Your research focuses on a very specific period of Czech Jewish history, namely the years 1870 to 1918. What led you to this topic?

I was interested in Jewish history from the beginning of my studies at Harvard. I studied history and literature with a focus on modern European literature. I managed to connect my program with lectures on Jewish history. For my master’s thesis, I focused on the period of the Shoah in France. I was able to participate in a study program in Paris, where I conducted research on underground networks helping Jewish refugees from Nazi-occupied France. I wrote about a clandestine organization that tried to get Jewish children to safety. Thanks to connections with orphanages, forged documents, and risky transfers, children were sent across borders to Switzerland and beyond.
However, the Holocaust is not a subject that can be studied in depth for many years. It is emotionally overwhelming and limited in scope. I knew I didn’t want to work on it long-term. My year of study in Basel shifted my scholarly interest toward Central Europe. I knew I wanted to study the modern history of Jews in this region, and I was particularly interested in the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, when new conceptions of Jewish identity and thought were emerging. New political movements and ideologies—including Zionism—were being formed. I was also influenced by a remark from my professor Yosef Yerushalmi, who encouraged me to study how Jews lived, not only how they died.
The combination of these factors, and my interest in national conflict, led me to Prague.
So I knew I wanted to explore the modern history of Jews in the Czech lands. But I no longer wanted to focus on the German-Jewish side of Prague, as much had already been written on that. Scholars tended to assume that German alone was sufficient for researching Jewish history in Bohemia. I wanted to offer a new perspective, so I turned to the topic of Czech-Jewish integration. I began learning the Czech language and enrolled in a summer school of Slavic studies. That was in 1975. This current year in Prague actually marks the 45th anniversary of my first visit.
I focused on how the national conflict between Germans and Czechs shaped the development of Jewish history and the formation of Czech Jewry. That was the subject of my dissertation, which was later published as a book.
It is interesting that in the Western world, Jewish history in Prague is often associated solely with the German narrative. In the Czech lands, on the other hand, Jewish history is more often presented through a Czech lens. The Prague Jewish community doesn’t really refer to its German past. Have you noticed this trend? And what was it like to study such a politically sensitive topic?
Yes, the trend was very noticeable. For example, I noticed that the German inscriptions on the stained-glass windows of the Jerusalem Synagogue had been blacked out. In the 1970s, it wasn’t acceptable to speak openly about Jewish nationalism or identity at all. I knew that my research touched on political movements and ideologies that were unwelcome at the time—Zionism included. Officially, I was working on Jewish integration, but I naturally encountered sensitive topics.
I remember, for instance, that when researching at the Jewish Museum, I had no trouble getting copies of Czech-language Jewish periodicals such as Rozvoj or Českožidovské listy. But when I asked for copies of German-language publications like Selbstwehr, I was refused. I was advised to request those copies instead from the National Library at Klementinum.


It is interesting that in the Western world, Jewish history in Prague is often associated solely with the German narrative. In the Czech lands, on the other hand, Jewish history is more often presented from a Czech perspective. The Prague Jewish community rarely references its German past. Have you noticed this trend? And how did your research into such a politically sensitive topic unfold?

Yes, this trend was very apparent. I noticed, for example, that the German inscriptions on the stained-glass windows of the Jerusalem Synagogue had been blacked out. In the 1970s, it was not appropriate to speak about Jewish nationalism or identity at all. I knew that my research included topics such as political movements and ideologies that were unwelcome in the 1970s, including Zionism. Officially, I was researching Jewish integration, but of course I encountered sensitive issues. I remember, for instance, that when I was doing research at the Jewish Museum and needed copies of Czech-language publications like Rozvoj or Českožidovské listy, it was no problem. But when I asked to copy German-language publications, such as Selbstwehr, I was not allowed to do so. At the time, I was advised to request those copies instead from the National Library at Klementinum.

Of course, this is connected to the decision of the Czechoslovak government-in-exile to transform postwar Czechoslovakia into a Czech nation-state. This was carried out through the expulsion of the German population and the promotion of exclusively Czech history and narrative. That’s likely why researchers studying the history of Jews in the Czech lands are presented with an inverted perspective. Are they offered Jewish history as being “primarily Czech”?

Franz Kafka is a good example. Until 1989, he was almost unknown to Czech readers. Because he was part of German culture—and additionally viewed by the communists as bourgeois—he was concealed from the public by the regime. The situation changed with the Velvet Revolution. Today, Kafka may be a tourist attraction, but that is still better than being a persona non grata in Czech culture.
I see a problem in the polarization of society throughout modern Czech history, where one is forced to choose whether to belong to the Czech or German side, and to engage either with Czech or German culture. The truth is, the majority of people in the Czech lands were bilingual and interacted with both worlds. Even František Palacký wrote his book first in German, and Tomáš Masaryk had to learn Czech in order to teach at a Czech university.


You say that bilingualism and a lack of clear national affiliation were common in the Czech lands. Yet Jews were often labeled by some nationalist politicians—through antisemitic rhetoric—as enemies of the Czech nation. Why were Jews, in particular, targeted and vilified for this ambiguity, if it was not behavior unique to them?


Jews were particularly irritating to nationalists because it was difficult for them to gauge Jewish national sentiment and predict how it might develop in the future. Nationalists were frustrated by this kind of indifference—they wanted people to choose a side. For example, it was considered a betrayal if someone sent their children to a German-language school.
Jews did not behave differently from most of the population of Bohemia, yet they were viewed with particular suspicion by nationalists. Their national loyalty was constantly questioned. During the period of national conflict, underlying tensions emerged concerning the centralization of state power and modernization efforts initiated by Joseph II. This project, led by a German-speaking monarch, sought to integrate Jews into the state apparatus—which, at that time, operated in German. German-Jewish schools were established, Jews were required to adopt German surnames, and learn the German language. They were to become full-fledged members of the modern state through German acculturation.
Modernization was generally welcomed by Jews, as long as it brought greater freedom of movement, access to education, and career opportunities. The government-led project of Jewish emancipation began under Joseph II in 1780, but it took decades to unfold. In Bohemia, Jews were not permitted to settle freely until after 1848, and in Moravia, some Jewish settlements maintained their own political systems well into the 20th century.

The association of Jews with Germanness in the eyes of Czech nationalists was something August Stein, a founding member of the Association of Czech Jewish Academics in 1876, sought to challenge. He tried to pull Jews out of the old German system. He wanted them to pray in Czech, attend Czech schools. He believed that if Jews aligned themselves with the Czech national cause, they would be able to live in peace in the Czech lands. How do you view his efforts?

Personally, I agree with the efforts of August Stein. There is no reason why Jews in the Czech lands should have been perceived as Germans. The association between Jews and Germans was the result of a century-old project initiated by the Habsburg monarchy.
One of the arguments I want to defend in my upcoming book is that the Czech-Jewish movement and Zionism are, in their core ideas, remarkably similar—they are two sides of the same coin. Both movements shared the belief that emancipation—Jewish modernization—was an artificial project. While it brought certain advantages, it also fundamentally altered the historical development of Jewish life.
Whereas August Stein fought for the integration of Jews into the Czech nation—alongside Bohumil Bondy, he translated prayers and conducted services in Czech at the Vinohrady Synagogue—Zionists, on the other hand, opposed the idea that Jews should identify with any other nation. They wanted to be recognized as a distinct entity. Both movements, in essence, protested against the Josephinian project of modernization.
Prague Zionism sought to promote bilingualism. They published in both Selbstwehr and Židovské zprávy (Jewish News). Sometimes, the very same articles appeared as direct translations in both publications. But the intention was clear: to symbolize duality and the refusal to choose sides. They wanted Jewish culture to exist without being tied exclusively to either the Czech or German nation.
To me, this represented a glimpse of a promising future for Jews in Europe. Who knows how this trend might have developed if it hadn’t been destroyed by the horrors of the Second World War. In interwar Czechoslovakia, the Zionist party achieved considerable success. Both Beneš and Masaryk were actively interested in Zionism. Beneš’s government officially allowed Jews to declare their nationality as “Israelite.” Masaryk personally visited Palestine, and his intervention in the Leopold Hilsner trial is also noteworthy. Masaryk was a hero to Jews from all political backgrounds in Czechoslovakia.

You mentioned Masaryk’s position on the Hilsner trial. Did the national question play any role in this context? We know that Hilsner lived with his mother in an apartment within a German school building that local authorities repeatedly tried to shut down.

It is true that Hilsner and his mother lived in a German school building, but the school itself was declining and had very few students. In contrast, Polish Jews had begun declaring Czech as their common language relatively early, compared to other Jewish communities. In my opinion, the main issue was that such a horrific act, which deeply shocked the public, needed an explanation.

Did all the parties involved truly believe in the motive of ritual murder, or could there have been other motivations behind this supposed explanation? For example, Karel Baxa, who represented the victim’s family and accused Hilsner of ritual murder, later in his career associated with Jews and supported Jewish movements.

Of course, a certain degree of opportunism was involved, but I believe that the majority of society genuinely believed in the ritual murder motive. It was somehow rooted in popular tradition. For over three hundred years, such accusations were officially considered unacceptable and shameful at the governmental level in Europe. And yet, at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries—in a modern state, during an age of rational thinking, and after the technological and scientific revolutions—this accusation re-emerged and was taken seriously.
I spent a great deal of time studying the everyday interactions between Christians and Jews in Europe around 1900. The relationships were close, even intimate; families and neighbors often got along. And still, certain old superstitions continued to exist in popular consciousness. Even Masaryk himself wrote that as a small boy, he would cross the street when a Jew was approaching—an instinct shaped by stories his mother had told him. But of course, a legal trial could not be conducted based on superstition alone. It required evidence, scientific knowledge, and stable pillars for prosecution.
Prosecutors in five similar cases of ritual murder accusations across Europe at roughly the same time were able to present such pillars and persuade authorities of the legitimacy of the charges using the language of modern science.
Baxa indeed promoted the ritual murder accusation and tried to steer the investigation in that direction. Whether he did so for nationalistic reasons, to gain public popularity, or because of a personal belief that fanatics existed among the Jews—we can only speculate. Baxa later became mayor of Prague. We see similar examples elsewhere. For instance, the mayor of Vienna rose to popularity through his outspoken antisemitism—even in a city where Jews made up 20% of the population. Later, he collaborated with Jewish groups and was harshly criticized and labeled a hypocrite. His infamous reply was: “I decide who is a Jew.”


Masaryk, as you mentioned, was a hero to the Jewish community. For his intervention in the case of Leopold Hilsner, he was harshly criticized by Czechs and exposed his family to serious danger.

Indeed, Masaryk’s decision to get involved in the Hilsner case was extremely unpopular, and he risked both his reputation and his family’s safety. He managed to invalidate the first verdict from Kutná Hora, but only with great difficulty. The Austrian authorities initially even refused to distribute his publication The Need to Revise the Polná Trial. The public reaction was intense. Masaryk had to send his wife and daughter to safety in England, while he remained in Bohemia under threat of death. Even students protested during his lectures. When he turned to the university leadership for support, they advised him to resign. Even the university condemned his actions. At the same time, mainstream Czech media were denouncing the Dreyfus Affair, which only reinforced the idea of Jews as traitors and culprits.
It's also important to remember that the death of Anežka Hrůzová truly shocked society. Her body was discovered by a group of searchers, cut in half, and no blood was found at the scene. For society, it was easier to blame a group of outsiders—Jews—than to confront the reality of violence against women and perversion within their own ranks.


It is interesting that today, Czech society has a very positive relationship with Jews, and is largely unaware of its own antisemitic past. The Czech Republic’s friendly stance toward the State of Israel is well known. What changed?

In the early decades of the Soviet regime, antisemitism was a punishable offense. Even after 1945, it was strongly condemned and sometimes criminalized. With the expulsion of the German population, the national conflict was essentially ended, and Jews no longer had to struggle to position themselves between two rival ethnic groups. On the other hand, after 1950, Israel became an enemy state in the eyes of the Soviet regime, and any support for Zionism became punishable. So while antisemitism was officially condemned, strong antizionism took its place.
When I was here in the 1970s, religious services did still take place, but participation meant sacrificing one’s future. Jews had to choose between their identity and their prospects. And of course, the Slánský trial was openly antisemitic. The media openly emphasized the Jewish background of the accused, implying guilt by ethnicity. Slánský was essentially accused of Zionism, which was inherently linked to his Jewish identity.
After 1989, there was a major shift, especially in the state’s approach. The persecution of Jews under communism prevented Czechs from associating Jews with the communist regime, as happened in Poland. After 1989, the Czech government made a deliberate decision to support and defend the State of Israel internationally—something that remains rather unique in the European context. Naturally, it is much easier for Jews to live in a country that sympathizes with the State of Israel. In contrast, today in the United States, Jews are experiencing the opposite. I’m not an expert on this topic—I say this simply as an observer. But the fact that the Czech state is pro-Israel significantly eases the lives of Jews living here.