Schweigen ist Schuld

Today, I went on a Stadtrundgang in commemoration of (Reichs)kristallnacht, also known as the Novemberpogrom. Every year, a group of citizens comes together to research and organize a tour of another part of the city in order to uncover stories of the Nazi period that have been forgotten, often in places where no public memorials stand. This year, the focus was on the 4. and 5. Bezirke. We were on the move for around two hours, listening to stories of burned synagogues, "arisierte" (aryanized) shops and apartments, and street violence.

Private memories, most notably the first-person accounts of several people who had lived in the district before fleeing the country, became public. Three police officers accompanied us on our way, stopping traffic at every intersection for us to pass through. At some of the stops, people heard our portable microphone and came out of their houses, or opened the windows of their flats, in order to hear and remember.

It was quite chilling, to realize that the streets I walk everyday were the site of awful, awful things. That the language I love so much was the same language in which mass murder was planned and carried out. That, yes, the people who did those things looked quite a lot like my friends and colleagues. That, in fact, everyone I know here in Austria is the grandchild or great-grandchild of someone who was involved somehow, damals. I’ll never forget sitting in a seminar where a boy mentioned that his grandfather had been an SS-Officer. Or the time some of my Austrian friends got to talking about World War II and mentioned, “Well, we all have those stories about what our relatives were doing.” I can’t imagine what it must be like to carry a history like that on your back.

The Nazi past in Vienna is both hidden and everywhere present. There are few large memorials; instead, in front of every building in which Viennese Jews lived before the beginning of the war, there are small gold plaques, no bigger than 2 inches along each side, listing the names of the Jewish residents and as much as is known about their fate as possible. You can walk on top of them for months without noticing, then, suddenly, you’ll look down one day at the right time and read that Else Tiefenbacher (b. 1923) was taken to Auschwitz on 3.12.1941, where she later died.

The Nazizeit has left its mark on the German language, too. When Somalian refugees and their allies camped out in front of Parliament a few weeks ago, they were protesting the possibility of “Abschiebung,” not “Deportation.” The word "Deportation"—which really does just mean being kicked out of the country—has become a euphemism for “being sent to your death.” And after millions of Deportationen, it’s hard to take back the original meaning. So instead of being deported, migrants without papers are “pushed out” of the country.

And in German, although the word “führen” means lead, you always speak of a leader as a “Leiter”—never a “Führer.” (“Leiten” is another, less common word for lead.) You know this, and you know why, and every time you do it, you’re both remembering and forgetting, all at once.

I really don’t know how to deal with all this. One of the reasons I feel uncomfortable with all of the Nazi-related Fulbright projects is because I don’t necessarily feel like it’s my place as a foreigner to bring up this history. I’m mindful of the “All Germans/Austrians are Nazis” stereotype, which isn’t fair, and tread carefully. But that leads to a situation where I don’t mention the Holocaust or World War II at all. I even felt uncomfortable saying that Jesse Eisenberg has Jewish hair during a discussion of The Social Network with some Austrian colleagues, because who knows where that topic could lead.

And that silence, of course, is part of the problem. One of our stations today was at the Naschmarkt, a beloved tourist attraction. It was mentioned that one of the stands has a history of the Naschmarkt painted on its walls—a history that ends in the 1920s and picks up again in 1955. No mention is made of the ways in which Jewish stands were taken over during the NS-Zeit and their owners deported. It’s a cheery view of Austrian history that ignores its very darkest chapter.

"Niemals vergessen" (never forget), says the program passed out today. I had always taken that to mean "even far into the future, we will remember." But it also means, I realize now, NIEMALS vergessen. Remember every day: as you walk down the street, as you talk to your friends, as you rave about how wonderful a city Vienna is.