Viewed from the perspective of thousands of years, political history reveals a pattern of continuous alternation between decay and re-formation. Thus, after the fall of the Roman empire, the first political entity that emerged in the West was the Carolingian empire, which, through the coronation of the emperor in 800, assumed the form of a revived western Roman empire. Although it soon became limited to the part of the old empire inhabited by the “German nation,” it continued to exist, at least in outward form, under the name of the Holy Roman Empire until 1806. As early as 1804, though, Francis II had adopted the title of emperor of Austria for his position as ruler of the “hereditary Austrian lands.”

IN DECEMBER 1883, Habsburg political and military leaders met in crisis session to discuss the situation in Serbia. Serious rioting threatened to. topple the friendly government of Prince Milan Obrenović, which two and a half years earlier had concluded a secret agreement in Vienna that made the country a dependency of the Habsburg Monarchy. The Serbian war ministry had rushed troops from the large Belgrade garrison to the troubled areas and had placed the two battalions that remained in the capital on a war footing in an attempt to ensure continued calm. Alarmed by these drastic measures, an Austro-Hungarian crown council, although not obligated to do so under existing treaties with Belgrade, authorized the commitment of Habsburg military forces should unrest escalate to revolution in Serbia.

For hungarian society, as for most of East-Central Europe, the socalled Jewish question has been, and continues to be, an obsessive, seemingly insoluble dilemma that cries out for definition, discussion, commentary, and analysis. The notion persists, in both professional and general opinion, that if only a true historical understanding of the question were possible, a solution would also be within reach. The assumption is almost axiomatic that the Jewish question, with its attendant passions, prejudices, and contradictions, must be the expression of some prior set of causes that holds the key to its deciphering.

Scenes of deep national division, competition, and conflict dominate standard historical narratives about the Austro-Hungarian monarchy during the late nineteenth century and most of its successor states in the 1920s and 1930s. Nationalist political movements flourished in this multicultural environment as capitalist agricultural and industrial development encouraged popular social ambitions and resentments over inequalities, while the advance of modern civil society and constitutional government provided public space for political movements. After the 1860s, political parties committed to nationalist interests increasingly dominated middle-class politics, and by 1900 national loyalties created growing fissures even in the ostensibly international Social Democratic movement. Some of the most intense nationalist social and political competition developed in the Crownlands of Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia between Czech and German national interests. The Bohemian capital, Prague, became the stage for repeated mass nationalist demonstrations and rioting in the 1890s and after 1900 (see Figure 1).

Even before the war in Europe ended formally on 8 May 1945, there could be no serious misconceptions—either among defeated and liberated peoples or among the victorious Allied powers—as to how complex the challenges of reconstructing physical infrastructure and social networks would be.1 This was particularly true in urban areas within what had been Germany's 1938 borders, where the impact of air raids had reduced many areas to rubble and had damaged the rail and road connections that supplied foodstuffs and other necessities. In Berlin and other cities, images of people clearing debris from lunar landscapes dominated the popular imagination in the late 1940s and over the following decades. Indeed, when images of immediate postwar reconstruction have been invoked, it would appear as if there existed a heroic, unbroken connection between the initiative of these largely female volunteers (Trümmerfrauen) and the economic miracle associated overwhelmingly with largely male labor in West Germany a decade later. If a remarkable preparedness to come to terms with the exigencies of the present manifested itself during the initial postwar months, historians have subsequently offered insights into how problematic a consistent and thorough confrontation with the Nazi past proved to be during the later 1940s and beyond.

The purpose of this article is to clarify the relative roles of Austria and Prussia during the Wars of Liberation of 1813 and 1814. It uses the very latest research concerning the military strategy adopted and emphasizes the input of Radetzky, using his handwritten account of the campaign, a document previously ignored by historians, despite the general's position as chief of staff of the allied coalition. The fact is that Anglo-American historians have failed to investigate the politics of the military alliance of 1813–1814 that constituted the Fourth Coalition. Myself apart, the only historian to examine that alliance with any regard to the Austrian viewpoint has been Gordon A. Craig in a brief but excellent analysis published as long ago as 1966. German historians have done little better. They simply neglect the Austrian archives.

It is generally acknowledged that museums were an essential part of the national project in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Europe—and some retain this function even today. Classic works in nationalism studies, such as Eric Hobsbawm's, have highlighted the role they played in the birth of modern nations. Subsequent studies that focused on specific national contexts help us better understand the mechanisms by which museums contributed to the invention of national traditions as well as to the formation of historical consciousness, historical memory, and the functioning of modern states. As these and other scholars of museum history also demonstrate, museum founders, directors, curators, and the broader public were driven by agendas and aspirations other than nation-building within these larger processes. Analyzing how these agendas mixed with the aims of the national project in a specific locality in the making of museums can generate new insights into the formation of modern subjectivities in this period.

The typical dictator of the interwar period was, like Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini, already a convinced fascist or authoritarian when he first came to power. This was not the case in Austria, where Engelbert Dollfuß, the semifascist dictator of 1934, was seemingly a genuine democrat when he was appointed chancellor in May 1932. Even his appointment was accidental. Had the Social Democrats accepted Ignaz Seipel's and Karl Buresch's overtures in 1931 to join the Christian Socials in a coalition government, Dollfuß might never have become chancellor. And had they not rejected a second effort by Buresch in April 1932 and demanded new elections, democratic government in Austria would have been strengthened rather than weakened.

On 6 January 1584, the provost of Zwettl in the archduchy of Austria below the Enns recounted events two days earlier that had greatly alarmed him. Present in the town of Zwettl on administrative business, Ulrich Hackel had been very surprised to see the town church unlocked and packed with peasants and townspeople. An additional 600 peasants, according to his reckoning, were gathered outside the church. All were dressed in their best and all were celebrating Christmas. Yet, as far as Hackel had been concerned, Christmas had already been celebrated ten days earlier. He halted worship in the church, telling the congregation that Christmas was now past and had been duly marked. He then sought out the local magistrate to ensure that the church would be kept locked and that trade would be resumed in the town. His actions had, however, aroused very great opposition. An angry crowd surrounded Hackel, accusing him of being a papist and a rogue and demanding to know why he was depriving them of Christmas. He believed that had he uttered one more word in favor of the earlier celebration of Christmas, he would have been killed on the spot. Hackel had escaped their fury only by being escorted by the town magistrate out of the local parish house in which he had taken refuge and beyond the walls of the town.

Whatever we call “treason”—Hochverrat, trahison, velezrada, veleizdaja, felségsértés—it has been a constant phenomenon in human history. The “traitor,” the individual who breaks a major bond of trust, has emerged in every era and is usually treated as a pariah in society. At the most significant treason trial of the late Habsburg monarchy, that of fifty-three Serbs in Zagreb in 1909, the main defense lawyer Hinko Hinković began his concluding speech with a typical legal adage: that treason was “the most loathsome thing” imaginable. Down the centuries, he said, humanity had singled out two types of traitors. First, there were those who betrayed God, best personified in Judas Iscariot. Second, there were traitors to the nation such as the Spartan Ephialtes who, according to Herodotus, fatally betrayed his homeland to the Persians at Thermopylae in 480 BCE. While both types were “repulsive and terrible,” Hinković quickly opined that the latter—the national traitor—was really the most terrible. However, with an eye on the Serbs he was defending, he added that some national treasons were not actually directed against the nation. For where national aspirations did not mesh with state aspirations, or where the state was not the same as the homeland (otačbina)—there, a deed that the state might consider treasonous could be viewed as a heroic, patriotic act by the nation. In other words, treason could be interpreted as liberation from oppression, and numerous examples might be cited in this regard from recent Habsburg history, not least the way that the Magyars were now able to celebrate and memorialize the traitor-liberator Lajos Kossuth.

James Robert (Bob) Wegs died, after a long struggle with lymphoma, on 14 July 2010. He was too much a scholar of modern Europe for it not to be mentioned that this was Bastille Day. A passionate and dedicated historian of Austria, Wegs served throughout the 1990s on the editorial board of the Austrian History Yearbook and the Executive Committee of the Society for Austrian and Habsburg History. His career reflects a certain chapter of U.S. history even as it forms part of the dynamic historiography of Central Europe.

In February 1919, Theresia Prokop submitted an application for German citizenship to the Bautzen administrative district in Saxony. The application showed that Prokop was originally from northern Bohemia, had lived in Saxony since 1901, and was a “Bohemian” citizen of “German-Austrian” nationality. Further, it noted: “It is her dearest wish to become German.”

Because of the various factors in the Austro-Hungarian monarchy which retarded the development of Slovak culture and science, Slovak historians have, on the whole, only during the past few decades begun to examine historical problems from a broad perspective. Consequently, it is by no mere accident that the problem to which part of the attention of this conference is being devoted—the Slovak political movement as a disintegrating force in the Habsburg monarchy—is relatively new to Slovak historiography. Until now it has not been examined from a broad perspective, if only because of the many different historical, political, social, and economic ingredients which were involved in turning nationalism into a significant disintegrating force. Slovak writers have, however, made various studies of the nationality problem—a problem which has ever since the eighteenth century been the most sensitive issue in Slovak history. Certain of these studies have thrown light on both the integrating and disintegrating: forces of the monarchy—two forces which are realy interdependent.

The example of the Slovaks, next to the Ruthenians the weakest and least privileged people of the Danubian monarchy, is eminently fitted to the examination of Austria's ability to deal with the main problem of its modern political life, namely, that of the coexistence and possible reconciliation of its nationalities. One of the first to point out this fundamental issue for the continued existence of Austria with unusual clarity was František Palacký in his 1848 letter to the Vorparlament of the Frankfurt National Assembly. Far from being an expression of unreserved faith in the future of the monarchy, his memorable words on the necessity of the Habsburg state1 were dictated by political realism and foresight. Emphasizing the dangers of German nationalism and Russian imperialism, which he perhaps intentionally exaggerated,2 the Czech leader was fully aware of the political weakness of the small Slav nations who were only gradually establishing their national identity. It was for their sake that he gave a final expression to the policy of Austro-Slavism, seeking the salvation of the Austrian Slavs in the preservation of the monarchy. He endeavored, however, to give it a new raison d'être based on the creation of a common defensive system for its individual nationalities in which all were to be given “complete equality of rights and respect.” While sincere, Palacký's support of Austria was neither unconditional nor devoid of a strong element of doubt. The nationalist policies of the Austrian Germans and the rebellious Magyars, whose chauvinism was only thinly covered by a veneer of liberalism, caused him to moderate his opinion in regard to the ability of the Austrian rulers to change the empire into a federal and democratic state. Thus, at the end of his Frankfurt message Palacký expressed only the hope that the Habsburg monarchy would not miss the opportunity to change into a state based on principles of justice, which alone could save it from disintegration.