Everywhere we go in Salzburg, we trip over Stolpersteine, stumbling stones, that mark the last address of choice of victims of National Socialism. (It’s important to note that not all of them mark victims of the Holocaust; our friend Anna has an uncle whose Stolpersteine we visited last time we were here. He was executed for working with the resistance.) I try always to notice them, and often to stop and read the names, because that is their purpose: to keep the victims alive in our memories. Last night, on our way to dinner, we came across an unusually large grouping of them:
Today or, depending on the weather, tomorrow, we will go to the city center and I’ll walk the Judengasse. Travel guides describe it as “a narrow, ancient shopping lane” and “the center of Jewish life in Salzburg from the Middle Ages through the mid-fifteenth century.” They suggest it to tourists as a popular shopping destination, with “modern boutiques run by international fashion labels… the finest chocolate, lovely souvenirs, home furnishings and Easter and Christmas decorations.” Most of the guides mention the expulsion of the Jews from Salzburg in 1498 only in passing, and with no detail. Those details are horrific. Under the rule of the Prince-Archbishop, in 1492 Jews were murdered in public burnings in what is now a popular Biergarten. We will no doubt meet friends there for an afternoon drink when the weather warms.
All of this can get to be a bit much, particularly as we watch the Russian genocide in Ukraine unfold. It can be hard to remember that people are capable of great, as well as horrible, things.
To help me remember, I’m also working on a book about utopias (though, admittedly, one person’s utopia is often someone else’s dystopia). While the essays in the book whose research I explore in this newsletter focus on my family’s history of expulsion and resettlement, the utopia essays will look at attempts by communities of people to live in total harmony and happiness.
The first “utopia” we’ll visit for this next book is the Republic of Užupis in Vilnius. An arts district in the city, it has its own anthem, constitution, and president. Its constitution asserts such universal truths as “everyone has the right to be happy” and “everyone has the right to be unhappy;” some less obvious truths, such as “no one has the right to have a design on eternity;” and some absurd truths, such as “everyone has the right to die, but this is not an obligation.”
It is, of course, a little silly… but I believe in the power of silliness, because I believe it is harder to commit atrocities when we laugh together. I believe in the power of art because I think shared wonder is the antidote to the violent rejection of “the Other.” But not all the utopias I hope to visit are silly. For instance, it’s my dream to be accepted into the NSF’s Antarctic Artists and Writers Program, which I very much hope will resume once Covid-19 is no longer such a dire threat. I also believe that working together toward shared goals reminds us of our shared humanity, and all the work there is shared and equally valued.
Remembering that we humans try beautiful experiments as I research the various ways in which we have been vile to one another keeps me from falling into despair. When you have to write about hard things, what keeps you from despairing? How do you protect your own heart when rendering horrors on the page? And if you have any utopias you’d like to recommend for this next project, I’d love to hear about them! Feel free to comment below.