory study focuses on is the one concern-ing the motivation of writing memoirs by the authors from Banat. From this point of view we are witnessing a variety of reasons that led to the writing of memoirs, such as anniversaries (the celebration of the semi-centenary of the Great Union in 1968), po-

bOOK reviews • 155

litical reasons, resulting from the desire of memoirists to reply to political opponents, personal reasons, as a consequence of the im-pulse to highlight their efforts and personal merits, or the reasons generated by the frus-tration that Banat and its inhabitants did not have their role appreciated in the creation of Greater Romania.

The mobilization and going to war is another commonplace of memoir notes in Banat. Like everywhere, both actions were marked by enthusiasm, which quickly turned into anguish and despair. Professor Nicolae Bocşan notes that the participation to war contributed, in the case of the people from Banat, to equalizing their social condition, moving away “from the society before the war to the military community that appeared on the front.” The mobilization was also, for many people, the boundary between a life lived in peace in the midst of the protective family, and a world ravaged by violence and deprivation, with suffering and death “wel-coming” hosts on the battlefields.

That is why one of the most powerful images left in the mind of memoirists was that of the front. This was equivalent to the grand stage on which the spectacle of the war unfolded, where death was an omni-present character. Facing such danger, the memoirists from Banat note that the war experience has instilled a sense of belonging to the community of soldiers, but which was subjected to an implacable destiny. Nicolae Bocşan provides a profound analysis of the main events circumscribed to the theme of the front in memoirs: the artillery bombard-ment, the prolonged deprivation suffered by the soldiers, the fracture which he felt between them and the upper ranks of the military leadership, the homesickness and longing after the loved ones, the psychical trauma caused by the war, the constant ap-peal to divinity as a last chance of salvation, the difficult task which the comrades had to fulfill of burying those who had been killed

in the war, the birth and spread of political ideologies (namely, socialism and bolshe-vism), the phenomenon of desertions, seen as a form of resistance to war and the dif-ficulties of those who were demobilized in order to reintegrate into society after the war or the frustration which they felt at not hav-ing their merits appreciated or for the sacri-fices they had made during the war.

The picture of the everyday life of those left behind is not painted in cheerful colors in the memoirs from Banat. Placed on a sec-ondary level until recently, the daily hard-ships of those from behind the front were not overlooked by those who wrote down their war memories. In their notes one can feel the echoes of the turmoil stirred by the deprivations and sufferings endured by those from the internal front.

Another topos of the memoirs of Banat is the one referring to the revolutionary atmo-sphere at the end of the war. Nicolae Bocşan insists in his comments upon the significance of the destruction of imperial symbols, on the state of anarchy that swept the province and its inhabitants, on the dismantling of the old power systems, but also on the process of the political organization of guards and national councils, in which local priests and teachers assumed a significant role.

The Assembly at Alba Iulia has, in turn, a place of honor in the memoirs on the First World War. Professor Nicolae Bocşan notes that “every memoirist wanted to highlight, sometimes overstressing his role in the prepa-ration and participation of the National As-sembly in Alba Iulia.” This is understandable, given that the event was the beginning of a new chapter in Romanian history, with great expectations.

Another sequence captured by most mem-oirists from Banat refers to the Serbian and French occupation of the province, since the autumn of 1918. Given that Banat was a ter-ritory claimed by both Romanians and Serbs, the state of war was prolonged in the region.


The memoirs faithfully capture the atmo-sphere full of tension and suspicion that ex-isted among the inhabitants of the province, the abuses of the Serbian administration and army, the trust with which the Romanians received the French presence in the area, and also the main political directions which were outlined at the time. All of these generated the uncertainty that characterized the future of the province at the end of the First World War.

What could we learn at the end of the brief thematic presentation of the memoirs of Banat contained in the third volume of the series? Firstly, that the war marked the con-sciences of the contemporaries, more em-phatically for those who experienced the war as combatants on the fronts. Secondly, the notes that make up the volume that we anal-yse succeed in introducing us into the inti-macy of their authors’ thoughts and feelings, even though this gives them a large dose of subjectivity. Finally, the memoirs from Banat concerning the First World War are an inex-pugnable written testimony of the contribu-tion that the province and its people had in the Great War and subsequently in the con-struction of Greater Romania. The merit of valorizing this contribution goes to the two historians from Banat who initiated the edi-torial project, through which they managed not only to (re)highlight writings worthy of being known, but also to show the apprecia-tion for the history of their ancestors whom they, lately, unfortunately joined.

qLucian Turcu

francesco Guida, dir Marele Rãzboi ºi Europa danubiano-balcanicã (La Grande Guerre et l’Europe danubiano- balkanique) Version en roumain soignée par ana viCtOria siMa, MOniCa feKete, traduction par MOniCa feKete, MirOna benCe-MuK, delia MOrar Cluj-Napoca: Academia Românã/Centrul de Studii Transilvane; Presa Universitarã Clujeanã, 2016

L’e centenaire du déclenchement de la

Première Guerre Mondiale a constitué une bonne occasion pour les historiens de nom-breux pays, belligérants ou non belligérants, de rédiger des ouvrages de synthèse, des monographies, des éditions de documents ou de mémoires etc., utiles à la fois aux chercheurs et à ceux qui s’intéressent à des aspects comme les causes, l’ampleur, le déve-loppement et les conséquences de la Grande Guerre. Les grandes synthèses réalisées du-rant les dernières années par l’historiogra-phie d’expression linguistique anglo-saxonne se sont concentrées en particulier sur les évé-nements déployés sur le front de l’Ouest, en plan secondaire sur le front de l’Est et assez peu, voire nullement, sur les opérations mi-litaires du Nord de l’Italie, de la Péninsule balkanique, respectivement sur le front rou-main de 1916-1918. Dans ce contexte, l’in-clusion dans le circuit historiographique de recherches inédites ou l’extension à de nou-velles perspectives méthodologiques vers des fronts périphériques, restés en quelque sorte à l’écart des analyses historiographiques, de-meurent les desiderata actuels, le devoir des historiens italiens, croates, slovènes, ukrai-niens, bulgares, turcs, grecs etc. étant, en même temps, celui de dépouiller les archives pour y découvrir des informations autant si-gnificatives que possible sur ce qui s’est passé


il y a une centaine d’années, et de rédiger des synthèses qui complètent les ouvrages ayant occulté, délibérément ou sans préméditation, les réalités italo-danubiano-balkaniques.

Dans ce contexte, l’initiative de la pres-tigieuse revue italienne Il Vetro de dédier en 2015 un numéro spécial au front balkanique, moins connu, demeure méritoire et elle a été appréciée par les spécialistes. Le coordi-nateur du volume, Monsieur le Professeur Francesco Guido, de l’Université Roma Tre, est un historien renommé, un très bon connaisseur des réalités de l’espace balka-nique et danubien, ses nombreux livres d’au-teur, les volumes coordonnés ou les études publiées le recommandant comme l’un des spécialistes les plus avisés de l’histoire de la Roumanie et des autres pays de la région. Les 12 études signées par des historiens consacrés de plusieurs universités d’Italie, de Serbie, de Roumanie, de Bulgarie, de même que l’Avant-propos signé par le coordinateur du volume, mettent en évidence les réalités danubiano-balkaniques de la période de la Grande Guerre mondiale. Ces contributions scientifiques reflètent le caractère complexe et compliqué de la situation de la Hongrie, de la Serbie, du Monténégro, de la Rouma-nie, de l’Albanie, de la Grèce et de la Bulgarie de cette époque-là, en partant des prélimi-naires politico-diplomatiques de la Grande Guerre, le déclenchement de celle-ci à la suite de l’assassinat de Sarajevo, en juin 1914, la configuration des positions des États/nations de cette zone, le déroulement des opérations militaires, le contexte régional et européen, les relations interethniques, l’implication du Saint-Siège dans les projets humanitaires etc. Le présent ouvrage n’omet ni les jeux de cou-lisses des capitales des États impliqués, ni les positions des principaux acteurs politiques ou l’évolution des événements militaires sur les fronts etc. Au-delà des possibilités limi-tées d’une étude qui doit respecter certains paramètres afin d’assurer l’unité du volume, on peut souligner la nécessité de reprendre

et d’amplifier un projet éditorial qui mette la Grande Guerre déroulée dans cette partie de l’Europe à sa juste place dans l’historiogra-phie universelle.

Les études publiées à présent, principa-lement en roumain, par Monsieur le Pro-fesseur Francesco Guida, représentent sans doute une contribution historiographique importante pour la connaissance des rela-tions internationales des États balkaniques dans les années 1914-1918, de l’évolution générale de la Première Guerre mondiale, et ce livre aura certainement une circulation à la mesure de la consistance des recherches qu’il comprend.

qioan BoLovan

andrew TaiT JarBoe and richard s. foGarTy, eds. Empires in World War I: Shifting Frontiers and Imperial Dynamics in a Global Conflict London–New York: I. B. Tauris, 2014

The centenary of the Great War provi-des an excellent opportunity to bring again to the forefront the universal character of this major conflict which changed the course of history for all countries, from the small-est to empires. If most research on the First World War has focused on Europe, where, indeed, the fate of the war was decided, more recent studies have tried to shift the attention to the role played by those considered “sup-porting actors,” namely, the colonists and the empires outside the European continent.

This volume aims at providing a truly global perspective on the First World War by taking into account its inter-imperial dimen-sion, stressing how necessary it is to focus on the dynamic between imperial metropo-les and colonies. The editors, Andrew Tait


Great Britain and Japan, the major powers in the Asia-Pacific region, but also on their reaction to the growing importance of Aus-tralia and United States in the region.

Part II, “Soldiers of Empire, Far from Home,” consists of four contributions which focus on the people who fought the war, on colonial soldiers, in order to better understand the imperial dynamics of the war; transportation, loyalty through propa-ganda or maintaining cohesion and disci-pline in the armies are key elements of this endeavour. The editor Andrew Tait Jarboe, in his chapter “Propaganda and Empire in the Heart of Europe: Indian Soldiers in Hospital and Prison, 1914-18,” compares the pro-imperialist propaganda employed within British and French hospitals, among the wounded Indian soldiers who were en-couraged to show gratitude to the British Empire, with the pro-imperialist propaganda which the Germans deployed in prisoner-of-war camps, where Indian prisoners were told that another empire—Germany—should be the receptacle of their gratitude and loyalty. In “Out of North Africa: Contested Visions of French Muslim Soldiers during World War I,” Richard S. Fogarty explores the case of North African soldiers, trapped between their Muslim identity, speculated by the Ot-tomans and Germans in an attempt to make them switch sides, and their engagement and loyalty to France. Julian Saltman, the author of the third chapter entitled “‘The Full and Just Penalty’? British Military Justice and the Empire’s War in Egypt and Palestine,” shows that military justice was unevenly applied to imperial and colonial soldiers in Egypt and Palestine and how the legal sys-tem was used to discipline the colonial and imperial armies. This part ends with Steven Sabol’s “‘It Was a Pretty Good War, but they Stopped it too Soon’: The American Em-pire, Native Americans and World War I,” a chapter which argues that the Unites States should be counted among the empires fight-

Jarboe and Richard S. Fogarty, consider it important to no longer study the Great War as two separate wars, Europe and the rest of the world, but to approach it at global level, as a whole, and this is where the novelty of Empires in World War I lies: “When read in its entirety, it offers scholars and students of World War I the opportunity to look for con-nections and make comparisons on a truly global scale” (p. 9).

Empires in World War I contains 13 chap-ters organized in four parts, preceded by an introduction which the editors have named “An Imperial Turn in First World War Stud-ies” and where they start from the assertion that the First World War was a “conflict of em-pires fought by empires to determine the fate of those empires” (p. 1).

The first part, “Myths and Realities of Im-perial Expansion,” demonstrates that many participants to the First World War had the opportunity to fulfill many of their dor-mant ambitions. Matthew G. Stanard’s chapter, “Digging-In: The Great War and the Roots of Belgian Empire,” analyses the important role this huge conflict played in the history of Belgian imperialism. He ar-gues that Belgium managed to consolidate its position as colonial power and that the war helped strengthen an imperialist iden-tity in Belgium. The second chapter of this first section is entitled “Race and Imperial Ambition: The Case of Japan and India af-ter World War I.” Its author, Maryanne A. Rhett, shows how the First World War— despite generating the dissolution of some empires and the appearance of new states— created premises for some Indian nationalists to fight for independence from Great Britain and to dream of an Indian Empire, while of-fering the Japanese the chance to feed their imperial ambitions. The last contribution to this part is W. Matthew Kennedy’s “A Pacific Scramble? Imperial Readjustment in the Asia-Pacific, 1911-22,” where he focuses on the events that generated a clash between


ing the First World War due to the use of about 17,000 Native Americans in the war, a proof of the existence of an internal colonial-ism within the United States.

The volume’s third part is entitled “Thinking Imperially, Acting Locally” and the three contributions gathered here high-light the interplay between the global and the local by showing how the First World War had significant effects at local level, far from the Western front. Sarah Zimmer-man has the first contribution to this part, “Citizenship, Military Service and Manag-ing Exceptionalism: Originaires in World War I,” where she focuses on the case of the originaires, a group of soldiers from the “Four Communes of Senegal” fighting in the French army, who kept their status as co-lonial subjects while benefitting from some rights the French citizens had, revealing the local effects of the war. “For God and Coun-try: Missionary Service in Colonial Africa during World War I” is the name of the sec-ond chapter of this part, in which Kenneth J. Orosz examines the role played by mission-aries in Africa, how they helped recruiting and organizing the troops, while pointing out that nearly two million African soldiers and carriers were involved in the First World War, another proof of the global scale of this history-changing war. Erin Eckhold Sassin analyses in “The Visual Politics of Upper Silesian Settlements in World War I” how the Germans managed to strengthen their national identity in a multi-ethnic region by relying on the Heimatstil and on providing settlements for the workers in this industrial region.

“Afterlives of War and Empire,” the last part of Empires in World War I, examines how the war provided the perfect opportu-nity for certain contemporaries to challenge imperial rule, but also the way empires tried to strengthen their positions after the First World War. In the first chapter of this sec-tion, “World War I and the Permanent West

Indian Soldier,” Richard Smith depicts the journey of the West Indian soldier from a highly confident man, loyal to the empire at the wake of the war, to the disappointed wanderer seeking employment in the Ameri-cas. Alan McPherson’s chapter, “World War I and us Empire in the Americas,” shows a contrasting us Empire, occupying Caribbean territories during the First World War while helping the Entente on the Western Europe-an front. “Requiem for Empire: Fabian Ware & the Imperial War Graves Commission” is the title of the last chapter, written by John Lack and Bart Ziino, who, after studying dif-ferent archives from Canada to Australia and Britain, including the Imperial War Graves Commission Archives, show how the British Empire consolidated its imperial identity and induced a powerful sense of belonging and strength by honouring the graves of British soldiers.

This volume is of particular use to schol-ars of the First World War on all continents as it truly renders the global perspective on this conflict by questioning the long-accepted meaning of empires and by highlighting the universal mobilization of resources, as well as the central role that the imperial stories played in the larger story of the Great War.

qIoana-andreea Mureşan

C O N T R I B U T O R S

mircea-GheorGhe aBrudan, Ph.D.Postdoctoral researcher at the Faculty of History and Philosophy, Babeº-Bolyai University 1 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

ioan Bolovan, Ph.D.Researcher at the Center for Transylvanian Studies, Romanian Academy12–14 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

iulia Borovik, Ph.D.Research fellow, Laboratory of Archaeographical Studies, Ural Federal University51 Lenina St., Ekaterinburg 620083, Russiae-mail: [email protected]

andreea dãncilã ineoan, Ph.D. Research assistant at the Center for PopulationStudies, Babeº-Bolyai University68 Avram Iancu St., Cluj-Napoca 400083, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

marius eppel, Ph.D.Senior researcher at the Center for PopulationStudies, Babeº-Bolyai University68 Avram Iancu St., Cluj-Napoca 400083, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

anTon n. GazeTov, Ph.D. Deputy head of the Department Institute of Legisla-tion and Comparative Law under the Government of the Russian Federation Moscow, Russiae-mail: [email protected]

elena GlavaTskaya, Ph.D.Professor at the Department of History, Ural Federal University51 Lenina St., Ekaterinburg 620083, Russiae-mail: [email protected]

rudolf Gräf, Ph.D.Researcher at the Center for Transylvanian Studies, Romanian Academy12–14 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

elena crinela holom, Ph.D.Senior researcher at the Center for Population Studies, Babeº-Bolyai University68 Avram Iancu St., Cluj-Napoca 400083, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

liviu maior, Ph.D.Professor at the Faculty of History, University of Bucharest36–46 Kogãlniceanu Blvd., 050107 Bucharest, Romania

daniela mârza, Ph.D.Senior researcher at Center for Transylvanian Studies of Romanian Academy12–14 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

Ioana-andreea Mureşan, Ph.D. candidateBabeş-Bolyai University1 M. Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

mirela popa-andrei, Ph.D.Senior researcher at George Bariþiu Institute of His-tory, Romanian Academy12–14 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

kurT scharr, Ph.D..

Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Universität Innsbruck52 Innrain St., A-6020 Innsbruck, Austriae-mail: [email protected]

ana vicToria sima, Ph.D. Associate professor at Babeº-Bolyai University 1 M. Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

lucian-vasile szaBo, Ph.D.Senior lecturer at the West University4 Vasile Pârvan Blvd., Timiºoara 300223, Romania e-mail: [email protected]

lucian Turcu, Ph.D.Faculty of History and Philosophy, Babeº-Bolyai University1 Kogãlniceanu St., Cluj-Napoca 400084, Romaniae-mail: [email protected]

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