Returning to Vienna, Again
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

The Viennese are proud of their long-ago past. They have restored their historical edifices and churches and refurbished their many museums. They totally rebuilt the Albertina museum. Areas such as Döbling and Hietzing have retained the staid, even aristocratic, aura of magisterial homes and gardens (while adding the most up-to-date comforts for its inhabitants).
But the Nazi era is more problematic for the Viennese. On November 9, 1938, now known as the night of broken glass (Kristallnacht), I happened to have been across the street from Tempelgasse 5, the site of Vienna’s largest Orthodox synagogue, while uniformed Nazis and ordinary citizens threw Torahs and Bibles into the street and set fire to the building. In the years following World War II, only 1,000 to 1,500 of the approximately 206,000 Jewish citizens returned to Vienna from concentration camps or came out of hiding.
But Austrians have slowly begun to face the fact that they were not the Nazis’ first victims.
This spring, I revisited Tempelgasse 5, now the home of ESRA, the psycho-social help center the Viennese Jewish community created in 1994 “to assist all those who were victimized by the Nazi regime, whatever their ethnicity, religion, political conviction, sexual orientation, etc.” Both ESRA and the Freud Museum are heavily subsidized by Vienna’s city government, with additional support from the Jewish community (Kultusgemeinde) — now more than 15,000 in number — and private individuals.
I was pleasantly surprised to traverse a courtyard where 10-year-old Jewish boys played and rode their scooters. A therapist showed me around ESRA’s sun-drenched, glass-enclosed building and passed me on to the resident psychiatrist, who, in turn, introduced me to one of the 10 counselors, seven of whom are not Jewish. I was impressed by their professionalism.
When I presented my memoir, “Full Circle,” at Vienna’s newly renovated Freud Museum at 19 Berggasse, I was also impressed by the astute questions posed by my moderator, Marta Halpert, and my attentive audience. What a transformation, I thought, while recalling previous visits to the city of my birth — after my departure on a children’s transport to Belgium, on February 9, 1939. Kristallnacht, three months earlier, had convinced my mother to get her children out of Austria.
When I first returned to Vienna, in the summer of 1956, I could not help being enraptured by the Strauss waltzes that still permeated the air — while being repelled by the barely hidden anti-Semitism of overly friendly, often obsequious, salespersons, the former concierge of our apartment house, the receptionist at the Hotel Astoria, and other Viennese. Many of the city’s showplaces already had been spruced up in order to attract tourists. Austrian women told of having been raped by Russian soldiers who finally had left. But neither men nor women inquired about the fate of “their exiles,” although they appreciated my dollars.
Two years later, my husband, Robert Kurzweil, and I spent part of our honeymoon in Vienna. He met his earlier friends from the Wandervögel and the Socialist Party, who now were somewhat bored in their palatial offices. He felt upset while driving up to the Kobenzl and Kahlenberg, because in his student days he vehemently had protested the construction of these roads. I remembered traumatic events from my childhood and in particular scenes of my grandparents, all of whom had been murdered. But we enjoyed performances at the Staatsoper and the Burgtheater, before going on to Salzburg’s Festspiele. While living in Italy, from then until 1966, we frequently went back to Vienna, if only to keep track of the ongoing preservation of monuments — erected by a succession of Austrian monarchs.
Despite their willed amnesia, Austrians pursued a liberal immigration policy during this period, setting up camps for displaced persons, among them for Holocaust survivors. In the fall of 1956, local citizens had spontaneously opened their frontier to fleeing Hungarians. Later on, dissidents who managed to leave Russia and its “satellites” dribbled in. Eventually, they landed in Vienna routinely — and from there decided whether to leave for America or Israel. Some stayed in Austria and became citizens.
By 1971, Robert had died and I had decided to become an academic. Before immersing myself in my Italian research, I stopped in Vienna for the International Psychoanalytical Association’s meetings. Just three years before, a handful of psychoanalysts had created their organization, but only now was a plaque affixed and dedicated at Freud’s former residence and workplace. Vienna’s population still was visibly hostile to the visiting psychoanalysts. It takes longer to change ingrained attitudes than to change infrastructures, such as underground transportation and tramways, or to restore churches and museums.
By 1982, when I went back for a few months of research on psychoanalytic history, the psychoanalysts, just as elsewhere, had already split into various factions, and Adlerian and less rigorous therapies seemed to be flourishing. When invited to private events, I noted that the Jewish population of the city had dramatically increased. Among the younger generation, intermarriage no longer seemed to present much of a hurdle.
In 1988, Bundespresident Kurt Waldheim (also a former Secretary-General of the United Nations) claimed — contrary to emerging evidence — that, as a Wehrmacht officer during World War II, he had not participated in any atrocities. Then the government invited Vienna’s “exiled intelligentsia” to a much-publicized conference. Judging by the locals’ poor attendance and the press coverage, it seemed that Vienna’s population was not too eager for their return.
But during subsequent visits, I felt more and more at home. By now, Vienna has become a small metropolis, without losing its former charm. Its exemplary clean and comfortable underground network of transportation connects all outlying areas to the center. Minibuses tour through the mostly one-way and pedestrian inner city, so that surface traffic, except during rush hours, is quick and unimpeded. While slowly sauntering through town, I noticed that historically significant buildings (which seem to be mushrooming) feature handsome plaques that provide the names of former (mostly aristocratic or creative) inhabitants, along with their accomplishments.
Skyscrapers have sprung up in the outer districts, incorporating the latest architectural wonders. The artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser and a slew of architects, many among them Hungary’s 1956 refugees, have used their imaginations to good advantage.
The city is thriving, even though here too concerns about illegal immigration and rising costs of health care abound. These problems are discussed in Parliament, in the press, and among friends — so-called greens, reds, and blue-blacks. I did not notice any “political correctness.” At my talk, and at the lavish party that Hava Bugajer, an Israeli physician, gave for me, government officials of opposing convictions were among the guests. Their disagreements, when not avoided, were expressed in the wry humor I remembered from my youth.
For this younger generation of Viennese, “Wien, Wien, nur Du allein sollst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein” — “Vienna, Vienna, you alone will be the city of my dreams” — appears to hold true. If only we could be sure that the general population’s (more or less hidden) anti-Semitism eventually will vanish.
Ms. Kurzweil is the former editor of Partisan Review and University Professor Emeritus, Adelphi University. Her most recent book is “Full Circle: A Memoir.”