{"id":12680,"date":"2026-10-22T12:44:33","date_gmt":"2026-10-22T10:44:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/herito.pl\/artykul\/przeciw-historii-kompensacyjnej\/"},"modified":"2026-10-22T13:15:08","modified_gmt":"2026-10-22T11:15:08","slug":"przeciw-historii-kompensacyjnej","status":"publish","type":"artykul","link":"https:\/\/herito.pl\/en\/artykul\/przeciw-historii-kompensacyjnej\/","title":{"rendered":"Against Compensatory History"},"content":{"rendered":"
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In contrast to essay writing that hovers at the boundaries between the philosophy of history and international psychoanalysis, between moral normativity and the historical macro-scale, Central European literature proves remarkably coherent; it serves current political interests to a much lesser extent and also avoids self-aggrandisement.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The existence of Central Europe, its borders, and its identity are pressing questions only for Central Europe itself. Since the eighteenth century, it has been searching for a mirror in which it might see itself and for borders that would separate it from others. Its intellectuals try to create grand explanatory structures \u2013 transnational narratives describing the spirit of history. Milan Kundera\u2019s essay \u201cA Kidnapped West: The Tragedy of Central Europe\u201d, published in France in 1983 and still \u2013 judging also by the number of polemics it has provoked \u2013 stirring up heated emotions, has certainly lost some of its relevance, although it remains present in our culture. Kundera wrote about Poland, the Czech Republic, and Hungary, without considering \u2013 as Przemys\u0142aw Czapli\u0144ski[1]<\/a> rightly points out \u2013 the other countries of the former Eastern Bloc that were dependent on the USSR. The literary scholar from Pozna\u0144 points out, from the perspective of the 2020s, Kundera\u2019s omissions: his focus on the intelligentsia as the only social class; the questionable selection of only those nations that openly resisted communism; the omission of antisemitism and its role in creating bonds among the countries that participated in the Second World War; the hierarchisation of different parts of the Old Continent; and the assumption that a willingness to give one\u2019s life for the West attests to the exceptional role of Eastern Europe.<\/p>\n

In contrast to essay writing that hovers at the boundaries between the philosophy of history and international psychoanalysis (who is better, whose trauma pushes them to a higher position in the race of history), between moral normativity and the historical macro-scale, Central European literature proves remarkably coherent; it serves current political interests to a much lesser extent and also avoids self-aggrandisement. It bears witness to trauma; it is patriarchal and non-heteronormative, chaotic and melancholic at once, enthusiastic and score-settling, high-flown and mass-market, hyper-feminine and uber-masculine, civilian, partisan, and collaborationist.<\/p>\n

Central European literature works against compensatory history \u2013 the term Czapli\u0144ski uses in the essay cited above as he tries to show the costs of European megalomania: \u201cThe director of this spectacle is fear of the truth, and protecting a lie always requires violence \u2013 it drives the creation of laws intended to censor art and science, preventive antisemitism, the erasure of traces, and the creation of compensatory history.\u201d<\/p>\n

Literature from our part of the continent does not avoid violence either \u2013 but it changes its direction and dynamics and uses different tools of description. Even in Ismail Kadare\u2019s novel \u201cThe General of the Dead Army\u201d, written in the early 1960s and telling the story of the search for the bodies of Italian fascist soldiers in Albania, the army appears only as exhumed bones placed in specially prepared bags. There is no fighting, no conflict, while resentment and anger \u2013 Albanian and Italian \u2013 smoulder beneath the surface. Kadare lulls the reader, making them think they will be following a monotonous plot: a slow search for graves, the frustrations of the supervising general, who spent the war in Africa and now sketches battle strategies on cigarette packs. The writer from Gjirokast\u00ebr introduces scenes of violence only twice, and in both cases they are striking: first, in the dream of an Italian deserter working for an Albanian farmer. Fed, hidden, and protected, he dreams of raping his host\u2019s daughter. Upon waking, he remembers exactly how he ran up the stairs to her bedroom and what he did to her. The second time, Kadare uses the style of an official summary: Colonel Z., an Italian character and commander of a unit notorious for its cruelty, murders a partisan and then takes his fourteen-year-old daughter for the night. In the morning, straight from his tent, she jumps into a well.<\/p>\n

Many such scenes can also be found in later literature \u2013 Sofi Oksanen, in her novel \u201cPurge\u201d, published in Finland in 2008 but set in Estonia, introduces a scene in which women hiding a family member, a partisan, are raped. Two adult sisters submit to this \u201cprocedure\u201d carried out by Soviet soldiers in order to protect the husband of one of them, but also to prevent their daughter from being raped. Kate\u0159ina Tu\u010dkov\u00e1, in \u201cGerta\u201d, devoted to the expulsion of Germans from Czechoslovakia in May 1945, invokes rape repeatedly. The war is over, but the women marching in the procession of exiles \u2013 the new \u201csubhumans\u201d \u2013 are attractive, easy prey. They can be exploited at will, and their murder goes entirely unpunished. Official statistics do not even include such a category; for those who died during the German deportation, the cause of death is listed as illness or old age. None of these three authors \u2013 whose novels encompass Albania, Czechoslovakia, and Estonia and span a period of fifty years \u2013 shows us the scene of violence itself. Yet the violence is all the more stark for staying un represented; it appears first in the traces left on the body \u2013 bruises, blood, torn-out hair, broken ribs, pregnancies \u2013 and later in memories, night sweats, and nightmares. The widowed mother in Kadare\u2019s novel begins to howl when she sees an Italian general\u2019s uniform at a wedding in her village; Aliide Tru in Oksanen\u2019s novel cannot stand the basement smell; Gerta in Tu\u010dkov\u00e1\u2019s novel stops counting how many times she is raped \u2013 all that matters is whether she manages to protect her two-month-old daughter. Only later, when she is safe and the girl is a few years old, does the mother wake at night screaming. Violence is thus attested to by the power of trauma, as well as by suggestion, which builds a kaleidoscope of images in the readers\u2019 minds.<\/p>\n

Violence is directed primarily against women and children; in literary narratives it serves as a tool of discipline, and its targets are civilians, not soldiers of the enemy army. A significant shift thus takes place: even if literature contains no concrete testimonies, it gathers, as Oksanen and Tu\u010dkov\u00e1 do, a single fate from a multitude of similar experiences. Both authors also privilege women\u2019s voices in their other novels, making the way women are treated a litmus test for the ethics of European ideological systems. In a sense, Darko Cvijeti\u0107 sets the same mechanism in motion \u2013 albeit in relation to young men \u2013 in his excellent epic poems published in Polish: \u201cSchindlerov lift\u201d (Schindler\u2019s Lift) and, especially, \u201c\u0160to na podu spava\u0161\u201d (Why Are You Sleeping on the Floor?). This Croatian-Serbian author, the younger brother of a soldier who fought in the war of the 1990s, brings to the foreground the fate of boys from a single apartment block who suddenly not only have to join the army and take up arms but also choose a side in the conflict. They do not know how to shoot; they do not know why they are supposed to do it in the first place, or what separates them from their neighbours in the massive apartment block in Prijedor. Yet from these two forms of stolen innocence emerges violence, extreme violence at that \u2013 arson, mutilation, shots fired at children. Cvijeti\u0107 portrays his very young protagonists at the hour of death and describes their grieving mothers, who share traits with Kadare\u2019s widow. He is at his most compelling, however, when he lets his characters survive and meet again as labor migrants, when suddenly these close friends, absorbed in their work, realise that during the war they served in enemy armies and fought against one another.<\/p>\n

Youthful innocence is not a locus communis of the Central European literary tradition; I would say, rather, that it is a rare privilege. More often, things are as they are in Herta M\u00fcller\u2019s The Hunger Angel or Serhiy Zhadan\u2019s \u201cArabesques\u201d: war not only strips people of the capacity for empathy and for wonder at the world and cuts them off from the possibility of learning, but also teaches calculation, emotional coldness, and, ultimately, the adoption of the rules of a time of oppression as one\u2019s own. There is no way out of them; concern for one\u2019s own skin proves to be a value that cannot be unlearned, M\u00fcller seems to say. Her protagonist, Leopold Auberg, a seventeen-year-old German living in Romania (modeled on the poet Oskar Pastior), is sent to a camp just after the end of the war. The Red Army deports working-age Germans from Romania; in what is now Ukraine, they are to rebuild industrial infrastructure destroyed by the Third Reich military operations. Auberg spends five years there, doing hard physical labour, struggling with the \u201chunger angel\u201d, and learning his values from it. This fascinating personification, alluding partly to Walter Benjamin and partly to the physiological hallucinations brought on by starvation, becomes the young Romanian German\u2019s guide to the world. The \u201chunger angel\u201d tells him that one movement of the shovel equals one gram of bread; it also tells him to conceal his homosexuality, punished even more harshly than in the Reich \u2013 with immediate beatings and humiliation leading to death.<\/p>\n

There is nothing of the naive young man in Auberg; there is only the struggle for survival \u2013 and it is this that allows him to be glad he is leaving home, even though he is traveling in a cattle car. The boy fears that one of the partners from his park trysts might denounce him, so he hopes for a change of fortune in a new place. The same survival instinct resurfaces years later, after Auberg has regained his freedom, when German police arrest several gay men caught in a park. The Romanian Nobel laureate\u2019s protagonist then leaves his wife and goes abroad \u2013 again for fear of being exposed. Yet he continues to struggle with the \u201chunger angel\u201d, aware of his own immorality and reactions driven by fear.<\/p>\n

Herta M\u00fcller published this novel, drawing not only on Pastior\u2019s fate and stories but also on those of her own mother, in 2009. The bitterness on which \u201cThe Hunger Angel\u201d is built can be accepted only if it is accompanied by the thought that there will be no more wars or expulsions, that young Leo\u2019s experience and moral erosion will not be repeated in subsequent generations. Obviously, this is not true; we cannot entertain such hope, especially in 2026. A year ago, Serhiy Zhadan\u2019s \u201cArabesques\u201d was published, a book in which descriptions of the everyday wartime lives of civilians and soldiers intertwine, creating one great narrative about exhausted people subjected to constant pressure, fear, and hunger. The final story in the collection is about children who volunteers bring food to. The oldest girl, the caretaker of the entire group, keeping watch over the comings and goings in a crumbling ruin \u2013 a house that had been unfit for habitation even before the bombings \u2013 is younger than M\u00fcller\u2019s protagonist. She looks proudly at the volunteers \u2013 all of them adult men \u2013 and Zhadan tries to interpret that gaze: how much rage it holds, how much fear, how much wounded pride, how much anxiety about the future of the children who should not be in her care in the first place?<\/p>\n

I have juxtaposed here books by authors from Albania, the Czech Republic, Estonia and Finland, Germany and Romania, Serbia and Ukraine. This is a cursory survey, reaching across the last dozen or so years and focusing mainly on contemporary texts. It nonetheless allows us to see that literature seizes upon questions political thought is unable to answer and offers complex responses, far removed from simple judgments and hierarchies. This literature \u2013 in the hands of Cvijeti\u0107, Kadare, M\u00fcller, Oksanen, Tu\u010dkov\u00e1, and Zhadan \u2013 is not afraid to dig into murky and difficult terrain; at the same time, it does not turn its characters into innocent, wronged victims or allow them to become fixed in this single dimension, although that would certainly be easier. It is far from seeing Europeans from this part of the world as morally superior \u2013 as Kundera wanted to see us; it is more interested in the balance of gains and losses that life in this place and these experiences leave in people.<\/p>\n

Even if, some time from now, it turns out that we have been living in a simulacrum of Europe and that Central Europe does not exist, its literature certainly does \u2013 coming from countries that followed different political paths after 1989, while at the same time reflecting the same experiences in similar ways. It is a literature that privileges the voices of the excluded and the weakest, prods painful and shameful places, takes little interest in the politically correct version of history, and instead goes where taboos, uncertain responsibility, blurred guilt, moral ugliness, and fear lurk.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Translated from the Polish by Tomasz Biero\u0144<\/p>\n

<\/h2>\n

Bibliography<\/h2>\n

Darko Cvijeti\u0107, \u201eCzemu na pod\u0142odze \u015bpisz\u201d, trans. Dorota Jovanka Cirli\u0107, Warszawa 2025.<\/p>\n

Darko Cvijeti\u0107, \u201eWinda Schindlera\u201d, trans. Dorota Jovanka Cirli\u0107, Warszawa 2024.<\/p>\n

Ismail Kadare, \u201cGeneral of the Dead Army\u201d, trans. Derek Coltman, London 2008.<\/p>\n

Herta M\u00fcller, \u201eThe Hunger Angel\u201c, trans. Philip Boehm, New York 2012.<\/p>\n

Sofi Oksanen, \u201ePurge\u201d, trans. Lola Rogers, Winnipeg 2010.<\/p>\n

Kate\u0159ina Tu\u010dkov\u00e1, \u201eGerta\u201d, trans. V\u00e9ronique Firkusny, New York 2021.<\/p>\n

Serhiy Zhadan, \u201eArabeski\u201d, trans. Micha\u0142 Petryk, Wo\u0142owiec 2025.<\/p>\n

Serhiy Zhadan, \u201eSky above Kharkiv\u201d, trans. Reilly Costigan-Humes, Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler, New Haven 2023.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[1]<\/a> Przemys\u0142aw Czapli\u0144ski, \u201cLiteratura do oporu: Mi\u0119dzy Europ\u0105 \u015arodkow\u0105 a tera\u017aniejszo\u015bci\u0105\u201d, Czas Kultury<\/em> 2023, no. 21, https:\/\/czaskultury.pl\/artykul\/literatura-do-oporu-miedzy-europa-srodkowa-a-terazniejszoscia\/ (accessed 17 August 2026).<\/p>\n<\/div>\r\n\r\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/section>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"featured_media":12691,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"inline_featured_image":false,"footnotes":""},"tags":[974,954],"region":[1164],"kraj":[],"magazyn":[1163],"class_list":["post-12680","artykul","type-artykul","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-central-europe-en-2","tag-europa-srodkowa-en","region-europa-srodkowa","magazyn-herito-60en"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nAgainst Compensatory History - herito<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In contrast to essay writing that hovers at the boundaries between the philosophy of history and international psychoanalysis, between moral normativity and the historical macro-scale, Central European literature proves remarkably coherent; 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