I found myself compelled to read this entire book through, in nearly one sitting (I do not read fast enough; two reading sessions were enough to do the trick though). Of course, by reading in such a way I was utterly drawn in, enveloped by Sondra’s journey, identifying with her struggles, questions about pedagogy, the slowly evolving process of her forgiveness and unlikely friendships, her ongoing spiritual longing and reconciliation with her own fears. I am consistently astounded, in text and in person, by Sondra’s courage and generosity of spirit, both as a teacher and as a contemplative, forever-growing human being. In contrast to some expected (and understandable) “confrontation” with her students (or even more likely, avoidance of Holocaust history, and Austria’s complicit role in it), Sondra again and again encourages the idea of “dialogue” in On Austrian Soil, providing a metaphorical door that opens out onto all kinds of hitherto suppressed, buried discourses, rendering light and voice upon darkness and silence, both in her students and herself.
In the first half of the book, it occurs to me that the intertwined narratives of working with the Austrian students on one hand, and personal exploration and growth on the other, are more seamlessly incorporated than are the personal and the pedagogical in Borkowski’s memoir. Indeed, for Sondra these two stories, and the way they progress, are inseparable. It is impossible to quarantine one from the other.
It struck me whenever one of the Austrian students would refer to the atrocities of the Holocaust in the passive voice. It is a classic rhetorical tactic of the politician, to render a crime or misdeed opaque by removing or absenting the agent of the verb (“mistakes were made” instead of “I stole that money” or “I cheated on my wife”). What mistakes were made by whom? In some cases, the Austrian students even begin by identifying the actors of actions and then slide into passive voice, which is a way, unconsciously or not, of constructing an abstraction that distances and obfuscates accountability: “‘Are you saying we are responsible for our parents’ actions, that we have some responsibility for what happened?’ Christa asks, a hurt look on her face.” (84, emphasis mine) Weather happens. Accidents happen. Human actors commit atrocities, though. Human agents, whether now or in the past, participate in genocide. Less generous than Sondra, these are my thoughts as I read Christa’s objection. Sondra treats this moment as yet another opening for possible dialogue: “‘You are not responsible for the past. But I think you do have, that we all have, a responsibility to the future. That our responsibility has to do with what… Bekhtin would call response-ability. The ability to respond.'” (84)
In a culture that is steeped in historical denial, Christa’s process of abstraction, of keeping the past at grammatical arm’s distance, is perhaps understandable. Austria of course is not the only such culture. I recognize variants of Christa’s refusal to engage with history all the time in the United States, whether the topic is the history of the transatlantic slave trade in the U.S. or the more or less complete massacre of Native Americans. I thought about these questions of accountability, and how much easier it is to judge others rather than peering inwardly. In any case, we cannot absent ourselves from the flow of history, for better or worse. Thinking about all of these complexities as I read Sondra’s memoir, two quotations (perhaps too-oft quoted, but still germane here) kept echoing through my mind:
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” — William Faulkner
“History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” — James Joyce
