I first heard about Chernivtsi (Czernowitz) in the 1980s when I was living in Vienna. I still have memories of conversations with friends from those days about what a beacon of Viennese civility the city once was in the 19th and early-20th centuries under the old Austrian and Austro-Hungarian empires.
With its diverse, multiethnic population, mixing Ruthenians, Romanians, Poles, Jews and German-speakers, Czernowitz was a microcosm of the empire itself. Austrian Emperor Franz-Joseph I was determined to bestow the trappings of a provincial capital, approving construction of a grand German-speaking university (the Franz-Josephs-Universität) in 1875 and an opulent German theater, designed by the renowned Viennese architectural duo of Fellner and Helmer, in 1905.
Both buildings are still standing, and though they’ve gone through several iterations since those days -- as the city fell under periods of Romanian, Soviet and, now, Ukrainian rule -- they serve as useful mnemonic devices for recalling the city’s cultural origins. Emperor Franz-Joseph was obviously marking his turf against the possible encroachment of rivals Prussia and Tsarist Russia (and clearly not everything he or the Austrians did was positive), but the scale of both buildings shows the empire’s serious commitment to the city and region. The university complex is especially impressive, the work -- coincidentally -- of a Czech architect, Josef Hlávka, and now a Unesco World Heritage site.
Czernowitz also has some serious linguistic street cred. Romania’s best-known Romantic poet, Mihai Eminescu (1850-89), attended high school in the city, while the famous Romanian-Jewish poet, Paul Celan, was born here in 1920. Celan would go on to lose both parents in the Holocaust to Romanian-run camps in Transnistria, and his most famous work, the “Todesfuge” (Fugue of Death), was an attempt to describe life in an extermination camp through rhythm and imagery. After bouncing around Romania and Vienna after the war, Celan settled in Paris, where his poetry gained a wider audience. Like so many other writers whose lives were directly touched by the Holocaust (Tadeusz Borowski and Primo Levi come to mind), Celan eventually committed suicide, in 1970, by throwing himself into the Seine.
Czernowitz was also the birthplace of the Romanian, German-language author Gregor von Rezzori, in 1914. As a grad student in the 1980s, I was a fan of Rezzori’s breakthrough novel in English, the ironically titled “Memoirs of an Anti-Semite.” I used the excuse of my visit this summer to download a copy of the book to my Kindle and give it a quick re-read. I didn’t finish this time around, but the book’s first story, a snapshot of village life near Czernowitz shortly after WWI, just as Bukovina came under Romanian administration, seems to capture perfectly that cautious balance of ethnic, national and cultural sensibility that governed so much of day-to-day life in the old Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Rezzori, who died in 1998, isn’t discussed much these days, and “Memoirs of an Anti-Semite” appears to have fallen out of favor (the unfortunate title probably keeps it off modern-day college reading lists). In my short re-reading, though, I found Rezzori’s themes to be highly relevant to the modern day. The overarching idea that weaves through much of Rezzori’s work is that it was an unthinking, automatic anti-Semitism that pulled Europe into the abyss in the 20th century. That doesn’t sound so very different from the unthinking, racist, anti-immigrant rhetoric that appears to be pulling us into the abyss this time around.
I mentioned in the intro it was partly my interest in the Holocaust that propelled my trip here this summer. I’ve visited and written about many of the camps and ghettos that the Germans built in Poland during World War II, but I was curious to learn what a Romanian-built Jewish ghetto, like the one the Romanians set up in Czernowitz/Cernăuți in October 1941, would look like.
It’s still not widely acknowledged in Romania, but the Romanian government was a willing participant in the Holocaust, working alongside Nazi Germany in killing Jews and expropriating their property.
There’s not enough space here to write out all the unfortunate reasons this came to pass (and I don’t pretend to be a qualified historian). A short version, though, might go something like this: many Romanians fell under the spell of a right-wing strongman, Ion Antonescu. The Germans, in turn, were highly skilled at exploiting Romania’s long-standing rivalries with Hungary and Russia, and adept at dangling the prospect of acquiring (or at least not losing) historic territories in Transylvania and Bessarabia. The Jews themselves were often demonized as a dangerous fifth column of Bolshevik Russia.
It was this caustic mix that ended up costing the lives of up to 400,000 Jews in Romanian-controlled areas during the war, according to Yad Vashem. The atrocities included the mass murder of Jews living in the provinces of Bessarabia and Bukovina, as well as the killing of thousands of Jews in the Romanian city of Iași and the Romanian-controlled city of Odessa, Ukraine. At least tens of thousands more, like Paul Celan’s parents, died in extermination camps in faraway Transnistria (now nominally part of Moldova).
In Chernivtsi/Cernăuți, the story went as follows: After World War I and the collapse of Austria-Hungary, the area around Chernivtsi -- Northern Bukovina -- was awarded to Romania. This wasn’t such a stretch as Romania had longstanding cultural and historic ties dating back to the 14th century; though in the decades immediately after the war, Romanians made up only a quarter of Chernivtsi’s 112,000 people. Jews constituted the biggest group, at least 27%, according to the 1930 census. Other large groups included Germans, Ukrainians and Poles.
When Nazi-Germany invaded Poland in 1939 to start World War II, the Soviet Union used the invasion as a pretext to occupy Northern Bukovina, including Chernivtsi. Romania tragically joined forces with Hitler in 1940. When the Germans attacked the Soviet Union in June 1941, the Nazis and their Romanian allies quickly overran Northern Bukovina (and Chernivtsi). The Germans arrived in the city in early July of that year and transferred control of the area back to Romania.
By all accounts, the Romanian administration was a disaster for Chernivtsi’s Jews. Romanians, generally, bent over backwards (at least in the early years) to carry out the anti-Jewish policies of their German allies. They stripped Jewish citizens of their rights and property and quickly drew up plans to concentrate thousands of Jews in a small, sealed ghetto, just north and east of the city center. From there, as in other areas controlled by Nazi Germany and its allies, Jewish prisoners were transferred to exterminations camps. In Chernivtsi’s case, most of the transports went east, to Transnistria.
It’s difficult to find hard facts about the Jewish ghetto in Chernivtsi, but a sealed ghetto was already in operation by October 1941. At its height, the ghetto housed around 50,000 Jews. Many residents died from inhumane conditions inside the ghetto, while thousands of others perished en route to Transnistria or at the death camps themselves.
Amid this unfolding tragedy, there is an Oskar Schindler-like story in Chernivtsi that isn’t widely known outside the city – and might serve as a more positive way to finish up this part of the story.
A handful of Romanians did manage to push back (at least temporarily) against Antonescu’s pro-Nazi, anti-Semitic policies, including the city’s Romanian mayor at the time, Traian Popovici. Popovici was opposed to the ghetto and, by all accounts, appalled by the transports and mass killings. He appealed to Antonescu to save the lives of some 19,000 Jews by arguing that they were integral to the functioning of the local economy.
Popovici was eventually pushed out as mayor and the mass killings restarted. By then, though, it had become increasingly clear to Chernivtsi’s Romanian leaders that Nazi Germany might lose the war. Legal sanctions against the Jews were eased in October 1943, and six months later the city was captured by the Soviet Red Army. An estimated 15,000 Jews survived the war, thanks in large part to Popovici’s heroic efforts. Like Oskar Schindler, the mayor was later honored by Yad Vashem as one of the “Righteous Among the Nations.”
On my visit to Chernivtsi this summer, I retraced the steps of the former Jewish ghetto, situated along today’s Sahaidachnoho and Synagogue streets, to look for any surviving remnants of Jewish culture. The first thing I noticed was that, unlike the former ghetto areas of Polish cities like Radom, Częstochowa or Łódź, the Chernivtsi ghetto wasn’t outwardly depressed. In Polish cities, a kind of dark karma still hangs over the old Jewish ghettos all these years later, and it’s often easy to find these places simply by scouting around for the most-destitute neighborhoods. Chernivtsi’s former ghetto looks like any other modest quarter in the city.
Synagogue street was the most crowded part of the old ghetto, and today you can still see the surviving Grand Synagogue (at no. 31) and a view toward the old Jewish hospital (now abandoned) through a gate nearby. The city still has one functioning synagogue, a relatively small, attractive building not far away on Luk'yana Kobylytsi street. The main synagogue, a grand Moorish-Revival building from 1873, is located closer to the center on today’s Universytets'ka St (no. 10). It was damaged in World War II and later converted to a movie theater (“Kinogoga” as it’s sometimes ironically called).
Another surviving building I wanted to see was the former Jewish National House, which stands incongruously next to Emperor Franz Joseph’s grand old German theater, on Teatralne Square (no. 5). There’s a small museum here to Jewish life; otherwise, it's pretty quiet.
The building is best known as the location of a landmark international conference on the Yiddish language, held in 1908, and still viewed as a high-water, cultural moment for Jewish heritage. As I wandered around the building’s still-impressive chambers, I listened for echoes of Yiddish that might still be bouncing off the walls.