When is a hero not really a hero? When a country resurrects a tainted figure to serve the needs of a new national mythology. Consider the case of Latvian national hero Herberts Cukurs and his role in the Holocaust.
At the end of World War I, aviator Cukurs fought alongside other Latvians for independence from the Russian Empire. He earned his fame after building a single-engine plane -- which he flew to Gambia in the 1930s -- and winning an international aviation prize.
But Cukurs's celebrity shifted to notoriety during World War II when he allied himself with Germany, which occupied Latvian territory. He joined the Arajs Commando, a paramilitary killing unit composed of Latvian volunteers under Nazi direction. Some historians believe the Arajs Commando was responsible for the murder of as many as 60,000 Jews in and outside Latvia.
After the war, Cukurs escaped the Allied zone in Europe and landed in South America. He was later assassinated in Uruguay in 1965 by the Israeli Mossad. He has subsequently enjoyed some rehabilitation in Latvia. In 2014, a musical entitled Cukurs, Herberts Cukurs debuted in his hometown of Liepaja. The musical offered viewers a question -- Hero or Murderer? -- but the answer was hardly ambiguous. Cukurs was presented as a courageous aviator and unfortunate victim of the chaos and violence of World War II.
Cukurs is only one example of a troubling and puzzling phenomenon: the revival in Central and Eastern Europe of historical figures who had been previously discredited by their ties to Holocaust crimes. In the quarter century since the end of communism in this region, states and societies have endeavoured to "normalise" the past, reviving events and actors erased from communist-era histories. On the one hand, this process has brought to light important cultural, social, and political figures who were marginalised because they did not fit into the ideology of Soviet communism. On the other hand, it has animated a cast of "heroes" whose moral and legal transgressions have been sanitised.
And it also gives rise to another important question: Why would post-communist societies that in recent decades embraced democratic institutions and free-market capitalism in their quest to "return to Europe" choose to elevate countrymen implicated in Holocaust atrocities?
As sociologists studying Central and Eastern Europe, we created the term "ghost hero", to frame a common practice in post-communist societies. "Ghost heroes", are historical figures whose past has been cleansed of significant transgressions. Like the ghosts of popular imagination, ghost heroes are made real through the telling of stories, but they are as much myth as reality.
The ghost hero is an actor in a carefully scripted history. Control over the story of the past is a form of power that is not equally exercised: it is constructed by academics and cultural figures, interest groups like veterans or nationalists, and states and political actors which have a stake in managing historical narratives. Perhaps paradoxically, ghost heroes often reveal themselves in historical stories as victims.
The Cukurs musical is a microcosm of the story of ostensible victimhood. In one scene, Cukurs protectively clutches a young Jewish boy as the audience hears the child's father being shot by Nazis. In another scene, the cast surrounds Cukurs, whispering "murderer, murderer". In response, he sings a fervent appeal to God, questioning the "justice" of his violent end.
The ghost hero also fulfils the desire of post-communist states to maintain control over the narrative of the past, particularly as Western Europe moves toward a unified account of Holocaust history. After the fall of communism beginning in 1989, Western states used political entities like the European Union to signal that acceptance into "Europe" was conditional in part on the acceptance of a new historical narrative.
This new narrative highlighted the culpability of Central and Eastern Europe, where most Holocaust victims had lived. Commemoration and education were prescribed, supported through groups like the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe. Less space was granted by Western Europe to researching and commemorating the trauma of communism, a choice that negatively affected the reception of the new Holocaust narrative.
One way to uphold national histories and mark local sufferings has been to segregate Holocaust history -- and sometimes to ignore it. In Romania, for instance, state-issued textbooks largely skim over the country's participation in the Holocaust.
The ghost hero also embodies the repudiation of demands for restitution by Jewish victims and their descendants and communities. Germany has paid out significant restitution to victims of the Holocaust. Claims have also been made against the now-independent post-communist states in territories like Romania and Latvia, where Jewish communities were largely annihilated. While mass killings took place under Nazi direction, the identification of Jewish families and the murder by bullets or deportation of these communities could not have happened without local collaborators. If, however, significant numbers of inhabitants do not acknowledge that some of their fellow citizens participated in Nazi atrocities -- that victims of Soviet communism may also be victimisers of Jewish and Roma communities -- then restitution remains unlikely.
Ghost heroes allow states and societies to avoid a difficult reckoning with history, suggesting that victim status in one setting eclipses responsibility as perpetrators in another. Of course, many East and Central Europeans recognise the need to remember history accurately and honour murdered communities. But for those who are not ready to do so, ghost heroes offer a way to selectively filter history. Given the rise of populism and nationalism in the region, the ghost hero is unlikely to vanish anytime soon. ©2019 Zocalo Public Square
Daina S Eglitis is an associate professor of sociology and international affairs at George Washington University and is the author of 'Imagining the Nation: History, Modernity, and Revolution in Latvia'. Michelle Kelso is an assistant professor of sociology and international affairs at George Washington University and is the writer and director of the documentary 'Hidden Sorrows: The Persecution of Romanian Gypsies during World War II'.
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