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South Tyrol. The Other Italy
South Tyrol. The Other Italy
Elizaveta Ebner
Literary translation Olga Syomina
Editor Olga Rybina
Proofreader Olga Syomina
Illustrations Andrei Klepanov
Cover design Peter Ebner, Klavdiya Shildenko
Photo of the author Anastasia Reves
Photos Elizaveta Ebner
Layout Aleksandra Sokolova
© Elizaveta Ebner, 2021
ISBN 978-5-0055-2602-1
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Preface
The art island of Naoshima in the Seto Inland Sea features a work The World Flag Ant Farm by the artist Yukinori Yanagi. The artwork is made of rows of plexiglass boxes with flags inside of them made of coloured sand. The boxes are connected by tubes, through which ants are running, carrying the sand from one part of the installation to another. Everything is real in the work of the Japanese artist: the insects build nests, move, eat from specially designed food dispensers, and die. Yanagi’s philosophy is as follows: “Nations, ethnic groups, religions are limited by imaginary boundaries, born of social or institutional constructions.” When ants destroy clear contours of the flags, they, in his opinion, demonstrate “a simple and encouraging way to gradually unite all the peoples of the world.” Yukinori Yanagi’s installation is symbolic. It questions the importance of borders between countries, raises the issue of their gradual destruction and the consequences of migration.
I wonder if the ants in the Japanese artist’s work were of different species… Alas, there is no information about that, and yet not all the varieties of those insects are friendly to each other. Quite like people, they fight for their territory, food, children, and domination of their own species. Who knows how quickly the fragile sand boundaries would become multi-coloured well-organized fortifications in real life?
Chapter One.
Personal File
The first time I saw South Tyrol was through the train window on my way from Milan to Munich. The huge snow-covered mountains seemed to be at arm’s length from me. Never before had I seen them so closely. Long after this journey, I would still believe that nothing could be more beautiful than these magnificent walls of rock. According to my calculations, there was some time left before we would cross the Austrian border, but the names of the stations, indicated both in German and Italian, instilled in me vague doubts about the whereabouts of the train. “Are we still in Italy or already in Austria?” I thought. My fellow passengers suddenly put off whatever each of them was doing: their books, newspapers and magazines were lying on the tables and on their laps, the covers of the laptops, the boxes of cookies and chips were closed. We were all gazing, spellbound, at the beauty outside.
I was 21. From Milan, where I studied at the Department of Architecture, I was going to intern at a Munich architectural magazine. Not knowing any German and having a very vague idea of the Bavarian capital, I was still travelling by train through the mountains and into the uncertainty. In Moscow, where I had grown up, there were no mountains, as there were none of them in the place where I had gone every year for my vacation, Kaliningrad Region, a semi-exclave which after World War II became part of the Soviet Union.
I still remember myself at the age of five or six, when an elderly German Frau, who had obviously come to her historic homeland, approached my grandmother and me in a street of the resort town of Svetlogorsk and gave me a full package of foreign sweets. At that time, Germans were treated with disbelief, nothing good could be expected from them, and out of that generous gift I only got one lollipop. As to the rest of it, my grandmother threw it all away, saying that the sweets could be poisoned. I can hardly remember what that lady looked like, but I do remember very well her emotions and the multi-coloured wrappers of the sweet treasure that had come so unexpectedly to me. What did she feel when she came to the Russian Svetlogorsk, which, in the days of her youth, had used to be the German Rauschen?
Approximately one year after the victory in the Great Patriotic War and the World War II, Königsberg was renamed Kaliningrad. Pillau became Baltiysk, Tilsit – Sovetsk, and Cranz – Selenogradsk. Lutheran churches were first used for economic needs, but then, gradually, they began to bring Orthodox paraphernalia there. German inscriptions were painted over – only to be found a bit later in the same places again. For three years, Germans and Russians were forced to live on the same territory. People were brought to Kaliningrad Region from all over the Soviet Union; they had to “master” the new territory, to introduce Soviet culture to East Prussia. Both sides still had vivid memory of the recent war. For obvious reasons, it was not easy for people from the Soviet Union to separate in their minds the peaceful German population from the Nazis, who only yesterday did terrible things on their land and to their families. No less difficult was it for the Germans: in order to feed themselves, they, like the Soviet citizens, had to do the hard work of restoring Kaliningrad, which was in ruins. There, under the rubble, were their houses, apartments, personal belongings, and often the bodies of their families and friends.
One would think that the relations between yesterday’s enemies would be terrible; however, in real life things were somewhat different. Of course, there’s no denying that the defeated Germans were insulted by their victors, looted and ousted from their own homes, but the fact that the two very different cultures were forced to co-exist on a very small territory also contributed to the increasing rapport between the people. Both German and Russian residents would quickly pick up each other’s languages, both Russian and German doctors would treat their patients without looking at their nationality, and young people would go dancing together. There were both good things and bad things, but neither Russians not Germans would refuse to help each other.
However trivial it may sound, there are no bad nations. There are bad people.
In 1948, the last of the Germans living in Kaliningrad Region were deported to the Soviet occupation zone in Germany. It was not until late 1990s that they got a chance to see Kaliningrad again. Some of them were silent, and some of them wept looking at the houses that were not theirs anymore. There was no more Königsberg. It had turned into Kaliningrad long ago.
Looking back, I can’t help thinking that everything which happens to us in life happens for a reason! If there had been no Kaliningrad in my life, or that train from Milan to Munich with the subsequent necessity to know well both German and Italian, I wouldn’t have been able to write about South Tyrol. I would not have become interested in this region’s bi- and trilingualism, and wouldn’t have seen anything strange in the entanglement of Italian, German and Ladin cultures on this land, which is officially a part of Italy. It is quite possible that I, like hundreds of other tourists, would have left this place taking with me dozens of pictures and pleasant recollections of the local hospitality. However, being already aware of a story similar to one that took place in South Tyrol, I felt an urge to understand better this mountain region. I had a feeling deep inside that the seemingly different stories of these two territories actually have something in common.
When I asked Italians in Milan and its vicinities about South Tyrol, it quickly turned out that their knowledge of this region is very superficial. As a rule, they referred to the local people as “Germans” or “calculator people,” hinting at the proverbial “German accuracy” in their character.
As to my efforts to find out what people know about South Tyrol in Russia, they were a complete failure. The people I talked to either didn’t know anything about the place or started recalling something about Austria.
In Germany and Austria, the situation with knowledge of South Tyrol was much better: both Germans and Austrians were able to describe the region’s geographical location and had a general idea of its cultural and historical peculiarities.
To summarize my small, though international, poll, people knew either nothing at all or very little about this beautiful mountain land and this lack of knowledge in some cases even engendered unaccountable negative attitude to it.
As I gradually went further into studying South Tyrol, I couldn’t help comparing it to other border territories of the world. The history of every such place involves difficult times, and some of them are still experiencing them. Their people fought for independence, asserted their rights for their native tongue and culture. The wisdom with which these same problems were solved in South Tyrol seemed to me a worthy example for other similar territories. After all, what we often need is just to know that we are not alone and that somebody else has faced the same challenges in life.
It was quite logical that my interest in South Tyrol should grow into something material. And if you want to know the main reason why I have written this book I will answer that I simply could not help writing it.
This book is my acknowledgement to South Tyrol and its multinational population for being a model of bridging the differences and of overcoming the challenges of history, for the priceless vivid example of what results can be achieved with love and desire for peace. This book is my own collection showcasing the many facets of this region.
One’s perception of this or that place in the world is always based on their personal experience, education, profession, and, of course, emotions. Naturally, I am present in each of the stories that I have included in this book: my architectural, artistic and literary taste, my sensitivity to the destinies of people and buildings, my love of the good and of those who do the good no matter what. At the same time, I tried to write about everything impartially, leaving to you the right to make your own conclusions.
Choosing the subjects for this book, creating my own collection of stories for it, I understood why collectors so often devote their lives to their work. Choosing the best of so many beautiful creations is an art. Choosing the most significant things in the life of a whole region is not an easy task. Therefore, I apologize in advance for the things that I may have overlooked. The history of South Tyrol, as well as its present, is, of course, abundant in things that are still waiting for their narrator.
After reading my collection of stories you will surely see a single image of this mountain land – its face, if you like. This is how I see South Tyrol. I cannot promise that your vision of this region will coincide with mine, but what I know for sure is that after reading this book you will pack your suitcase, backpack, or travelling bag and will head for South Tyrol. I also know that you will fall in love with it.
Chapter Two.
North – South
With so many cities whose central squares are featuring monuments to marshals, admirals, generals, monarchs, kings or empresses, it feels so great to finally find at least one city in the centre of which there is a monument to a poet.
In fact, Walther von der Vogelweide, the German poet and composer of the period of the classical Minnesang whose figure towers proudly on its pedestal in the square of the same name in Bolzano (Bozen), hardly had anything to do with South Tyrol. This man, who belonged to the knightly class but did not own any land, spent his life wandering, and a considerable number of legends have formed around him. The only thing known for sure from his rich biography is where he is buried (his grave is located in Würzburg), but the birthplace of the famous poet still remains a mystery which one after another generation of admiring researchers of his work have agonized over.
Due to the absence of significant historical documents, most of the information about the life of Walther von der Vogelweide was drawn from his own writings. At different times, Switzerland, Austria, Bohemia and Tyrol were announced to be the possible places of his birth. Finally, one main version had to be selected, and that was the Austrian region of Waldviertel, where in the Middle Ages there was a farm house named Vogelweidhof (it exists even now, though under a different name). Von der Vogelweide’s own statement also speaks in favor of this option: “In Austria, I learned to sing and to speak.”
However, South Tyrolean researchers of history and literature did not stand idly by, either. They believed that the famous Walther could well be from their region; the following places were named as the potential birthplace of the minnesinger: the Valley of the Upper Isarco (Wipptal) near the town of Vipiteno (Sterzing), the neighborhood of Chiusa (Klausen), and, finally, the local community of Laion (Lajen) (for a long time the latter was considered the most plausible version of all). Alas, all these assumptions have been refuted. The main argument against the idea that von der Vogelweide was born in South Tyrol was the fact that, over many decades, he did not even once find the time to visit his alleged homeland. But then again, why should the monument to a person who had nothing to do with South Tyrol have been mounted in the main square of the region’s capital city?
In the Middle Ages, when Tyrol was already part of Austria, the place of the present-day Walther Square, as well as the territory to the south of the city walls and its historical centre, was occupied by wine fields. At the beginning of the 19th century, Austria was defeated by the Napoleonic forces in the battle of Austerlitz, and, under the Peace of Pressburg, ceded Tyrol to one of Napoleon’s main allies – Bavaria. The then King of Bavaria, Maximilian I, who took possession of the vineyards near the walls of Bolzano (Bozen), agreed to sell them to the city for 3,000 guilders, but on the condition that they should be replaced by a square. The city kept its promise to the monarch: Maximilianplatz, a square named in his honour, was inaugurated in 1808.
Life in Tyrol as part of Bavaria was not easy, and in 1809 an uprising against the Bavarian and French authorities broke out in the region, headed by Andreas Hofer. Through joint efforts, the local population and the Austrian troops that entered Tyrol restored Austrian power in it. The triumph, however, did not last long, as after a few weeks the new French army ousted the Austrians from the region. According to the Treaty of Vienna of 1809, Tyrol was divided between the two countries: North Tyrol was left to Bavaria, while South Tyrol was given to the Italian kingdom.
It is only in 1813, after the Vienna Congress, that it was returned to the Austrian Empire. A year later, Maximilianplatz in Bolzano (Bozen) was given a new name, Johannesplatz, in honour of the Archduke Johann (John) of Austria. The Austrian elite started coming more often to Bolzano (Bozen). Rave reviews about the beauty and the mild climate of this city quickly reached the Viennese court. Inns appeared around the square, which were soon followed by a hotel. The monument to Walther von der Vogelweide was installed on it at the initiative of the Austro-Hungarian government in 1889. The monument was made by the South Tyrolean sculptor Heinrich Natter from the Laas white marble quarried in the region. The German poet and composer of the period of the classical Minnesang is standing with his face to the south, and that is not mere chance.
It is in the south that Trento is located, which at that time, being a part of the Austrian Empire, was called Trient. The absolute majority of its population was Italian, and the irredentist movement for the incorporation of Trient and other Italian-populated border territories to Italy quickly gained momentum. As early as in 1886, people there had already started talking about making a monument to Dante Alighieri, at that time – simply on the occasion of setting up Pro Patria Foundation in Rovereto. Decorating the square in Bolzano (Bozen) with the figure of Walther von der Vogelweide, a man known for loving German culture and glorifying it throughout his life in his works, was a kind of remote response to the unrest in the south of the Austrian Empire.
The reaction of Trient (Trento) to the monument to Walther was not long in coming: already in 1893, the foundation stone of the monument to Dante was laid with an inscription on it: “The foundation stone to the monument from Trento citizens to Dante Alighieri, who showed what our language is capable of. XX APR MDCCCXCIII.” The Austro-Hungarian monarchy was well aware of the possible consequences of what was happening, but did not consider it appropriate to stand up against the project. Dante Alighieri’s figure was clearly facing north.
After World War I, under the Treaty of Saint-Germain, South Tyrol was returned to Italy. The notorious forced Italianization of this territory which followed had its impact both on the square and on the monument to Walther von der Vogelweide. First, in 1925, Walther Square was simply renamed in honour of the Italian king Victor Emmanuel III, and then, in 1935, the Fascist government that came to power in the country got around to the statue of the Minnesang poet. The monument of Walther von der Vogelweide was moved to Peter Rosegger Park. Ettore Tolomei, who headed the process of the Italianization of South Tyrolean population, insisted on erecting in its place a monument to Drusus the Elder, the Roman commander who in the 15th century BC fought on the territory of Raetia against the bandits raiding Roman tribes and receiving support from the local tribes. Drusus the Elder then destroyed both the bandits and the local tribes. There’s no need to mention that Tyrol at that time had also been part of Raetia, and Tolomei was not simply referring to ancient history.
In the end, they did commission South Tyrolean sculptor Hans Piffrader to make a statue of Drusus the Elder, but, for unknown reasons, it was never made.
With the end of World War II, in 1945, the main square of Bolzano (Bozen) was renamed again, this time to Marienplatz. It bore this name until 1947, when it was changed to Waltherplatz, or Walther Square. The statue of the same name was moved to its place only in 1981.
Nowadays, the main square of the South Tyrolean capital is known as the “drawing room” of Bolzano (Bozen). At any time of the year, the cafes and bars around it are filled with locals and visitors to the region. It is home to the most famous Christmas market in Italy and the equally famous flower festival. Walther Square is then renamed (this time only jokingly) Waltz Square (Walzer Platz instead of Waltherplatz), and dancing parties are arranged here.
Cities, the main squares of which can boast a monument to a poet, are a rarity; however, the reasons for putting up such monuments are often far from poetic. The figures of Walther von der Vogelweide and Dante Alighieri symbolized the silent confrontation of two worlds speaking different languages within one country. Now, when they are once again part of the same, though completely different, country, neither the north nor the south recall the past of these two monuments. They understand that the future depends on respecting each other’s cultures.
Chapter Three.
Grüss Dich!
The landscape outside the car window is constantly changing, and the chances are good that I will make the word “beauty” the refrain of my narrative if I start describing everything that I see. Every now and then I can glimpse signs bearing the names of hotels and guest houses, most of which necessarily contain, modified in one way or another, the words Edelweiss, Alpin (“Alpine”), Weissen Rössl (“White Horse”) (to be quite fair, I must say that sometimes the horse is of some other colour), Panorama and Mondschein (“Moonlight”). In the same way as in the Soviet Union each city had its own Lenin Street, in South Tyrol you will always come across the good old rössl (“horse”).
If you have got lost, you can stop your car and ask the locals for directions – they will help you, but only after saying Grüss Gott or Grüss dich (“Hello” in the local dialect). After that, you can continue your way to see another signboard of a hotel bearing the name Post, which is also very popular in the region.
South Tyrol is The Other Italy.
Chapter Four.
We Are in Italy, Are We?
Vipiteno (Sterzing) is a fairy-tale South Tyrolean town in which you want to use a diminutive name for absolutely everything. It is so charming in late spring that I don’t even dare to think of it at Christmas season, when it must be covered with an even layer of soft fluffy snow, decorated with ornaments and strings of lights, permeated with the smells of fresh gingerbread, hot chocolate, roasted chestnuts and fruit punch. I can’t but think: what would it be like, to be born here? It would probably be great to wake up and run to the window to see the snow-capped peaks, the Zwölferturm tower – the symbol of the city – and the conventional boundary between its “new” and “old” parts, and to smell the perfect aroma of fresh buns coming up from the cosy family coffee shop – there would simply have to be one on the ground floor. This is my first visit to Vipiteno (Sterzing), though I’ve known about its existence for a long time.
The fact is that I love to start my day with a delicious breakfast, an integral part of which has always been yoghurt. While studying in Milan, I found out “by trial and error” in the literal sense of the word that the best product of all the variety presented in the stores is the one in minimalist packaging with a coat of arms and the inscription “Sterzing-Vipiteno.” Needless to say, I was in advance disposed more than favourably towards this South Tyrolean city, considering rightfully that only a good place and good people can produce such a high-quality, wholesome and tasty product.
Of course, in addition to yoghurt, which is produced by a company founded in the times when South Tyrol was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in Vipiteno (Sterzing) you can and should pamper yourself with traditional speck, smoked sausages, all kinds of knodels and fragrant strudel with apple, apricot or cottage cheese. It would be a crime to just walk past hand-made chocolates laid out in the windows of pastry shops and the freshest Sacher cake with homemade whipped cream.
In this town you must go by your senses and be sure to enjoy not only the beauty around, but also the local cuisine. At the time I found myself in the town, my knowledge of German was poor; sitting down at a table in a restaurant and finding that the menu was only in German, I asked the waiter to bring it in Italian, adding with a smile: “We’re in Italy, are we?” The local citizens, who were watching the scene closely, literally collapsed with laughter.
But that was the same kind of good-natured laughter that parents laugh when their child says something silly.
Chapter Five.
Walter
From the interview with the architect Walter Angonese for Archi.ru (11.05.2016)
(The conversation is in Italian)
Me: It seems to me that all South Tyroleans love their motherland (patria)?
Walter Angonese: Motherland (patria) is not quite the right word. Italian doesn’t have the right equivalent for that, so I will use the German word Heimat. It is not the same as the Italian patria. The Italian word implies a nation, while Heimat is a place, a corner that you come from, where your roots are. The great German poet Kurt Tucholsky defined Heimat as the place where you feel that you are understood. It is Heimat that we, South Tyroleans, love.