In June 1941, an official of the German legation in Belgrade received the following eyewitness report from a colleague. In a cover note, his colleague explained that the report exposed the “inquisitorial methods of torture that Croatian Serbs are exposed to and the methods that the Croatian Ustashas use for the final destruction of the Serbs.” Quoting the report “verbatim,” he continued:

The beginning of April 1942 witnessed a week of festivities the state media wrote about for days afterward. In the mornings, there were marches by the student units of the Poglavnik Bodyguard Battalion (Poglavnikova tjelesna bojna—PTB) and the Ustasha Corps; processions by members of the Ustasha Youth, Ustasha students, and peasant and worker organizations; masses of thanksgiving; sports events; lectures; and the singing of the state hymn and Ustasha anthem in schools across the state. In the evenings there were concerts of the Croatian Philharmonic Orchestra and speeches and performances by members of the Zagreb State Theater and Ustasha cultural organizations. There were more raucous celebrations, too. Away from the sedate evening galas, streets and squares were packed with boisterous students, shop girls, factory workers, and militia men, some of them clearly inebriated. Nonetheless, whoever they were, wherever they came from, and whatever condition they were in, those who turned out on the streets of Zagreb and other Croatian cities in chilly spring weather were determined to make the most of the first anniversary of the founding of the Independent State of Croatia (Nezavisna Država Hrvatska—NDH), or Ustasha state, the “resurrection” of national independence, and the triumph of the liberation struggle.

In a special edition, the newspaper Nova Hrvatska recited the achievements of the Ustasha state in statistics: the number of new homes built for workers, the millions of kunas spent on the construction of new hospitals, the thousands of square meters the new student accommodation and scientific laboratories comprised, the miles of new railway track built, the number of frequencies and coverage of the planned new radio hall, the millions of hectares of agricultural landirrigated and reclaimed, and the percentage rise in the nation's birth rate. The impression was of a state that was modern and dynamic, leaving the oppression of the Yugoslav past behind and committed to the construction of a utopian society fit for a reborn nation-state.

Among the features in Nova Hrvatska on the modernization of the Croatian university in Zagreb and the activities of students in the first year of independence was one in which the newspaper drew attention to the numerous young Ustasha students who had joined the Thirteenth Shock Student Unit of the PTB militia.

The mere suggestion that the Ustasha movement constituted the Croatian variant of a generic ideological and political phenomenon that we nowadays label “fascism” raises complex questions both about the Ustasha movement itself and about the nature and dynamics of interwar fascism. There are three main facets to this discussion that has been raging in fascism studies for decades. The first concerns the nature of fascism as a distinct but also generic ideological force. As a novel radical, hypernationalist force that came to the fore in the effervescent atmosphere of post–World War I Italy, fascism quickly developed a strong transnational momentum, with radical ideas and practices pioneered in Italy exerting ever stronger and wider influence across the continent. With the rise of National Socialism in Germany and especially Hitler's appointment as chancellor in January 1933, many—both on the right and left—spoke of fascism as a generic paradigm shiftin the political sphere. At the same time, an array of radical movements appeared in many parts of the continent; some brandished the name “fascist” or “national socialist” in their title, while others borrowed from the radical ideas and experiments of Fascist Italy or National Socialist Germany or both at the same time that they were claiming that their beliefs were rooted in distinct national traditions and not simply emulating foreign prototypes. Post–World War II historiography assumed the existence of a “generic fascism” in interwar Europe even before different generations of scholars (from George L Mosse and Ernst Nolte in the 1960s to Stanley Payne in the 1980s and Roger Griffin in the 1990s) sought to identify fascism's distinct ideological character and clarify, through a process of “idealized abstraction,” its distinguishing, generic features vis-à-vis other established ideologies of the time. However, the rise of the “generic fascism” paradigm was also contested by other scholars who claimed that the ideological differences between those movements and regimes outweighed their similarities. Ever since Gilbert Allardyce's polemical “What Fascism Is Not,” these scholars have tried to either dissociate Fascist Italy and National Socialist Germany from each other or challenge the utility of the concept of generic fascism.

The violence perpetrated by the Ustasha organization during the Second World War primarily affected the Serb, Jewish, and Roma ethnic communities, while thousands of Croat, Muslim, or other antifascist opponents of the regime also fell victim to terror. The sheer magnitude of destruction made the issue of postwar retributive justice an inescapable task for the People's Liberation Movement (Narodnooslobodilački pokret—NOP) under the command of Josip Broz “Tito.” Already at the second congress of the Antifascist Council for the National Liberation of Yugoslavia (Antifašističko veće narodnog oslobođenja Jugoslavije) in late November 1943, the revolutionary authorities therefore decided to create the State Commission for the Establishment of Crimes Perpetrated by the Occupiers and their Helpers in the Country (Državna komisija za utvrđivanje zločina okupatora i njihovih pomagača u zemlji; hereafter, the Commission) to investigate war crimes and thus provide evidence that could be used in legal proceedings. The initiative was not intrinsic to the NOP but should be seen as part of the decision of the Allies at the Tripartite Conference in Moscow in October to try and sentence war criminals rather than resort to summary executions. The agreement stipulated that all those who had committed war crimes stand trial in the countries where the offenses had been perpetrated, while the major war criminals would have their cases heard by an international military tribunal.

Even though similar commissions and tribunals were established throughout Europe, the Yugoslav experience is particularly relevant in light of the country's violent dissolution in the 1990s. The fact that tribunals and “truth commissions” became an integral element of many postconflict resolution initiatives at the end of the twentieth century, with the establishment of the permanent International Court of Justice standing as the p innacle of this process, points to the need for a better understanding of the way in which such institutions have functioned in various political contexts. From a historian's perspective, the fact that tribunals have often been given the role as the creators of an “authoritative interpretation” of the past is considered crucial because of the predominant view that reconciliation can only be achieved through remembrance and the acknowledgment of crime.

One of the most striking features of the Ustasha regime is the extent to which religion, particularly Catholicism, was used as a means of political instrumentalization. Despite this, the sacralization of politics in the Ustasha state, and in particular the use of Catholic ritual and imagery as a form of regime legitimation, has received only peripheral attention in the existing literature. Although both radical nationalism and Catholicism were central ideas in the Ustasha ideological system, there are few, if any, studies exclusively dedicated to the subject. One reason for this perhaps is that many established Croatian historians have encountered difficulties in objectively addressing the subject of Catholicism under the Ustasha regime and in applying methodological and conceptual terminology. Frequently, historians have proven unable to distinguish between a clerical state (which the Ustasha state arguably was not) and a Catholic state (which it definitely was) and have therefore concluded that the ideology of the Ustasha state was secular with no religious influences. As a result, they have been unable to explain the support for the Ustasha movement among clericalist youth groups and village clergy or to account for the movement's rituals and ceremonies based on the altar and crucifix and their campaigns of morality and traditional “Catholic” values. Although the Ustasha movement was essentially secular in character, it actively appropriated “Catholic” values to mobilize the masses and gain public support.

This chapter focuses on how the Ustasha movement used religious ideas and concepts as a form of state legitimation. Rather than considering the role of the Catholic Church or its relationship with the Ustasha regime, a subject that has already been studied extensively in the existing literature, it instead explores the Ustasha movement's use of religious, specifically Catholic, ideas, imagery, morality, and language to legitimize its rule and genocidal policies toward the state's chief perceived “enemy,” the Serb minority. While the place of religion in Croat nationalism has often proved to be extremely important, the Ustasha movement transformed it into a central characteristic of their national ideology and ideological belief system.

In early 1945, a column began appearing in the newspaper Hrvatski narod relating the disconcerting adventures of a commentator with cultural modernity. Clearly satirical on one level, the appearance of the column in the midst of a plethora of articles relating the heroic sacrifices of Ustasha warriors, the “terror” of the Bolshevik hordes, and invocations from regime officials for ordinary citizens to fight fanatically to the death for the Ustasha state lent it an incongruous air. In spite of its pretense of normality, though, the writer's exaggerated confrontations with archetypes of everyday life served to explore in comic form the regime's anxieties about the failure, even at this late stage, to refashion Croat citizens into Ustasha subjects. This was illustrated in the very first column in which the commentator related his experience visiting a local cinema. Having been induced into seeing the latest cinematic “gala production” by a young sophisticated cineaste despite having no money for it, the jostling, pushing, and rough behavior of the cinemagoing public he encounters while trying to make his way to the ticket office speaks eloquently of the state's inability to remake the conduct of the masses. Furthermore, as he is pushed forward by the straining masses, he is appalled to realize that he too “burns with an unquenchable desire” to see the film. “I am already by the doors. Ah, the rear end of the column moves; a bit more and I will gaze on the shining face of the ticket seller.”

For Ustasha cultural theorists, cinema represented a medium through which the masses could be transformed from ordinary citizens into Ustasha subjects with Ustasha values. As the most modern form of mass propaganda, cinema constituted a central element in the state's social and cultural program to enlighten and modernize the masses. Party ideologues, meanwhile, envisaged the construction of a new concept of cinema imbued with the social ideals of the Ustasha movement and its radical cultural and nationalist orthodoxies. Moreover, in the same way as it utilized its programs of worker mobility, house building, and mass education, through cinema the state sought to offer ordinary citizens a glimpse of the good life and a space of normalcy in a profoundly abnormal time of deprivation, bloodshed, and conflict.

The historical experience of the Second World War in Croatia from 1941 to 1945 was characterized by a kaleidoscope of ideological utopias, ethnic homogenization, and extreme violence. The memory of this historical experience is suitably described by Aleida Assmann's comparison of the “cooling of history's hot zone” and the incomplete transition from biographical memory to externalized and mediated memory. The new experience of war and political transition in Croatia in the 1990s has additionally spurred a reevaluation of the socialist culture of remembering the Second World War, in particular the role of intellectuals, which was often reduced to a conflict between left- and right-wing worldviews and the assignment of moral culpability. Nationalist intellectuals were often condemned as criminals and executed while the personal biographies of those who escaped this fate were defamed by accusations of treason and collaboration with the fascist and Nazi occupation authorities. Postsocialist historiography exposed the myth of Communist antifascism and shifted research interest to different and more complex ways of considering the Second World War period. An interdisciplinary approach rooted in analysis of archives and a wide diversity of printed sources yielded more nuanced answers and restored the memory of negatively portrayed national intellectuals. But the critical construction of these biographies continues to be a paradox: a commitment to national liberation and, at the same time, involvement in ethnically motivated crimes and acts of terror that no subsequent validation is capable of redeeming.

This chapter examines these paradoxical biographies through an analysis of intellectual engagement in the Ustasha state. Specifically, it explores the evolving and frequently contradictory attitudes of nationalist Croat intellectuals to Bosnia- Herzegovina and the position of Bosnian Muslims in both the state and the wider Croat nation. First, it describes the manner in which Croat national intellectuals brought to life the mythomoteur potential of blood and soil. It was also with the help of this cultural imaginarium that the belonging of Bosnia-Herzegovina to the state manifested itself. The chapter then focuses on the articulation of the ideas and stereotypes used in the state to bridge the traditional gap between the historical heritage of Western Catholicism and Islam.

In early December 1989, one of the banners in downtown Prague read: “Poland—10 years, Hungary—10 months, GDR—10 weeks, Czechoslovakia— 10 days.” The author of the sign probably wanted to express his satisfaction that the Czechs (and Slovaks) turned out to be quicker (and thus better) at overthrowing communism than their neighbors, whom they hadn't much liked in general anyway. Regardless of the author's intentions, these words conveyed well the chronology of events. Above all, they implicitly underlined the Poles’ long-running efforts to change the status quo. In essence, it was the Poles who were the most steadfast in undermining communism, which nevertheless does not mean that others elsewhere in the bloc had consented passively to its existence. The heroic efforts undertaken by the Czechs and Slovaks in 1968, the Hungarians in 1956, and the East Germans in 1953 nevertheless turned out to be isolated events. The oppositional activities in those countries never took place on a mass scale, and did not extend beyond intellectual opposition, articulated by just a few. While potentially irritating, this kind of opposition was not actually threatening to those in power.

Poles were not only steadfast, they also proved to be the most innovative in creating the tools that could help change—or even overturn—the communist system. The widespread wave of strikes during the summer of 1980 evolved into Solidarity, a mass social movement of unprecedented dimensions. This union was a Polish “invention” in the fight against an indigenous dictatorship and the outside forces supporting it. Solidarity's creation does not seem to attest to the Polish opposition's intellectual superiority, or exceptional predispositions. Perhaps it was above all the special cultural basis that existed in Poland—one that was both Romantic and insurrectionary—and the Poles’ fresh memory of its traumatic twentieth-century experiences (mentioned in chapter 1), including the dramatic war with Bolshevik Russia in 1920 and the Soviet invasion of September 1939. All this encouraged an unusually large number of people to actively question a regime that had extensive means of repression at its disposal, as well as the support of a superpower.

During the debates over Solidarity's tactics, people were not just exchanging views. In some cities, a deepening gap arose between the union's generally moderate regional branches and more radical groups. The latter believed that a clear schedule of operations should be drawn up, culminating in a general strike; in addition, they also thought there should be demonstrations, a centralized decision-making process, specific preparations for the active defense of striking enterprises, impressive events, a more aggressive propaganda campaign, and efforts to influence the mood among the rank and file who were implementing martial law, particularly those in the military. “We should show ourselves,” said Adam Borowski of MRKS in an interview published in May 1982. “We should show that we are here, that we represent a force, that we are organized. Because the government is not afraid of an inert mass.” People in many Solidarity circles were dismayed at the lack of decisive actions and that people were not encouraged to participate. This sentiment was apparent not only among those directly involved in the underground, but also among people who had decided to wait it out.

As the research to date and known documents show, two of the groups who were most vocal in expressing their discontent were the MRKS in Warsaw and a group in Wrocław centered on Kornel Morawiecki. (Morawiecki was known for his radicalism, which he expressed, for example, in his autumn 1981 text “Appeal to Soviet Soldiers Stationed in Poland.”) Radical views, like the ones espoused by these two groups, could undoubtedly be found everywhere, but it is difficult to say anything certain about their reach, or their social and geographic distribution. In any case, an analysis of the collective forms of expressing dissent, such as strikes or demonstrations, does not indicate a significant increase in the number of participants. Nevertheless, the events held on the monthly “anniversaries” of the declaration of martial law on the thirteenth of every month were better attended in March or April than in January. But even if approximately the same number of people took part in specific activities, monthly “anniversary” events were organized throughout Poland beginning in February. Thus, the total number of people engaged in this type of protest was significantly greater than it had been at first.

During a Security Service meeting on September 2, General Władysław Ciastoń, head of the Security Service and deputy minister of internal affairs, cautiously assessed that the demonstrations “did not turn out to be a success for Solidarity,” but their size was “larger than the optimistic version assumed [by the MSW].” General Jaruzelski voiced a much more unequivocal opinion: first, on September 1 at the WRON meeting, and then a day later at a Politburo session, he said that “the Solidarity extremists had played their funeral march.” At that same meeting, General Kiszczak stated that Solidarity's leaders had “lost their social mandate.” It is not clear whether this was because the minister of internal affairs thought the demonstrations had a low turnout, or because Solidarity had found it necessary to urge people to participate. In any case, the result was the same: it was definitively confirmed that there would be no talks. Many Church hierarchs were of the same opinion: “on 31 August Solidarity prepared its own funeral,” Archbishop Dąbrowski wrote in his diary, unconsciously repeating Jaruzelski's words.

The administrators of martial law decided that they were the indisputable victors, and thus they decided to strike while the iron was hot. On September 3, the public prosecutor's office filed formal charges against KOR members who had been interned up to that point, and issued warrants for their arrest: Jacek Kuroń, Adam Michnik, and Henryk Wujec, as well as Mirosław Chojecki and Jan Józef Lipski, who were both abroad. Upon hearing his colleagues had been arrested, Lipski returned to Poland—and to prison. Zbigniew Romaszewski joined them. He was already awaiting trial, which would later be known as the “Radio Solidarity Trial.” The prosecutor's charges were more serious this time than those that were usually heard at typical martial law trials. The charges referred to article 123 of the Criminal Code, relating to individuals involved in the organization of conspiratorial activities “whose aims were to deprive [Poland of its] independence, secede part of [Poland’s] territory, overthrow the regime by force, or diminish the defensive capabilities of the PRL [Polish People's Republic].” The highest possible sentence for these offenses was death.

Under pressure from turbulent protests, the Polish communist regime withdrew the price hike on foodstuffs that it had planned for June 25, 1976, resulting in a long period of destabilization for the system. Freezing prices for another year deepened the market imbalance since production could not keep pace with the population's income, and there were limits to Poland's ability to earmark loans for the import of consumer goods. Chaos began creeping into the centrally planned industrial sector. The government cut back on investments arbitrarily, and it proved increasingly difficult to maintain cooperation between producers. The energy balance was fragile and inflationary pressures emerged, while the lines outside shops grew longer and the black market spread. The catastrophic winter of 1978–79 that paralyzed the country for a couple of months played a role, too— over half of Poles said that the magnitude of the calamity was due to “organizational paralysis.” In other words, the government was responsible. By early 1980, only 29 percent of those surveyed believed that the condition of the economy was “good,” in comparison to almost 60 percent four years earlier. These negative feelings were exacerbated by disappointment, since the first years of the Gierek era had generally been assessed very favorably, primarily because the standard of living had been improving rapidly. Gierek himself was perceived as the opposite of Gomułka: he was tall, broad-shouldered, elegantly dressed, and traveled the country. He was direct in his contact with people, whom he did not shun. Gierek was no stranger to life abroad (before 1946 he had lived for more than a decade in France and Belgium), and he liked to have official, top-level meetings with Western politicians. These traits now began to irritate people, making Gierek seem artificial and pompous.

By granting concessions under the pressure of public opinion, the ruling clique showed itself to be weak, and this kind of “loss of face” is more difficult for those in power to handle in a dictatorial state than in a democracy. Moreover, the course of events in June 1976 confirmed workers’ belief that strikes could prove an effective instrument in the fight to resolve their most pressing issues. The opposition was organizing itself, and its members were pointing out the errors, waste, and abuses in Gierek's ruling circle, about which rumors were flying.

The Polish government not only planned carefully before imposing martial law, it also prepared assiduously for its end. There the similarities end, however, since those operations were diametrically opposed in terms of not only their formal aims, but also the basic principles by which they were introduced: martial law was planned as an operation to be carried out by surprise, and by the simultaneous use of all forces. It was, however, to be abolished in stages, which would be announced ahead of time. Some members of the ruling clique and their intellectual backers believed that serious changes could be carried out in the economy and state structures behind the façade of martial law, but these intentions were never clearly outlined. In reality, for a long time the only substantial activity in the economic sphere was the drastic price increases on February 1, 1982, which were supposed to rid the market of the enormous monetary overhang. It was clear that these price hikes could not be carried out without a heavy militia and army presence in the streets.

The document “Uwagi i propozycje dotyczące wyjścia z kryzysu politycznego i stanu wojennego” (Comments and propositions on how to overcome the political crisis and martial law), prepared by the party's Central Committee apparatus in July 1982, mentioned the idea of creating a post of president of the Polish People's Republic, as well as controlled changes in the system of satellite parties, by which was undoubtedly understood permission for the foundation of a Christian Democratic party, with the support of the Episcopate. These projects were not part of the planned preparations for martial law, however, and there is also no sign that any of them were the subject of any serious discussion in decision-making circles over the course of the next year.

Preparing a plan for the repeal of martial law and the necessary actions afterward were once again primarily in the hands of military men, like everything related to its imposition. More specifically, they were within the purview of the Secretary of the Committee of National Defense and the Ministry of National Defense.