Galician Trails: The Forgotten Story of One Family
Page 17
The assassination of Andreas Potocki (1861–1908), governor of Galicia, by Miroslaw Siczynski is depicted on the front page of a Viennese newspaper. (Wiener Bilder April 15, 1908; ŐNB, Vienna.)
Potocki was bleeding from his head wound and, when someone assured him that physicians had been called for, he said that he most likely needed a priest rather than a doctor. The governor was able to dictate a brief telegram to the emperor Franz Joseph and lost consciousness shortly thereafter. Two hours later, he was pronounced dead.
News of the assassination spread quickly throughout Galicia. A telegram with a brief account of the events reached Stanislawow by three o’clock that afternoon. In Lvov and Vienna, special Sunday evening editions of the newspapers were quickly printed and distributed. Theatrical performances were canceled, and crowds quickly gathered in front of the governor’s mansion.
The next day, newspapers in Vienna, London, and New York provided shocking details.9 Headlines in the Galician press read “GOVERNOR’S ASSASINATION” and “BLOODY TRAGEDY” but were strictly factual and did not exploit the situation, which would have heightened current political tensions. At the state funeral in Lvov, dignitaries from all over Galicia paid last respects to the governor and gave their condolences to his widow, Countess Cristina Potocka. Ministers from the central government and representatives sent by the emperor were also in attendance. After the official ceremonies, a dignified funeral procession accompanied the casket through the streets of Lvov to the train station. Some worried that unruly crowds might disrupt the event and further fuel ethnic divisions, but luckily this problem did not materialize. A special train transported the casket to the Potocki estate in Krzeszowice, near Cracow in western Galicia.10
In Stanislawow, as in all other towns of Galicia, public offices were draped in black. The Jewish organizations of the city strongly condemned the act of violence, and an impassioned service by Rabbi Horowitz in the main synagogue was noted by many. In Bohorodczany, memorial services were most likely attended by Helena Regiec and Franciscus Sobolewski. These turned out to be the ceremonies that spoke volumes about the mood of the moment. After a mass in the Dominican church attended by schoolchildren, teachers, and local citizens, the crowd walked to the synagogue, where the choir sang and speeches by the local rabbi followed. At least for the moment, grievances were put aside, with both services attended by Poles, Jews, and Old Ruthenians.11
The assassin was Miroslaw Siczynski, a radical Ukrainophile and a student of philosophy at Lvov’s university. His motive was clearly political; other acts of violence were said to have been committed or at least talked about by other members of his family. There was never a question of Siczynski’s guilt; later attempts to use an insanity defense were meek. He wanted to be a martyr, stating from the very beginning that he would not attempt suicide but would await death by hanging.
The raucous Galician press was unusually restrained in this case. Although a few commentators complained that Ruthenian politicians should have condemned the assassination with greater vigor and made fewer excuses for the criminal, there were no appeals for revenge. The local and Viennese presses both pointed out, however, that this was the first time—not just in Galicia but in the entire Austro-Hungarian Empire—that an assassination had been directed at a representative of the emperor.12 With some sadness, it was noted that this event signified the crossing of an unmarked Rubicon. At least until then, acts of terror had been common in tsarist Russia but not in Austro-Hungary, which was generally believed to be more tolerant and more cultured. Some were perplexed why such a thing would have taken place in Galicia. Certainly, they pointed out, it was an imperfect place; but it offered much more freedom than did Russia, where the Ruthenian language was banned, and there was a total absence of schools, theaters, literary publications, and political parties for the vast majority of Ruthenians.13
Siczynski’s initial trial came to an end in June of 1908. After the prosecutor (who, as it was underscored, was Ruthenian himself) and the defense completed their statements, the 12 jurors deliberated for only 30 minutes. The unanimous verdict was guilty, to a single count of the indictment. The jury found that the defendant had committed a premeditated act of violence, with intent to murder the governor. The same day, the court sentenced Siczynski to death by hanging.
But there was no jubilation on the streets. Instead, there were frequent appeals for commutation of the death sentence; it was believed that this would prevent further bloodshed.14 Even the widow, Countess Potocka, wrote to ask Emperor Franz Joseph for mercy toward the killer. The deep meaning of her letter was noted not only locally but also by those in Vienna who remained critical of the political squabbles in Galicia. The press considered this a magnanimous act of tolerance, a striking plea for peace and the hope of a better future in Galicia.15
There would be appeals, but neither claims of insanity nor allegations of juror misconduct changed the verdict. The highest court in Vienna was clear in its opinion, rejecting all arguments of the defense: It ruled that the crime was murder, with no mitigating circumstances. Then, in a dramatic climax, the emperor commuted the death sentence, replacing it with a prison term of 20 years. There was a collective sigh of relief in Galicia, mainly among Poles who felt they had achieved a moral victory with the unambiguous court opinion but were reassured by the emperor’s decision. That wise man had effectively prevented irrevocable damage to their reconciliation efforts with Ruthenians, which by then seemed elusive but still possible.16
But the story did not end there. Soon, Siczynski would be transferred to Stanislawow to serve his prison term. At first, suspicions were raised when news of a supposedly secret transfer of the prisoner was leaked; a few supporters actually turned out to welcome him at the train station.17 With time, however, the attention of the public shifted elsewhere, occasionally to return to the inflammatory affair when reports that Siczynski’s compatriots at home and as far away as Allentown, Pennsylvania, had petitioned the emperor for his release.18
For the next few years, Siczynski’s life was divided between working in the prison’s carpentry shop and reading, including a few books for the study of English. This rather boring picture of the assassin turned out to have been misleading when the headlines returned to this sad affair one autumn a few years later. In November 1911, out of the blue, news spread throughout Galicia that Siczynski had managed a spectacular escape. There was no tunnel dug underneath his cell, no bars had been removed from his window, and there were no signs of a forceful departure. The next days and weeks brought stunning headlines: Allegedly, a bottle of wine had been given to his unsuspecting cellmate to make him sleep soundly that fateful evening; and clothes had been folded into a body shape under a blanket, to mislead guards who checked the cell every few hours through a peephole.
Later, a police investigation revealed that Siczynski, dressed in a guard’s uniform, had simply walked through the gates in the company of an accomplice. The plan had been well-executed, and to the embarrassment of prison officials, the escape had not been discovered until the next morning!19 Soon, rumors were swirling everywhere: that the fugitive had been taken in a speeding carriage, under cover of darkness, to the Romanian border; that he had traveled by train under a false identity toward Budapest; or that he was hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Stanislawow until the storm passed. At times, unconfirmed stories of Siczynski sightings on foreign soil were greeted with skepticism, as potential misinformation by sympathizers to persuade police to halt their investigation.
Ultimately, the mystery of this bold escape was solved, and two prison guards admitted that they had helped Siczynski escape. They were sentenced to prison terms of two to four years each; other conspiring guards were subjected only to administrative dismissals. The fugitive himself first surfaced in Sweden, and ultimately ended up in the United States, where he died decades later, apparently never showing any remorse for his senseless crime.20
In the tense atmosphere that now existed in Galicia, trouble
s were instigated by the Polish side as well. On December 12, 1908, Dr. Bobrzynski, the new governor and an educator himself, attended an annual celebration at the University of Lvov. The occasion was the ceremonial entry of new students into the university register, with professors in full faculty regalia in attendance. As in prior years, the governor was to present a rare honor (sub auspiciis imperatoris) to a doctoral student who had demonstrated exceptional academic achievement.
Just days before, information had been leaked to the press that the central government in Vienna, with the knowledge of the governor, was to provide funding for the creation of two new departments at the university. Under normal circumstances, this detail in the annual budget would have been ignored or, at best, viewed with some satisfaction by a few school administrators. But this was not a case of routine educational support; the government stipulated the opening of new departments solely staffed with Ruthenian faculty, and specifying Ruthenian as the language of instruction.21
In Galicia at this time, language and education could easily have become a volatile mixture; so during the ceremony, the atmosphere was visibly tense. Some expected walkouts or shouting by Ruthenian or Jewish Zionist students, who often used this type of occasion to express their grievances against the Polish administration. The ceremony was uneventful, except that a larger-than-usual attendance by Polish students caused an overflow of spectators. The governor made a short speech and presented the honored young man with an engraved ring on behalf of the emperor.
Governor Michael Bobrzynski is assaulted by Polish students in the hallways of the University of Lvov. (Nowosci Illustrowane December 19, 1908.)
The ceremony over without the much-feared outbursts, the governor, his small entourage, and the rector of the university made their way toward the exit. Suddenly, shouting and scuffles began in the crowded hallways. The governor was pelted with rotten eggs by Poles enraged by the prospect of “their university” allowing the formation of Ruthenian departments. In the narrow corridors, the governor’s military aide was quickly overpowered; his ceremonial sword was bent by defiant students, rendering it useless. Governor Bobrzynski was pushed and shoved in the hallways, and once he reached the staircase that was to lead him outside, he was unceremoniously pushed downstairs with egg smeared over his face and clothing.22 After the governor’s hasty departure, an angry petition was presented to the university senate, and hundreds of enraged students marched toward the governor’s mansion. As if security lessons from earlier that year had been quickly forgotten, a single mounted policeman at the gate was easily overtaken by the crowd. Before reinforcements could be sent, stones and small bottles of ink were thrown at the building.
Initial reactions to this uprising were clear. Several student organizations quickly distanced themselves, although their high moral ground had been lost. The press condemned a fringe group of Polish students for the attack on the governor and the street outbursts that had followed. In a veiled comparison to the recent assassination, the papers decried the fact that violent unrest had never before been attributed to Polish students. But this fuss was more about the means of protest than the appalling absence of a solution to the recurring tensions.23
Tense days in Lvov after the death of a Ruthenian (Ukrainian) student shot on the university campus. (Nowosci Illustrowane July 9, 1910.)
Less than two years later, another outburst at the university turned even more violent. In hindsight, there had been signs of something to come when, on one day, hundreds of telegrams were sent from Lvov throughout Galicia, calling on Ruthenian students to travel to the city. By no coincidence, troubles erupted the next morning when a unilateral deadline set by Ukrainophile deputies for the decision about opening a separate Ruthenian university passed without any response from the central government. This time, Ruthenian students and their supporters, armed with handguns and sticks, staged a protest in one of the buildings on campus. When Poles barricaded some of the hallways, piling up desks to keep demonstrators from other sections of the university, insults were traded and several shots were fired. Sadly, flying bullets left one Ruthenian student dead, shot from behind by one of his colleagues; several others were wounded.
News of the bloody unrest traveled fast, with crowds of several thousand on both sides of the dispute gathering within hours on the streets of Lvov. Mounted police were called in, and the army, with bayonets on their rifles, quickly restored order. The university and key government buildings were cordoned off and the campus was locked down, with more than 200 demonstrators briefly detained for police questioning. Who shot whom would be debated for days, but in the end, an official inquiry put the blame on Ruthenians.24 In the aftermath, there would be condemnations of violence from both sides but, predictably, for very different reasons. In what became a recurring theme, Poles and Ruthenians each assigned culpability for the unrest to the other party, but no one was able to put forward a constructive plan on how to break this cycle.25
Increasingly, both sides were using not just heated rhetoric but physical violence to advance their causes. Trying to deflect the issue, some Poles wondered aloud why no demands for a Ruthenian university had been heard from Kiev, the heart of the emerging Ukrainian nationality that still remained under the absolute control of tsarist Russia. As always in recalcitrant issues, historical arguments were used (or more often, misused) in the debate to justify actions. Ancient claims going back to the founding of the university by the Polish king Casmir the Great were coupled with inflexible arguments that Polish was the legal language of instruction, guaranteed by modern laws passed in Galicia.26 Despite Galicia’s multiculturalism, Poles viewed the university as a hard-won symbol of their cultural identity, which had been long suppressed after the partition of their country. The future appointment of a few Ruthenian professors and then the opening of Ruthenian departments were viewed as a step-by-step retreat under pressure rather than as a needed path to reconciliation. Ruthenians could not have had a more opposite view. Being a majority in eastern Galicia, they saw only Polish dominance in the denial of their rights to use Ruthenian at the university.
In the end, in a somewhat disingenuous way, the central government was blamed for meddling in what were considered local affairs.27 Slowly, it was becoming apparent that rather than attempting to change an old institution, forming a separate Ruthenian university might be a better way forward—even though this might take a long time to accomplish. A few suggestions by some in the Polish press to place a future Ruthenian university in the backward provincial town of Halicz (Halych in Ruthenian), rather than in Lvov, did not help the dialogue.28
Next, the city council of Stanislawow and a few other Galician cities joined the fray by grudgingly passing resolutions supporting the idea of a separate university but stating that its home should be somewhere else. Finally, a compromise was reached between parliamentarians from both sides who gathered in Vienna, far from local, often inflammatory, rhetoric. It was decided that the long-awaited Ruthenian university would become reality no later than the autumn of 1916.29 Thus, both sides would be able to claim victory. Poles could say that Polish remained the University of Lvov’s language of instruction; there would be no need now for either linguistic or cultural accommodation. Nor would there be any threat of dividing the university campus. Ruthenians finally saw the realization of their dream of a separate institution of higher learning; although it most likely would be situated outside Lvov, it would have the financial support of the state. To cement the deal, the emperor Franz Joseph, in a public declaration from Vienna, instructed the government of Galicia to implement the compromise. This wise man, who knew his subjects well, also said in no uncertain terms that if the bickering continued by the time of his deadline, the University of Lvov would be divided after all.30
History, however, had a bitter surprise for both of the sparring sides. The events that would soon engulf the region with such force made the entire discourse about the university irrelevant. Ultimately, neither group would ever kn
ow whether this compromise could have made a real difference; whether it might have helped heal the rift between the two cultures living side by side in eastern Galicia.
AT THE BEGINNING OF 1904, tensions between major world powers had been on the rise for some time. But as often happens before a major catastrophe, those early signs did not immediately feel ominous, at least to the citizens of Galicia. In early February of that year, Russia and Japan became locked in an armed conflict. The tsar’s empire, its expanse extending from formerly Polish territories in Europe to the Far East, needed a warm-water port in southern Manchuria for its navy. Recently modernized Japan viewed the Korean Peninsula and the adjoining province of Manchuria as part of its strategic sphere of influence. Their seven-month struggle over this territory came to be known as the Russo-Japanese War.
In Galicia, such troubles seemed far away; public attention was still focused inward. But the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and Galicia in particular, did take notice when news of Russia’s humiliating defeat uncovered its vulnerabilities. First, the Russian navy suffered losses in a surprise attack by Japanese destroyers. A relentless land and naval campaign, with the Russians on the defensive, followed. Throughout that year, illustrated Viennese magazines featured gripping scenes from the battleground, which consistently showed the weakness of the tsar’s forces. In this respect, the perspectives of Vienna and Lvov were perfectly aligned; and both met Russia’s troubles with a bit of satisfaction, since their big neighbor to the east had always been viewed with apprehension at best. Recurring news of Russia’s harsh treatment of ethnic minorities, regardless of whether they were Jews or Poles, had only added to Galicia’s unfavorable view of that vast country. The Galician people were well aware that compared to life under the tsar, they enjoyed a large degree of autonomy in their internal affairs; their noisy but generally free political climate was largely accepted by the Austro-Hungarian authorities. The partitioned Polish lands under Russian control were not so lucky, as most Galicians knew.