Galician Trails: The Forgotten Story of One Family
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Japanese attack on Port Arthur during the Russo-Japanese War. Port Arthur fell into Japanese hands in January 1905. The humiliation of the Russian army was on a grand scale, with its commander subsequently court-martialed. (Wiener Bilder September 28, 1904; ŐNB, Vienna.)
So both the Poles and the Jews of Galicia welcomed reports of the Japanese army’s advances. Perhaps because of the anti-Russian sentiments so close to the surface (not to mention skillful manipulation of news by the victors), no one noticed the cruelty of the Japanese forces that would come to light much later. Instead, the occupying Japanese army was portrayed as uniquely sensitive to local populations, avoiding ruthless military confiscations of property and even limiting the use of the Japanese language when dealing with natives in occupied Korea. Ironically, nobody questioned the veracity of reports about POW physicians who were allegedly being released by the Japanese, with expressions of gratitude for running hospitals during their brief captivities.1 In January of 1905, spontaneous celebrations broke out in Stanislawow and other Galician cities at news of the Japanese takeover of Port Arthur, the ultimate prize of the conflict. Marching youths shouted “Banzai Japan!” and “Down with tsarist Russia!”2 Nevertheless, these events, far away in Asia, were viewed more as a diversion than any kind of threat.
Theodore Roosevelt and Franz Joseph meeting in Vienna. (Wiener Bilder April 20, 1910; ŐNB, Vienna.)
When the Russo-Japanese conflict came to an end, with the help of diplomatic intervention by the United States under President Theodore Roosevelt, the peace treaty signed on American soil was clearly favorable to victorious Japan. What was perhaps not apparent at first was that this meeting was more than a diplomatic gathering about resolving a regional crisis. Early signs were appearing of what would soon become clear: The United States would increasingly assume the role of a global power. Theodore Roosevelt’s efforts to bring the combatants to the negotiation table were lauded by many in the world, and he would be rewarded the Nobel Peace Prize the following year.
A few years later Roosevelt, already out of office, passed through Vienna during one of his European tours. A newspaper drawing of the large, self-assured, gesticulating American visiting the elderly emperor Franz Joseph, who leaned forward in his chair as if hard of hearing, showed more than the physical differences between the two men. It expressed visually a new vitality and an old frailness that could easily be applied to the countries that those men represented.3
Soon, public opinion in Galicia was riveted by another hot spot—one that raised concerns of possible instability, but this time much closer to home. For a short time in 1908, news of the Austro-Hungarian annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Balkans was viewed with concern. A broader conflict was feared, not just with local forces from neighboring Serbia vying for the same territory, but with Russia, wounded in Asia yet holding tight to its European aspirations. After a few weeks of dramatic headlines asking “War or Peace?,” news from the Balkans was relegated to the back pages of the newspapers, and Galicia quickly became preoccupied with itself again. With tensions seemingly over, a visit by Emperor Franz Joseph to Sarajevo, capital of the troubled province, was considered a success. He was welcomed by representatives of various faiths—including an Eastern Orthodox metropolitan, a Roman Catholic bishop, a Sephardic rabbi, and a chief imam.4 But the harmony could not have been more deceptive.
A couple of years later, the situation in the Balkans was again on the front pages of Galician newspapers. This time, it was a conflict between the weakened Ottoman Empire, retreating from its European possessions under pressure from the Balkan countries of Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Montenegro. But that was only a backdrop to a dangerous struggle between the superpowers. A dance of diplomatic formalities was soon on full display; this was an age when international custom demanded formal exchanges of declarations of war, delivered by formally dressed ambassadors. The Balkan nations, united in their purpose, had delivered notes announcing impending hostilities to the Ottomans before armed conflict commenced. Real battles ensued, and it was clear this time to everyone that this Balkan war could easily explode into a much wider conflict. With no other access to the sea than through its Adriatic ports, Austro-Hungary saw this struggle as potentially threatening to its survival as a superpower.
Indeed, the news soon became alarming. In 1912, Russia massed troops on its border with Austro-Hungary, sending a clear signal to Vienna to stay away from the Balkan conflict. To add to the message, the Austrian consulate in Kiev was ransacked by unruly crowds under the noses of tsarist police. In return, waves of suspected Russian spies were arrested in Galicia. Reports of general mobilization in Austro-Hungary, coupled with subsequent quick denials, only added to the uncertainty. In any case, military units from all over the country, including one from Stanislawow, were soon being transported closer to the troubled Balkans. Each of these superpowers was warily watching the other, ready to pounce at the first sign that it might exploit a local conflict. There was now no doubt in the minds of anyone that Galicia could easily become a theater of war if events got out of control.
The Poles of Galicia were leaning toward supporting Austria, should any military conflict arise with Russia. This was seen by them as a way to build Galicia’s strength, and to move it toward its hoped-for (although somewhat undefined) independent statehood. In Stanislawow, nerves were already frayed; with all the talk of war, the public rushed to withdraw savings from local banks. The pretext was a widely circulating rumor that Vienna would have to tap the personal accounts of its citizens to cover its growing military expenditures. A real run on the banks was not eased by the government’s increase in interest rates on deposits and repeated reassurances that citizens’ assets were safe. There was even a statement from the governor of Galicia saying in no uncertain terms that the government was not secretly raiding private bank accounts to finance the military. But that did not help much. Despite all these measures, the main savings institution in town would default, with losses estimated at more than 2,000,000 kronen (U.S. $9,160,000 today).5
Slowly, after three months of international tension, calmer news started to emerge. By the beginning of 1913, a global conflict seemed to have been averted. The Ottomans had effectively retreated from the Balkans and lost sovereignty over most of their former European territory, with the new country of Albania emerging in the aftermath.6 Deceptively, as it turned out, the so-called First Balkan War appeared to be over; but recurrent flareups would punctuate the headlines for months to come. The Balkan nations had turned from being allies in a common struggle against the Ottoman Turks to enemies attacking each other. For the moment, however, the threat of global conflict had receded again, and Galician troops were finally beginning to come home from the Austrian part of the Balkans, including Carniola (today part of Slovenia and Italy), Dalmatia (today part of Croatia), and Bosnia and Herzegovina.
When a military train with soon-to-be demobilized reservists from the local 58th Infantry Regiment arrived in Stanislawow, thousands of people were gathered at the railroad station. A military band played the Radetzky March, always popular with soldiers, and the customary tributes and ovations for Emperor Franz Joseph were called for. Then the troops, with the officer corps at attention and a ceremonial guard in place, were welcomed home with three speeches. A colonel spoke first in German and a captain gave a short address in Polish, followed by a lieutenant greeting the returnees in Ruthenian. The symbolism of the scene could not have been greater; this was yet another reflection of the ethnically and linguistically diverse Galician world.7
ALTHOUGH A GLOBAL STORM had been averted, the price for these instabilities was felt acutely at home. For the first time since Dr. Nimhin had become mayor of Stanislawow, the city coffers were empty. To make matters worse, neither Lvov nor Vienna was able to come up with money for the public works that might address growing unemployment. There were hotly contested arguments about whether the city should take out loans to stimulate its economy, thus quickly ru
nning up a previously unheard-of budget deficit. Fiscal prudence, which in former times had been considered a virtue, would be criticized the following year as the mayor’s passivity or lack of imagination. The engine of antiestablishment sentiment was a weekly publication, Rewera, which repeatedly traded insults with another weekly newspaper, Kurjer Stanislawowski. A war of words for and against Dr. Nimhin’s administration escalated. At one point, the arguments became so heated that the journalists involved were ordered in court to apologize to each other—only to trade new insults a week later. The opposing newspaper constantly railed against unsanitary conditions and against bureaucracy in local government offices, even offering the tongue-in-cheek advice that a stranger should “ask a fiacre [carriage] to proceed quickly to a morgue in case of medical emergency” rather than pointlessly look for any help in town.
Warring weeklies from Stanislawow. Kurjer Stanislawowski was supportive of Mayor Nimhin, whereas Rewera was the antiestablishment paper. The vehement debate about local politics spilled over to insults traded between the editors of the weeklies.
More ridiculous charges followed, often implying Dr. Nimhin’s guilt by association. This was a testament to freedom of speech in Galicia, but the mayor’s vocal opponents saw nothing right in Stanislawow any more, and the tone of their invective moved from cynical to vicious at times.
Despite his critics, Dr. Nimhin was overwhelmingly reelected for another six-year term in 1912.8 Putting the rancor of the press aside, the reality was that the construction of a new public hospital and much-needed improvements to the city’s infrastructure would have to be put on hold. Plans that had been realistic a few years before, such as installing a modern sewer system and constructing a town water system to replace local wells, were suspended. Laying tracks for the long-awaited electric tram, a symbol of urban innovation in those days, suddenly became an unrealized dream. Construction of the elegant apartment buildings that Stanislawow was acclaimed for also slowed. Suddenly, the city went from a scarcity of apartments for a growing population to a glut of apartments that no one could afford. As if this was not enough, food prices rose; some blamed this on bad weather.9
But as always, life had to go on, and these challenging times also brought lighter topics of conversation. Toward the end of 1913, Stanislawow’s press proudly announced that the first cabs (called motorized carriages) with fare meters had started operation in town. The public was told that those few taxis could be found in front of the Union Hotel and could carry more than three people, and even packages for an additional charge.10
Despite the financial crisis, there was a fair share of excitement on the social scene. Some wondered what the tango mania that was sweeping Europe would mean for the upcoming balls. One newspaper columnist sternly opined that no mother should allow her daughter to learn this morally questionable dance which, in any case, was merely a fad and would never make it to the ballroom. Apparently, he was not alone in this criticism; local authorities banned the tango during the next carnival season. The ban caused some consternation not only among young, home-grown enthusiasts; to the disappointment of some ball organizers, a tango-performing couple who had been invited to come all the way from Paris had to yield to that moral verdict.11
Stanislawow also witnessed more than its share on the stage that year. Surprisingly, there were no longer complaints that the public was not interested in the performing arts; most shows were sold out. What could explain this apparent paradox? One can only wonder whether attending classical music concerts, operas, or the theater was the population’s subconscious refusal to submit to gloomy forecasts; or was it just a coincidence that the townspeople, like the local government, were living beyond their means?
Among those who got high marks for their talent was my grandmother’s sister, Wanda Regiec. By now in her early 20s, she continued to live with her parents and support herself by giving piano lessons. But Wanda also had other artistic interests. Not long after visiting Helena, who had just given birth to my mother in neighboring Bohorodczany, Wanda would perform in two plays reviewed by the press. The first, entitled The Mill Owner and his Daughter, was one of those traditional dramas considered appropriate to see but not necessarily the most exciting choice. Nonetheless, Wanda’s acting caught the attention of the public, and she was described by a critic as “quite good and well-prepared.”
Wanda Regiec (1888–1960s). This undated photograph was taken in Stanislawow
A month later, it was Wanda’s turn for a comedy, one that brought many laughs to the audience. But this turned out not to be the typical humor that was seen each year in the weeks before Christmas. Instead, the young actors pushed the boundaries of acceptable entertainment. The subject matter, which included prostitution, was considered risqué by the standards of 1913. (Earlier in the year, the drama had been made into a silent film, which attested to its popularity and could have contributed to the sold-out stage performances.) Despite the grumblings of a local critic, who lamented that the talented playwright had not delved into a more wholesome subject, Wanda’s acting in a supporting role was again praised on the pages of a newspaper.12
The end of the year also brought a much-needed hilarious moment when Stanislawow suddenly welcomed two unexpected visitors. One evening, a large balloon with a gondola below it landed outside the city. It was quickly surrounded by perplexed peasants, who looked with bewilderment at the two travelers who emerged, speaking a language that no one in the village could understand. As it turned out, they were neither celestial creatures nor spies. Just a couple of days before, the visitors had set out from Paris to beat the world record, an uninterrupted balloon flight of 1,490 miles. In falling darkness, the hapless aviators had mistaken a blanket of fog and a bright, flickering light for the edge of the sea and a lighthouse. Instead of reaching their ultimate destination, the port city of Odessa some 400 miles further east, they spent the next few days in Stanislawow’s Union Hotel. Their gear was thoroughly searched, and police were finally convinced that they had no nefarious intent. While the Parisian press was trying to salvage the reputation of the famous balloonists—by alleging that the embarrassing landing was due to gunfire aimed at them—all of Stanislawow was laughing.13
With the start of 1914, at least in the view of some, the Balkan drama was finally coming to an end, with the major warring parties exhausted by the conflict. Helena was certainly quite busy with her infant daughter at home in Bohorodczany. It would have been no surprise if she and Franciscus had been preoccupied with plans, like many young parents, about how to care for the baby in the months to come. But if Helena had had time to glance at commentaries published on New Year’s Day, she would have likely found a glimmer of hope. If the rumors were true, they would herald the possibility of sustained peace at home.14
In Galicia as a whole, reasonable voices were being heard more often. Even the somewhat paranoid Polish fears about the spread of the Ukrainian language in education were slowly receding. With the university debate largely behind them, pragmatists advocated more study of Ukrainian in Polish schools as a way to foster better understanding between cultures. Others voiced a belief, not necessarily backed by the facts, that Ukrainians had greater support for their national cultural events than Poles did for their own fragmented and often competing civic organizations.15
However, hopes for calmer, more reasonable times were quickly dashed when the archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian throne, was assassinated on June 28, 1914, in Sarajevo during a visit to the troubled Balkan province of Bosnia. There could be no doubt that the murder had been committed by Serbs. This act not only threatened Austro-Hungary’s presence in the Balkans, it signaled the aspirations of Serbs to build a Greater Serbia at the territorial expense of the aging Autro-Hungarian Empire. When their expansion south had achieved success during the Balkan Wars, Serbs, with the tacit approval of Russia, had turned their attention north. Their aim was to trigger unrest among Slavic minorities in the southern part of Aust
ro-Hungary. This was a threat to the very survival of the multiethnic empire.16
Gavrilo Princip, a Bosnian Serb, captured shortly after the assassination of the archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife on June 28, 1914, in Sarajevo. (Wiener Bilder July 5, 1914; ŐNB, Vienna.)
In many places, news of the assassination arrived by telegraph on the evening of the day it had occurred. In Stanislawow and many other cities of Galicia, government buildings were soon draped in black. Galicians now had to grapple with the uncertain outcome of a risky geopolitical game involving many nations of Europe. During official gatherings, the people of Galicia expressed not only their support for Austro-Hungary but a genuine sympathy for Emperor Franz Joseph. There was a sense of sadness that the emperor, now a man in his mid-80s who had previously mourned the loss of his only son to an apparent suicide, suffered this new blow that prevented him from transferring constitutional powers to his successor in the face of increasing complications.17