Raz Segal. Genocide in the Carpathians: War, Social Breakdown, and Mass Violence, 1914-1945. Stanford Studies on Central and Eastern Europe Series. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016. 232 pp. $65.00 (cloth), ISBN 978-0-8047-9666-8.
Reviewed by Tomasz Frydel (University of Toronto)
Published on H-War (June, 2018)
Commissioned by Margaret Sankey (Air University)
Seeing Like a Nation-State: The Return of Genocide Studies to East Central Europe
When “Westerners” think of the Great War, the primary image that comes to mind is that of the western front. Much less defined in the collective memory are associations with the eastern front. Here, some of the deadliest battles took place on the lands of historic Galicia of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, particularly along the Carpathian Mountains. One visible legacy of the fighting is the more than four hundred war cemeteries unique to the territory of Western Galicia, painstakingly designed by architects of the Austrian War Ministry. Among others, the scrupulously arranged graves display the names of Hungarians, Czechs, Rusyns, Poles, Croats, Jews, Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians, while Latin crosses comingle with three-barred Orthodox crosses, Stars of David, and Muslim symbols (usually Bosnian soldiers).
Visitors to the northern slopes of the Carpathian range—known today as Poland’s Subcarpathian (Podkarpackie) region—will be struck by the overlap of markers commemorating both world wars. In this “shatterzone of empires” (from Omer Bartov and Eric D. Weitz’s Shatterzone of Empires: Coexistence and Violence in the German, Habsburg, Russian, and Ottoman Borderlands ), the geography has a tendency to blur the temporal frame of reference. Scenic Habsburg-era war cemeteries lie dispersed among sites of Nazi German atrocity, and vestiges of a “gentleman’s war” sit suggestively close to reminders of “total war.” Thus, when the Jews of the village of Rzepiennik Strzyżewski (near Gorlice), among others, were marched to their execution in the summer of 1942, they stepped across the remains of trenches dug in 1915, still visible today. In these European “borderlands,” a landscape inscribed by two cataclysmic wars foregrounds questions of the broader processes that rocked the subcontinent.
It is perhaps no accident that Israeli historian Raz Segal chose the geographical zone inhabited by the Subcarpathian Rus’—located on the southern slopes of the Carpathian range—to explore these historic linkages in his book, Genocide in the Carpathians: War, Social Breakdown, and Mass Violence, 1914-1945. Segal is assistant professor of Holocaust and genocide studies, as well as Sara and Sam Schoffer Professor of Holocaust Studies at Stockton University. In contrast to his previous monograph, Days of Ruin: The Jews of Munkács during the Holocaust (2013; Hebrew, 2011), the book under review signals Segal’s conceptual shift from a framework anchored in the “Holocaust” to that of “genocide.”
Popular knowledge of this struggling entity—known throughout its history as Subcarpathian Rus’, Ruthenia, or Carpatho-Ukraine—is usually limited to passing awareness of this ephemeral statelet. After World War I, the new state of Czechoslovakia that emerged from the rubble of empires annexed Subcarpathian Rus’ in 1920. Though the 1919 Treaty of St. Germain detailed the autonomous status of the region within the new state (incorporated into the constitution), Prague never fulfilled its promise, and Subcarpathian Rus’ found itself on the receiving end of the Czechoslovak state-building project during the interwar period as its easternmost region. Prior to the Second World War, the population of the region counted approximately 725,000 inhabitants, 445,000 of whom were Carpatho-Ruthenians (63 percent), 115,000 Magyars (15 percent), 100,000 Jews (13 percent), and the remainder Czechs, Slovaks, Romanians, Germans (Karpatendeutschen), and Roma.
By the end of the interwar period, the political center had begun to shift from Prague to Budapest. This took place in two stages. First, in November 1938, as a result of the Munich Conference, the southern part of Subcarpathian Rus’ was ceded to Hungary (the First Vienna Award), with the remainder given autonomous status. Second, following the Slovak proclamation of independence on March 14, 1939, and the Nazi seizure of Czech lands on March 15, Subcarpathian Rus’ declared its independence as the Republic of Carpatho-Ukraine, only to be crushed by the Hungarian army the following day (hence the frequent appellation of a “Republic of One Day”). The Hungarian army occupied the region until March of 1944, at which point it was invaded once again by another army—this time the Wehrmacht. It was in the crucial months of April, May, and June that Hungarian authorities joined hands with the Third Reich and its “genocide specialists” (p. 91)—composed of Adolf Eichmann and his associates—in ghettoizing and deporting the region’s Jews to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Approximately ninety thousand Jews from Subcarpathian Rus’ were deported at this time (p. 101). In October 1944, the Soviet army took control of the region and by the summer of 1945 Subcarpathian Rus’ was incorporated into Soviet Ukraine. Today, the region is known as the Transcarpathian (Zakarpats’ka) oblast in western Ukraine.
Genocide in the Carpathians is a short book divided into five chapters. Yet within this brief space, Segal’s reconstruction of the annihilation of the Jews in Subcarpathian Rus’ within the above parameters yields important insights into the relationship between state building and forms of violence, its effects on interethnic relations, and the potential of a microhistorical lens to bring a “fine-grained scrutiny” of these phenomena into focus (p. 9). These insights, in turn, inform Segal’s overarching critique of key notions found in the historiography of the Holocaust in Hungary and Eastern Europe more broadly—specifically “antisemitism” and “bystanders”—and what he regards as the tendency of these terms to “blur complex relations,” rather than increase explanatory power. To my mind, the author largely succeeds in this capacity and his conclusions have significant implications for the field and the shape of research to come. Let us examine four major motifs in closer detail.
First, Genocide in the Carpathians is a first-of-its-kind microhistorical reading of the genocide of the Jews in East Central Europe placed squarely within a macro-level interpretation of the great “unweaving” of European populations beginning in southeastern Europe from 1875 to 1949, as articulated by genocide scholar Donald Bloxham, or what A. Dirk Moses calls the “racial century” from roughly 1850 to 1950, understood as a “complex causal nexus of upwardly spiraling violence,” whose fundamental feature was “competition between rival projects of nation-building” and “fashioning of ethnically homogenous populations domestically”—or more simply, “people making.” In both accounts, the destruction of European Jewry is seen as a culminating point in this larger process. The micro perspective is thus highly attuned to this broader macrohistorical canvas in a period of war. It is noteworthy that Segal is assisted in this effort by the Polish-Jewish lawyer Raphael Lemkin, who discussed the takeover of “Subcarpathia” in the context of introducing the concept of “genocide” in his foundational work, published during the war.
As a consequence of this commitment, Segal’s methodology aims to overcome the bracketing of the Holocaust “from key events that affected non-Jews during World War II.” Historian Saul Friedländer’s highly touted “integrated history,” notes the author, “integrates rather selectively” (p. 10). Segal’s corrective—developed in chapters 4 and 5—assumes an analytical lens that foregrounds the “links between the layers of violence against different groups rather than the more common tendency to think about the fate of the Jews in comparison to that of another group” (p. 17). His version of “integration” is a close study of “the connecting threads in this multilayered system of violence,” here carried out by Hungarian authorities against three ethnic groups: Carpatho-Ruthenians, Roma, and Jews, with the latter “imagined as the most urgent danger” (pp. 17, 117). In this context, the Holocaust is understood as “a nexus of multidimensional processes of mass violence” (p. 18).
Second, Segal shifts his findings away from a German-centric account of mass violence by mapping them onto local and national contexts. The Yale anthropologist James C. Scott wrote that “hill peoples” have historically been “fleeing the oppressions of state-making projects in the valleys.” It is Scott’s own Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed (2008) that serves as a foundational critique of the panoptic reach of state power. The fact that the Subcarpathian Rus’ and its hillside inhabitants were subject to rule by six different regimes and occupations allows Segal to pay close attention to the shaping of social relations in this “borderland society” under the influence of various state-building projects—particularly the Czechoslovak and Hungarian variety—and the layering of these attitudes.
However, in post-Versailles East Central and Southeastern Europe the operative grammar of state power was dominated by strains of ethno-nationalism. In Segal’s powerful retelling, the primary dialectic of ethno-nationalism occurred between competing visions of “Greater Germany,” “Greater Hungary,” “Greater Bulgaria,” “Greater Croatia,” and the like, with mutual claims for overlapping borderland territories. In this “fissured arena” of nationalisms, the Jewish population—disqualified at the outset from laying territorial claims in the name of a “Greater Israel,” one might add—found itself stuck in the midst of opposing national aspirations, energized by a center of political gravity emanating from Berlin and encouraged by a new sense of possibility “under the cover of a world war” (pp. 44, 117). In the words of a Hungarian official to the Ministry of the Interior in April 1942, the war afforded a “trapdoor of history,” in which “nations sink from one day to the other” (p. 79).
Segal effectively shows that the fault lines between “Greater Germany” and “Greater Hungary” set the parameters for the specific course that the destruction of the Jews took in the borderlands of the Subcarpatian Rus’. For example, the combined Nazi German and Hungarian attack on the Soviet Union in the summer of 1941 served as a “pretext for the first major attempt to implement large-scale deportations from Subcarpathian Rus’” (p. 71). Segal speculates that as many as twenty thousand Jews, or one-fifth of the region’s Jewish population, plus an unknown number of Roma, were “literally dumped” on the other side of the Carpathian Mountains, where most met their death in the mass killing of Kamenets-Podolsk by German units and their Ukrainian accomplices (pp. 75-76). By the same token, further ethnic cleansing was not possible, as German authorities beyond the Carpathians would not accept more deportees after August 15, 1941. The imposition of this limit presumably halted any plans for similar deportations of the Carpatho-Ruthenians from the region. “Greater Germany” and “Greater Hungary” clashed again in the summer and spring of 1944 over the wealth and possessions left by Jews deported to Auschwitz, and they clashed for the last time over the deportation of around two hundred thousand ethnic Germans, this time under Soviet occupation (pp. 97, 120).
Third, the state-building dimension is also key to understanding the realignment of relations that took place between Jews and their neighbors and to Segal’s critique of the limits of “antisemitism” as an explanatory concept. The history of the Jewish community within the ethnic mosaic of the region provides a unique set of circumstances to explore these issues, as Subcarpathian Rus’ represents “a case of an eastern European society with no tradition of what we call antisemitism” (p. 115). Jewish life under Habsburg rule was remarkably intertwined with the non-Jewish world, where many Jews worked in agriculture as did the majority of Carpatho-Ruthenians, and no Jewish quarters existed in its major towns of Uzhorod, Mukachevo, Berehovo, Vonyhradovo, and Khust. Subcarpathian Rus’ also stood in sharp contrast to other parts of Eastern Europe in terms of grassroots violence: “There was neither a Jedwabne in Subcarpathian Rus’ nor cases of postwar anti-Jewish violence such as Kielce or in other places in Poland, Romania, and Hungary” (p. 118). According to the author, whatever operative anti-Jewish attitudes one can speak of here had their origins in the rift that began to grow under Czechoslovak rule, in which Jews were perceived as “agents” of “Czechization” and hence “traitors” to the Carpatho-Ruthenian project (p. 48).
Segal’s criticism of the way that “antisemitism” has been deployed in the historiography is thus twofold. In the first instance, he argues that its tendency is to smuggle a teleology of inevitability into historical contingency, in which events are “read less within their local contexts than according to a teleology leading, more or less explicitly, to the Holocaust” (p. 9). This approach, argues Segal, assumes a “direct connection” between “antisemitism” and “hatred,” which can be observed in the work of such historians as Isaiah Trunk, among others, who, in Trunk’s own words, assumed an “age-old, almost atavistic hatred of the Jews ... such a familiar phenomenon that it needs no elaboration” (p. 49). Thus, the self-explanatory premise advanced by Trunk is precisely what Segal wants to bring into question.
In the second instance, Segal moves beyond this implicit determinism by situating anti-Jewish sentiments of the Carpatho-Ruthenians within the “loyalty crisis” sparked by Czechoslovak state building. He identifies the nature of these sentiments as rooted in “political resentment” toward Jews, who came to be regarded as “obstacles to their emerging national sentiments and rights,” not some ancient or metaphysical hatreds (p. 48). A close reading of the unfolding tensions—a major strength of a microhistorical lens—reveals a “process” rather than a “condition commonly called antisemitism” as well as a “relational,” not a culturally innate, set of attitudes (p. 47).
Fourth, and perhaps most intriguing, Segal brings the notion of “bystanders” under powerful criticism, if not its negation, as an analytically useful concept. Political scientist Raul Hilberg’s classic typology of perpetrators, victims, and bystanders (Perpetrators, Victims, Bystanders: The Jewish Catastrophe 1933-1945 ), which has functioned as a pillar of Holocaust studies for over two decades, has come under increased scrutiny in recent years. The brunt of the criticism has primarily been directed at the “bystanders,” largely by historians working at the local level. The undoing of the “bystander” has generally meant its fragmentation into the two remaining categories of “perpetrators” and “victims.”
On the “perpetrator” end of the spectrum, the turn in scholarship since the publication of Jan T. Gross’s Neighbors: The Destruction of the Jewish Community in Jedwabne, Poland (2001) has played a decisive role in dislodging an entrenched view of Poles solely as victims and recasting them as victimizers in specific moments under German occupation, while extending this insight into non-Jewish behavior in East Central Europe more broadly. Gross later elaborated his position on “bystanders” by noting that, in the context of the Judeo-Christian tradition, the introduction of “violence” into human relations creates specific cultural “obligations” among “witnesses” to “act” and “do” something to “oppose” the violence and persecution. In this phenomenological interpretation, doing “nothing” vis-à-vis the Holocaust was itself a decision and a form of “action,” therefore the term “bystander,” concludes Gross, is an “oxymoron” and an “impossibility.” Similarly, though less invested in a normative cultural argument, historian Omer Bartov has argued that in the case of Buczacz and Eastern Galicia “the category of bystanders in these areas was largely meaningless, since everyone took part in the events” of “collaboration and the genocide of the Jews.”
On the more ambiguous end of the “complicity” spectrum, historian Tim Cole, examining non-Jewish “bystanders” in the context of ghettoization in Hungary, has argued against a reliance on a “binary division,” calling for the writing of a history of the Holocaust in which “the full range of involvement—and non-involvement—by ‘non-Jewish’ neighbors is considered in all its complexity.” Likewise, Tony Kushner has noted that while the “ambiguities and contradictions of human nature make the study of bystanders so fascinating, significant and ultimately relevant today, there seems to be little desire for this to be brought out in studies of the Holocaust,” while warning about the moral assumptions built into the concept: “the bystander category is in danger of aiding the tendency to see the subject in Manichean terms, as symbols of mass evil alongside much less prevalent absolute good.” These two trends in the historiography have largely passed like ships in the night.
Segal’s understanding of “bystanders” aligns much closer with the second of these two ongoing trends, which he brings to a head. Like Bartov, he finds the category “largely meaningless” but for entirely different reasons. The cornerstone of Segal’s critique is the juxtaposition of Jews as “onlookers” to the persecution of the Carpatho-Ruthenians following the invasion by the Hungarian army in March 1939, when Jews observed the killing of their “neighbors” in forests, with a similar response of alleged “indifference” or “inaction” among Carpatho-Ruthenians toward the persecution of Jews by Hungarian gendarmes five years later in March 1944 but without participating in it (pp. 58, 106). In effect, the juxtaposition functions as a reductio ad absurdum of the concept of “bystander.” The importance of studying the “entire period of the war” to generating such insights into “the perceptions and choices of both Jews and non-Jews” becomes apparent here (p. 106).
In sum, Genocide in the Carpathians delivers on its promise of showing how a “small place” like Subcarpathian Rus’ can help us “think big” in terms of modern European history (p. 18). By the same token, this microhistory leaves something to be desired, at least in terms of making its scale and methodology more transparent. At times it is not clear if the reader is dealing with a microhistory or simply the history of a small region. Such scholars as Evgeny Finkel and Scott Straus have called on the need to distinguish the micro and meso levels of analysis in the study of genocide, while paying particular attention to the latter. Mapping the findings more clearly onto the micro, meso, and macro levels would help to elucidate the social processes under investigation.
In terms of sources, historians better acquainted with the relevant archives, such as Yuri Radchenko, have suggested that Segal may have underestimated the nature and extent of anti-Jewish sentiments among the Carpatho-Ruthenians by not sufficiently consulting Ukrainian‐language sources, especially those related to the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN), whose activists were present in the region in the late 1930s. Radchenko notes that this particular “imported” antisemitism had strong ideological ties to visions of Ukrainian imperialism. Radchenko’s criticism may point to the need to situate the dynamics of Subcarpathian Rus’ with the pressures of “Greater Ukraine.”
Despite these criticisms, Genocide in the Carpathians carries great potential in expanding its key insights into the study of genocide in East Central Europe during the war. In particular, Segal’s claims surrounding “antisemitism” and “bystanders” can help historians to unlock longstanding challenges and act as a corrective in clearing a path for more confident research. Historian David Engel has noted that “eschewing ‘antisemitism’ as a ready-made category and seeking new frameworks for analysing its traditional constituent elements may well have a salutary effect on historical research.” Likewise, historian Doris L. Bergen has observed that describing antisemitism in the Nazi era is no simple matter and questioned the conventional “linear equation” of “extreme antisemitism → Nazism → Holocaust,” noting the counterintuitive category of “antisemitism as a product of the Holocaust.” For scholars of National Socialism and the Holocaust within German historiography, Friedländer’s “redemptive antisemitism” has proven to be a powerful and enduring concept in understanding Adolf Hitler’s radical antisemitism and beyond. For scholars of Eastern Europe during the Second World War, such an overarching concept does not exist. Rather, explanatory frameworks, especially in relation to Poland, have relied most heavily on the notion of “Judeo-communism” (Żydokomuna) and the impact of centuries of Christian anti-Judaism.
However, these factors can be overworked in attempts to explain local realities, especially in regions that never experienced the Soviet occupation. Using the all-purpose adhesive of “antisemitism” to hold together a microhistory of the Holocaust serves as a poor analytical substitute. Therefore, the logic of ethno-nationalism may provide the central explanatory function for the region as a whole. It also makes Segal’s critique of the “bystander” all the more relevant, especially in studies of “bystanders among subjugated groups.” As the author argues, historians who are interested in understanding the “limited agency” of witnesses are better served by focusing on processes of “social disintegration,” rather than “producing shallow descriptions that portray bystanders only when they kill Jews or watch as others murder” (p. 104). According to genocide scholar Martin Shaw, “the conventional trinity” has contributed to a “lack of a coherent sociological understanding of genocide.” Jettisoning the moralizing assumptions behind the Hilbergian triptych in particular can help open the way for more sociologically informed accounts.
Further, a number of studies suggest that the “footprint” left by the occupation and genocide on the “host” society may be just as important as an object of study as the targeted victim group. In this respect, Genocide in the Carpathians may perhaps be too focused on the destructive capacity of states, in contrast to Timothy Snyder’s thesis of a more linear relationship between Jewish survival and state sovereignty. For example, in her comparative study of postwar anti-Jewish violence in Poland and Slovakia, historian Anna Cichopek-Gajraj found that one reason why the level of intensity was much higher in the former was that “the struggle for survival” of Polish citizens was much longer (the entire period of war) than in Slovakia (eight months), with the prolonged period of occupation doing profound damage to Poles as “a community of citizens,” undermining “the notion of morality in daily life.” Similarly, in her examination of 255 letters of denunciation sent to the Gestapo in the Warsaw district early in the war, psychologist Barbara Engelking noted that the great majority of letters were aimed at fellow Poles, while approximately 30 percent of the letters concerned the Jews, though not all were “prompted by antisemitism.” Again, the long arc of the entire wartime period is key to understanding the evolution of non-Jewish attitudes.
In the post-Communist years, much historical paint thinner has been spilled in an effort to remove the varnish from the notion of “peaceful Soviet citizens” in order to recover the ethnic identity of all actors involved in the Holocaust. But the pendulum may be poised to swing back as the field of Holocaust studies in East Central Europe appears primed for reinjecting these experiences into a more comparative and “integrated” picture of genocide. Thus, in another borderland society between Belarus and Lithuania, historian Volha Bartash has argued that integrating the Romani experience with Holocaust studies can help shed light on both genocides. The “forgotten genocide” of Soviet prisoners of war (POWs) and their fate as fugitives amid the local populations awaits a proper integration. Research into the Subcarpathian region of Poland reveals a layered and “relational” history of violence: peasant participation in the “hunt for Jews” (Judenjagd) overlapped with a hunt for other targeted groups (especially Soviet POWs); areas that experienced German state violence against locals for the shelter of Jews could rapidly transform into zones of communal violence against Jews; and local dynamics frequently gave rise to subcategories of perpetrators, including “perpetrator-rescuers.” Further, Segal’s recovery of the grammar of nationalism could help to realign episodes of mass murder normally left outside of standard histories of the Holocaust within the same framework, such as the ethnic cleansing of Poles in Volhynia and Eastern Galicia by the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA) following the Holocaust in the region, which consumed as many as fifty thousand to sixty thousand lives.
Much of the innovative work in bridging the seemingly disparate histories of violence and their more puzzling aspects is coming from outside of Holocaust studies, especially the field of political science. In their study of pogroms in the summer of 1941 (Intimate Violence: Anti-Jewish Pogroms on the Eve of the Holocaust (), Jeffrey S. Kopstein and Jason Wittenberg found that pogroms were difficult to start and local conditions in most places prevented their outbreak (occurring in fewer than 10 percent of communities). Where incidents of extreme anti-Jewish violence did take place, argue the authors, they were not due to antisemitism (despite its prevalence) but were concentrated in regions where Jews had been significantly involved in Zionist parties at the municipal level in the previous two decades, which translated to a refusal to join another group’s nation-building project—conclusions that find echoes in Segal’s findings. Yet perhaps no one in recent years has given us a new language for understanding intercommunal violence as Max Bergholz in his study of a border region in Bosnia and Herzegovina during the Second World War, where violence functioned as “an immensely generative force” that “forged new communities, new forms and configurations of power” along an “ethnic axis.”
Remarkably, it has taken over seventy years to produce the first monograph on the Holocaust in Eastern Europe—incidentally, published this year by Waitman Wade Beorn (The Holocaust in Eastern Europe: At the Epicenter of the Final Solution ). The situation is hardly better in terms of the national historiographies of individual countries. Even Poland, the ground zero of the Holocaust, despite major advances in scholarship in the last two decades, still lacks a proper monograph of the Holocaust on Polish territories. Further, as Segal notes, the difficulty of such works in general is their taking for granted the way that the epistemological horizon of the nation-state has shaped discourse around the Holocaust and the stability of national and ethnic “groups” in times of war and social upheaval. As the field continues to grapple with findings that complicate the standard categories and narratives of Holocaust studies, the power of Genocide in the Carpathians lies in its potential as a catalyst in ushering in a paradigm shift imminent in the above works, anchored to Lemkin’s conception of genocide in the study of East Central Europe.
. For a review essay concerning the disappearance of the eastern front from the First World War’s “master narrative,” see Jesse Kauffman, “The Unquiet Eastern Front: New Work on the Great War,” Contemporary European History 26, no. 3 (2017): 509-521.
. For a history of the Subcarpathian Rus’, see Paul R. Magocsi, With Their Backs to the Mountains: A History of Carpathian Rus' and Carpatho-Rusyns (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2015); Paul R. Magocsi, The Shaping of a National Identity: Subcarpathian Rus', 1848-1948 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); and Norman Davies, Vanished Kingdoms: The Rise and Fall of States and Nations (New York: Viking, 2012), 621-634.
. Donald Bloxham, The Final Solution: A Genocide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 37-38; Donald Bloxham, Genocide, the World Wars and the Unweaving of Europe (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2008), 1-16; and A. Dirk Moses, “Conceptual Blockages and Definitional Dilemmas in the ‘Racial Century’: Genocides of Indigenous Peoples and the Holocaust,” Patterns of Prejudice 36, no. 4 (2007): 31-36.
. Raphael Lemkin, Axis Rule in Occupied Europe: Laws of Occupation, Analysis of Government, Proposals for Redress (Washington: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, Division of International Law, 1944), subchapter titled “The Highland Territories and Subcarpathia (Incorporated into Hungary),” 144-153.
. Cf. Doris L. Bergen, “No End in Sight? The Ongoing Challenge of Producing an Integrated History of the Holocaust,” in Years of Persecution, Years of Extermination: Saul Friedländer and the Future of Holocaust Studies, ed. Christian A. Wiese and Paul Betts (London: Continuum, 2010), 289-309. For an attempt at an “integrated microhistory” of the Holocaust, see Tomasz Frydel, “The Devil in Microhistory: The ‘Hunt for Jews’ as a Social Process, 1942-1945,” in Microhistories of the Holocaust, ed. Claire Zalc and Tal Bruttmann (New York: Berghahn, 2017), 171-189.
. James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2011), ix.
. Frank Bajohr and Andrea Löw, “Beyond the ‘Bystander’: Social Processes and Social Dynamics in European Societies as Context for the Holocaust,” in The Holocaust and European Societies: Social Processes and Social Dynamics, ed. Frank Bajohr and Andrea Löw (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 3-31.
. Jan Tomasz Gross, “Sprawcy, ofiary i inni” [Perpetrators, victims and others], Zagłada Żydów: Studia i Materiały 10 (2014): 886-887.
. Omer Bartov, “Wartime Lies and Other Testimonies,” East European Politics and Societies 25, no. 3 (2011): 7.
. Tim Cole, “Writing ‘Bystanders’ into Holocaust History in More Active Ways: ‘Non-Jewish’ Engagement with Ghettoisation, Hungary 1944,” Holocaust Studies: A Journal of Culture and History 11, no. 1 (2005): 70-71.
. Tony Kushner, “‘Pissing in the Wind’? The Search for Nuance in the Study of Holocaust ‘Bystanders,’” in Bystanders to the Holocaust: A Re-Evaluation, ed. David Cesarani and Paul A. Levine (London: Frank Cass, 2002), 60-61.
. Evgeny Finkel and Scott Straus, “Macro, Meso, and Micro Research on Genocide: Gains, Shortcomings, and Future Areas of Inquiry,” Genocide Studies and Prevention 7, no. 1 (2012): 56-67; and Evgeny Finkel, Ordinary Jews: Choice and Survival during the Holocaust (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017), 195-196.
. Yuri Radchenko, review of Genocide in the Carpathians: War, Social Breakdown, and Mass Violence, 1914‐1945, in Soviet and Post-Soviet Politics and Society 3, no. 2 (2017): 293-300.
. David Engel, “Away from a Definition of Antisemitism: An Essay in the Semantics of Historical Description,” in Rethinking European Jewish History, ed. Jeremy Cohen and Moshe Rosman (Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2009), 53.
. Doris L. Bergen, “Antisemitism in the Nazi Era,” in Antisemitism: A History, ed. Albert S. Lindemann and Richard Simon Levy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 198.
. A. Dirk Moses, “Redemptive Antisemitism and the Imperialist Imaginary,” in Years of Persecution, Years of Extermination: Saul Friedländer and the Future of Holocaust Studies, ed. Christian A. Wiese and Paul Betts (London: Continuum, 2010), 233-254.
. Martin Shaw, What Is Genocide? 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2015), 8-9.
. Timothy Snyder, Black Earth: The Holocaust as History and Warning (New York: T. Duggan Books, 2015), 226-249.
. Anna Cichopek-Gajraj, Beyond Violence: Jewish Survivors in Poland and Slovakia, 1944-48 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 142-143.
. Barbara Engelking, Szanowny panie gistapo. Donosy do władz niemieckich w Warszawie i okolicach w latach 1940-1941 [Dear Mr. Gestapo: Denunciations to the German authorities of Warsaw and surrounding areas in 1940-1941] (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo IFiS PAN, 2003), 100.
. Volha Bartash, “Family Memories as Sources for Holocaust Studies: Insights from the Belarusian-Lithuanian Border Region,” S:I.M.O.N. – Shoah: Intervention. Methods. Documentation 2 (2017): 4-16.
. Thomas Earl Porter, “Hitler’s Rassenkampf in the East: The Forgotten Genocide of Soviet POWs,” Nationalities Papers 37, no. 6 (2009): 839-859.
. Tomasz Frydel, “Judenjagd: Reassessing the Role of Ordinary Poles as Perpetrators in the Holocaust,” in Perpetrators and Perpetration of Mass Violence: Action, Motivations and Dynamics, ed. Timothy Williams and Susanne Buckley-Zistel (Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge, 2018), 187-203.
. Max Bergholz, Violence as a Generative Force: Identity, Nationalism, and Memory in a Balkan Community (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2017), 6, 320.
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Tomasz Frydel. Review of Segal, Raz, Genocide in the Carpathians: War, Social Breakdown, and Mass Violence, 1914-1945.
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