Can We Listen?
By Lili Androsch
On Heldenplatz (Heroes' Square), a majestic square in the heart of Vienna, the mornings are usually quiet. In fall and winter, the square is often flooded with fog. As a day unfolds, the square fills with voices and movement. Tourist buses arriving, joggers on their runs, school classes crossing the square on their way to the museums, politicians taking a walk between appointments, or rushing to the next one. It is not unusual to bump into the Austrian federal president, Alexander Van der Bellen, walking his dog, Juli. After this busy time of the day, after the last diplomatic conversations were held, after the last buses have collected everyone, after the joggers arrived at home, the Heldenplatz becomes quiet again. It is never entirely silent. First, because there is always some background noise in the middle of a city with nearly two million people. Second, because the Heldenplatz cannot escape the roaring echoes of the past.
The square is part of the unfinished Kaiserforum by Franz Joseph I. An imperial national stage, which is named after Austrian military heroes such as Prince Eugene of Savoy and Archduke Charles, whose statues dominate the space. Heldenplatz embodies the grandeur of the Habsburg monarchy. Austria loves to romanticize its imperial past. This need for romanticization did not come out of nowhere. It was an anchor for Austrian society. After the cruelties of the Second World War, Austrian society fled into the safe arms of nostalgia. Heimat films were made, Empress Elisabeth "Sissi" became a national icon, and Austria established a kind of national coping mechanism. After 1945, the prominent narrative in Austria was that it was Hitler's first victim. This paved the way for society to avoid a deeper confrontation with its complicity and responsibility, replacing accountability with romantic nostalgia.
On March 15, 1938, Adolf Hitler stood on the balcony of the Neue Burg overlooking the Heldenplatz and proclaimed the Anschluss of Austria to Nazi Germany. Hundreds of thousands of Austrians welcomed him, cheering and applauding, shouting and screaming "Sieg Heil" in unison.
In 1988, the fiftieth anniversary of the Anschluss and the centenary of the Burgtheater, the Burgtheater's director at the time, Claus Peymann, commissioned Thomas Bernhard to write a play. Thomas Bernhard is one of the most important Austrian authors of the postwar period. Most of his work are monologes, of so-called "Geistesmenschen", highly educated protagonists who unleash tirades against Austria and Austrian society. Bernhard refused to write a play at first; he suggested, instead of writing a piece, to place the phrase “Dieses Geschäft ist judenfrei” (“This shop is free of Jews”) in shop windows that were aryanized around the inner city. Eventually, he wrote his theater piece Heldenplatz.
The play is set in an apartment which overlooks the square; the main subject is a Jewish family, which has returned from exile in Oxford. The head of the family and central figure of the play, Josef Schuster, never appears on stage as he has committed suicide. According to his family, he could not endure Austrian society anymore, as antisemitism, xenophobia, and intellectual narrowness persisted. The three scenes of the play take place on the day of his funeral. The widow, Frau Professor, continues to hear the echoes of the Heldenplatz, the 'Heil' from 1938. This is how the play ends: she hears the shouting from the square, and the sound becomes intolerable. Bernhard wrote this play a few months before he died in February 1989. His last provocation of Austria and its people.
Before the premiere of the piece in November 1988, there were passages of the play leaked to the press and reported, even though the publishing house attempted to prevent early publication. At first, the reactions were muted, probably because the pieces appeared in early september journalists and politicians were still enjoying their summer break. But on October 7th, 1988, a scandal began.
Austria’s most widely read tabloid, the Kronen Zeitung, printed selected quotations: “6.5 million imbeciles,” “Vienna as a nightmare,” “more Nazis than in 1938,” “Austria as a mindless and cultureless sewer.” The public reacted immediately, and the initial debate escalated into outrage and hysteria. Questions emerged: Should a state-subsidized national theatre stage a play that “insults Austria”? Was this an abuse of taxpayers’ money? Should this play be forbidden? Should parts of it be censored? The debate went on to the political realm. Federal President Kurt Waldheim, who at the same time as this scandal took place, was criticised for concealing his wartime past, described the piece as a “gross insult to the Austrian people.” Jörg Haider (FPÖ) demanded: “Hinaus aus Wien mit dem Schuft!” (“Out of Vienna with the scoundrel!”) But also figures from across the political spectrum expressed similar opinions. For example, the Mayor of Vienna at that time, Helmut Zilk (SPÖ), and the former Chancellor Bruno Kreisky ("We must not tolerate this!"). Because Walldheim was criticized at this time, Austria was under international political pressure to confront its past, and the narrative of victimhood was slowly shattering.
When the piece premiered, the Burgtheater was placed under police protection. The performance was repeatedly interrupted by shouts from the audience. Outside the Burgtheater, nationalist groups had announced protests, and one group even dumped a load of cow manure in front of the theatre. Inside the theater after the last scene, the audience mirrored Austrian society and its friction. There was shouting, applaus and booing. Thomas Bernhard went on stage together with the actors, his last public appearance before his death in February 1989. He made Austria part of his last play.
There are many layers to this scandal, and many aspects of the situation we should learn from. One lesson is about Austria and its confrontation with its Nazi past. Bernhard's play amplified the echoes of the past and highlighted that a society cannot move forward without facing its history. Another lesson is universal: artistic expression must be free. We cannot judge a piece before even encountering it, and if one does not agree with a piece after having seen it, there must still be space for it. Artistic provocation is intentional and is crucial for incentivizing debates within society. We like to believe we are beyond that today. I would argue the situation is even worse. Strong sentiments like outrage spread way faster than critical reflection; headlines have long replaced well-formulated arguments. Social media reduces complex works into isolated short video clips, just as the Kronen Zeitung reduced Heldenplatz to a handful of provocative lines.
Freedom does not only rely on constitutional guarantees, but it also needs the public and its willingness and ability to listen. Freedom of speech is often referred to as a protection of one’s own opinion. We forget that it is not only the right to speak but the obligation to listen at the same time. It is an effort we have to practice every day to not give in to the want of silencing what makes us uncomfortable.
When standing on Heldenplatz today, the square appears calm. Tourists photograph the statues, joggers circle the monument, and politicians walk by. The echoes remain and turn into the question which goes beyond Austria: Can we listen?
