The Jewish Century
By YURI SLEZKINE
In the 19th century,
Jews were champions of reason and enlightenment. But their attempts to
assimilate into liberal European society were often fraught with difficulties.
“Success at ‘assimilation’ made assimilation more difficult,” writes Yuri
Slezkine, “because the more successful they were at being modern and secular,
the more visible they became as the main representatives of modernity and
secularism.”
In the following excerpt from Yuri Slezkine’s The Jewish Century, Slezkine discusses secular Jews in 19th-century Europe,
and the challenges of assimilation.
The most common early strategy of the newly “emancipated” and “assimilated”
Jews in Western Europe was to promote the liberal cause by celebrating “neutral
spaces” in public life and cultivating a liberal education and the liberal
professions in their own. Jews were not just the embodiment of Reason and
Enlightenment—they were among their most vocal and loyal champions. They voted
for liberal parties, argued the virtues of individual liberties, and faithfully
served those states that allowed them to do so. The Habsburg Empire—as well as
France, of course—was the object of much loyalty and admiration because, as the
historian Carl Schorske put it, “the emperor and the liberal system offered
status to the Jews without demanding the nationality; they became
supra-national people of the multi-national state, the one folk which, in
effect, stepped into the shoes of the earlier aristocracy.”
To join the later—liberal—aristocracy, one needed to acquire a new secular
education and professional expertise. And that is exactly what the Jews, as a
group, did—with an intensity and fervor worthy of a yeshiva and a degree of
success that was the cause of much awe and resentment. Gustav Mahler’s father
read French philosophers when he was not selling liquor; Karl Popper’s father
translated Horace when he was not practicing law; and Victor Adler’s
grandfather divided his time between Orthodox Judaism and European Enlightenment.
But what mattered most—to them and others like them, as well as to History—is
whose fathers they were. Liberal education as the new Jewish religion was very
similar to the old Jewish religion—except that it was much more liberal.
Secularized Jewish fathers–stern or indulgent, bankers (like Lukac’s father) or
haberdashers (like Kafka’s)—did their best to bring up free, cosmopolitan Men:
men without fathers. They were remarkable successful: indeed, few generations
of patriarchs were as good at raising patricides and grave diggers as
first-generation Jewish liberals. And no one understood it better than Sigmund
Freud and Karl Marx.
Liberalism did not work because neutral spaces were not very neutral. The universities, “free” professions,
salons, coffeehouses, concert halls, and art galleries in Berlin, Vienna, and
Budapest became so heavily Jewish that liberalism and Jewishness became almost
indistinguishable. The Jews’ pursuit of rootlessness ended up being almost as
familial as their pursuit of wealth. Success at “assimilation” made
assimilation more difficult, because the more successful they were at being
modern and secular, the more visible they became as the main representatives of
modernity and secularism. And this meant that people who were not very good at
modernity and secularism, or who rejected them for avariety of Apollonian (and
Dionysian) reasons, were likely to be impressed by political anti-Semitism. As
Kathe Leichter remembered her high school days in fin de siecle Vienna, “with
my [Jewish] friends I discussed the meaning of life, shared my ideas about
books, poetry, nature, and music. With
the daughters of government officials I played ‘house.’” Kathe Leichter grew up to be a socialist and
a sociologist; at least some of those officials’ daughters grew up to be
anti-Semites.
But mostly liberalism did not work because it never could—not in the sense of
interchangeable cosmopolitan individuals and certainly not in the Apollonian
Babylon of Central and Eastern Europe. The facts that nobody spoke Liberalese
as a native tongue and that the Man who had Rights also had citizenship and
family attachments were easy to forget if one lived in a state that was more or
less successful at equating itself with both family and the universe. It was
much harder to do in a doomed Christian
state or a youthful national one. Nobody spoke Austro-Hungarian, on the one
hand, and on the other, it took a lot of practice to start thinking of Czech as
a language of high secular culture. The Jews who did not wish to speak the
language of particularism (Yiddish, for most of them) had to find the language
of universalism by shopping around. The main selling points of would-be
national universalisms (French, German, Russian, Hungarian) were a claim to a
prestigious high-cultural tradition and, most important, a state that would
give that claim some muscle and conviction. Esperanto—conceived in Bialystok by
the Jewish student Ludwik Zamenhof—had no chance of living to maturity.
Universalism relied on the nation-state as much as the nation did.
This excerpt from The Jewish Century (Princeton University Press, 2004) is reprinted with permission
from the author and the publisher.
Yuri
Slezkine is Professor of History at the University of California, Berkeley. In
addition to The
Jewish Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), his
books include In the Shadow of the Revolution: Life Stories of Russian Women from
1917 to the Second World War (Princeton: Princeton UP, 2000), and Arctic Mirrors: Russia and
the Small Peoples of the North (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994).