This article discusses discourses of Czech tourism on the Eastern Adriatic coast between the turn of the twentieth century and the 1930s using the Czech resorts in Baška on Krk Island and Kupari near Dubrovnik as case studies. The author argues that the ideological foundation of this type of tourism was a narrative of proximity between the Czechs and their fellow Slav Croatians. At the same time, the practice of Czech tourism was characterized by a pattern of cultural paternalism and economic exploitation toward the local population. It thus became a pseudo-colonial enterprise that distorted the Czech national myth of democracy, rationalism, and cosmopolitanism. Nevertheless, tourism still contributed to cultural mediation between Czechs and South Slavs. This article illustrates that point by highlighting the commemoration of the Yugoslav playwright Ivo Vojnović by Czech tourists in the 1930s.

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Greater Hungary," even as the conservative right and the extreme right clashed on how "to impose a Hungarian pattern," including anti-Jewish policies, in view of changing diplomatic, economic, and military circumstances and constraints. Rather than a pre-Holocaust/Holocaust break, then, March 1944 figures within a broader process of destructive state violence in Hungary, including the Novi Sad massacre.Moving from the massacre to its memory, von Klimó offers a narrative of progress: The memory discourse evolved through Stalinist and post-1956 communist distortions, eventually facilitating in the 1980s a recognition not just of the Jewish victims of the massacre and the Holocaust but also of other victims whom the communist state had heretofore sought to silence. These included ethnic Hungarians in the Bačka whom Tito's partisans murdered in 1944-45, Hungarian soldiers during World War II now depicted as war victims, ethnic Hungarian minorities in wartime Hungarian territories lost to Romania and Czechoslovakia, and the various victims of communist governments in Hungary. This, then, gave rise to a "post-heroic society" in Hungary that helps explain the nonviolent fall of the communist regime in 1989. Considering that this is a key argument in the book (16-17), the idea of a "post-heroic society," which appears only once more (153), requires more elaboration. Instead, the book concludes with an analysis of the acquittal of Képiró in 2011 that, von Klimó asserts, proves the success of the 1989 transition, as it "demonstrated that Hungary had become a democratic, constitutional state with an independent judiciary" (187). It was clear already in 2011, however, that Hungarian prime minister Viktor Orbán was aiming to transform Hungary into a nondemocratic state, with the judiciary as a key target of attack. Holocaust memory also came under attack in the decade since then, with Orbán essentially reviving the communist memory politics of the 1950s that portrays the Holocaust in Hungary as a German history with Hungary as the victim. Thus, Képiró's acquittal could be seen differently: as the failure of Hungarian society to follow Cseres and accept the responsibility of normal Hungarians as Holocaust perpetrators. Rather than progress, we find ourselves, tragically, almost where the story of the massacre's memory began.My critique, however, speaks to the importance of the book and the discussion it prompts. Remembering Cold Days traces a story that should interest all Hungarians and, more broadly, students of genocidal violence across the world and the politics of memory around it, past and present.