1669 is considered the official founding year of one of the most important institutions in the history of the city of Innsbruck. On 15 October of that year, Emperor Leopold I granted the Tyroleans the privilege of the so‑called “Hall salt surcharge.” This tax levied on the highly sought‑after trading commodity produced in the state-owned saltworks made it possible to finance a university. The foundations for an institution of higher education had thus already been laid. The university emerged from the Latin school that had been founded just over a hundred years earlier by the Jesuits under Ferdinand I. The curriculum at the gymnasium focused on classical humanist education. Latin and Greek were essential core subjects, as they were necessary for participation in intellectual and political discourse. Scholarly books and many other written documents were still composed in Latin during the Early Modern period. Latin was also a prerequisite for holding senior positions in public service. The university brought new opportunities for education to Innsbruck. The first faculty to begin teaching was philosophy; theology, law, and medicine followed shortly thereafter. When Pope Innocent XI gave his blessing to the university in 1677, academic life was already fully underway. Professors and students of many different nationalities populated Innsbruck. The Jesuit order held several professorships, while other professors were appointed by the Diocese of Brixen. This led to tensions within the university, as the Jesuits primarily represented the interests of the territorial prince and the monarch, whereas the professors appointed by the diocese aimed to safeguard the political interests of the bishop. At this early stage of the Enlightenment, the separation of state, church, and scholarship was still far off. Positions, power, money, and influence were at stake—not only within the city itself.

A course of study usually lasted seven years before a graduate was permitted, as a sign of his status as a doctor, to wear a ring. During the first two years, every student was required to devote himself to philosophy before choosing a specialized field. In addition to instruction in the humanities, students participated in church services, theatrical performances, music-making, and practical skills such as fencing and riding, all of which were considered indispensable in the life of an educated young man. 

However, the university was more than merely an educational institution. In 1665, Innsbruck had lost its status as a residence city and thus much of its prestige and splendor. The operation of the university partially compensated for this degradation, as the aristocracy continued to be present in the city in the form of students. Students and professors altered the city’s social fabric. In the first decade following the foundation, nearly fifty different intellectuals from all parts of Europe taught philosophy in Innsbruck to more than 300 students. At social events such as processions, delegations like the Congregation of the Holy Virgin—whose members were drawn from the Jesuit-influenced university—were particularly prominent. Professors appeared in velvet robes of different colors depending on their discipline, while students carried the swords they were permitted to bear. Academics also spoke German differently from the local population, while official matters were usually conducted in Latin in any case. Work hard, play hard applied even then. The strictly supervised student routine in lecture halls and auditoriums was enlivened by a colorful mix of boisterous evening entertainment, excursions into the surroundings of Innsbruck, music-making, church processions, and theatrical performances. Unlike the soberly and modestly dressed inhabitants of Innsbruck, young men from well-to-do families appeared flamboyant and cheeky, in the manner of medieval dandies. They spoke among themselves in a way that must have seemed utterly ridiculous to outsiders.

Despite their social standing, students were often not diligent model pupils but rather young men accustomed to a certain lifestyle and status. Managing these young elites required a separate legal system. To a certain degree, students were subject to university jurisdiction, which was independent of municipal law. Only in cases involving capital punishment did the regional government have to be consulted. This created a diffuse and often contradictory system in which one segment of society was permitted, at least in certain situations, to do what was forbidden to another. Encounters between privileged youths and citizens, servants, and craftsmen did not always proceed smoothly. Upper-class teenagers were accustomed to carrying weapons and using them. Insults to honor could, much like in the military, lead to duels even in student circles. Especially in combination with alcohol, disturbances were not uncommon. Thus, in January 1674, “not only at night did disturbances, rumors, and improper actions occur,” and “students of the university were encountered carrying all sorts of prohibited weapons such as firearms, pistols, blunderbusses, stilettos, sabers, knives …”. Students were also officially forbidden to drink excessively. If this nevertheless occurred in one of Innsbruck’s taverns, the young offender would be reprimanded. If he was unable or unwilling to pay the bill, the aggrieved innkeeper could not bring a complaint before the court, as the excessive serving of alcoholic beverages to students was itself forbidden. To enforce university law, the rectorate maintained its own force. The Scharwache was armed with halberds and tasked with preventing student disturbances as effectively as possible. Six men served armed duty day and night to maintain order. The costs were shared by the city of Innsbruck and the university. There was also a dedicated carcer in which offenders could be detained on bread and water. Deprivation of liberty, fines, and even expulsion from the territory could be imposed by the university.

Throughout its history, the university was also a political institution and always a mirror of the prevailing spirit of the age. From the mid‑18th century onward, it served to educate loyal, Catholic civil servants for the state. The name Leopold‑Franzens University refers to the emperors Leopold and Francis, under whom the university was founded and later re-established. Twice, the university was downgraded to a lyceum or abolished altogether. Emperor Joseph II closed it, as did the Bavarian administration during the Napoleonic Wars. The Jesuit-influenced students and professors were viewed with suspicion and were excluded from the education system. Emperor Francis I, who during the Restoration again adhered more closely to the traditionally Catholic line of the Habsburgs, re-founded the university in 1826. Nevertheless, the university remained under observation even within Metternich’s police state. During the pre‑March period (Vormärz), nationalist and liberal forces were regarded with suspicion. The secret state police were present not only in lecture halls but also within student circles, in order to suppress potentially subversive ideas among young agitators at an early stage. Industrialization and the accompanying new economic, political, and social rules also transformed university life. In keeping with the spirit of the age, the inaugural lecture by the dean of the Faculty of Philosophy, Prof. Dr. Joachim Suppan (1794–1864), addressed a practical problem in physics so that “a more precise knowledge of the highly important and useful invention of the steam engine might also be achieved for domestic industry, where it has hitherto found no application.” The fact that Suppan, in addition to his degrees in philosophy and mathematics, was also an ordained priest illustrates the influence the Church still exerted on education in the 19th century. How closely the university remained connected to state authority as well as to the Church is shown by Suppan’s concluding admonition to the students to “one day render beneficial service to the fatherland through knowledge and virtue.” The national conflicts of the late Habsburg monarchy were likewise reflected in the university’s history. The 19th century was the age of associations—in the case of the university, student fraternities. In Innsbruck, conflicts between German-speaking and Italian-speaking students repeatedly caused tensions, reaching their climax in the Fatti di Innsbruck. Students with German nationalist leanings continued to play a major role at the university thereafter. Many of these young men had grown up in the Habsburg Empire and had served in the First World War. The ponderous parliamentary Republic of Austria appealed less to many young academics than the new political movements that likewise emerged during this period. Male elites were suddenly no longer among themselves alone. Women and sons of craftsmen had long been barred from studying at the university; now it at least became theoretically possible to advance socially through education. Five years after the founding of the Republic, the university celebrated its first female Doctor of Law. The press reported:

“This coming Saturday, Miss Mitzi Fischer will be awarded the degree of Doctor of Law at the University of Innsbruck. Miss Fischer is a native of Vienna. She also completed her secondary education in Vienna. After her matriculation examination, she pursued the study of law at the University of Innsbruck. The future doctor passed all examinations with distinction and would therefore, according to former custom, have to be promoted sub auspiciis imperatoris. In any case, Miss Fischer is the first woman to earn the doctoral degree in law at the University of Innsbruck.”

The enthusiasm of the young men—some of whom had returned from the fronts of the First World War—was partly directed toward fascist Italy, perceived as modern and dynamic, and later toward National Socialist Germany, both of which upheld traditional role models. With the Anschluss to the German Reich in 1938, the university was renamed once again. After the war, the German Alpine University became once more the Leopold‑Franzens University. The relative calm with which Innsbruck’s students behaved in 1968 was striking, much as it had been in 1848. While students in other European cities were the driving force of change, Innsbruck remained unruffled. In Paris, paving stones were thrown; in Innsbruck, boycotts and sit-ins sufficed. Although there were individual groups in the late 1960s and 1970s—such as the Communist Group Innsbruck, the Committee for Solidarity with Vietnam, the socialist VSStÖ, or the liberal‑Catholic Action within the Austrian National Union of Students—no mass movement emerged. The vast majority of students came from the upper classes and had completed their secondary education at Catholic-oriented grammar schools. Beethoven’s old observation that “as long as the Austrian still has his brown beer and sausages, he will not revolt” proved true. Only a few students could be inspired by solidarity with Vietnam, Mao Zedong, or Fidel Castro. Who would risk their own career in a country dominated by the trinity of the Tiroler Tageszeitung, Bishop Paulus Rusch, and a provincial parliament with an absolute ÖVP majority? Those who nevertheless dared to distribute rebellious leaflets or leftist literature had to reckon with media defamation, reprimands by the rectorate, or even visits from state authorities. Professors were seldom criticized, many of them still exuding in the 20th century the aloofness and unapproachable aura of Early Modern times, or making little effort to conceal their political convictions. More frequently criticized was the inadequate equipment of the modest lecture halls, given the constantly growing number of students. The great transformation of Austrian universities was not fought for but voted for. Under Federal Chancellor Bruno Kreisky, tuition fees were abolished. Education became attainable and conceivable for a larger number of young people. As a result, the number of students at Austrian universities rose from around 50,000 in 1968 to more than 73,000 by 1974.

Despite all adversities and curiosities over the centuries, the University of Innsbruck has, since its earliest days, generally enjoyed an excellent reputation. In the 20th and 21st centuries, faculty and students repeatedly achieved internationally acclaimed research results. Victor Franz Hess was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics for his work on cosmic radiation. Quantum physicist Anton Zeilinger was also associated with the University of Innsbruck, though not at the time of his award in 2022. Professors Fritz Pregl, Adolf Windaus, and Hans Fischer likewise received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, though none of them were active in Innsbruck at the time. The university hospital has likewise delivered outstanding achievements in both research and education, as well as in the daily medical care of the city, and is considered one of Innsbruck’s flagship institutions. The university is of great importance to the city not only intellectually and economically. Around 30,000 students populate and shape life between the Nordkette mountain range and the Patscherkofel. 

Prejudice and racism toward immigrants were and are common practice in Innsbruck, as in all societies. Whether Syrian refugees since 2015 or Turkish guest workers in the 1970s and 80s, what is foreign generally evokes little goodwill among the average Tyrolean. Today, Italy may be the favorite travel destination of Innsbruck’s residents and pizzerias an integral part of everyday gastronomy, but for a long time our southern neighbors were the group viewed with the greatest suspicion. What Jews and “brick-Bohemians” were to Viennese around 1900, “Walsche” were to Tyroleans. Aversion toward Italians in Innsbruck can look back on a long tradition. Although Italy did not yet exist as an independent state, the political landscape was shaped by many small counties, city-states, and principalities between Lake Garda and Sicily. Linguistically and culturally, the individual regions also differed from one another. Nevertheless, over time people began to see themselves as Italians and were also perceived as such abroad. Most of those with whom Innsbruck’s residents came into contact belonged to the upper class, which automatically generated a certain level of resentment. During the Middle Ages and the early modern period, they lived in Innsbruck as members of the administrative apparatus, the court, as bankers, wholesale merchants, or spouses of various territorial princes. The hostility between Italians and Germans was mutual. Each side regarded the other, depending on perspective, as dishonorable, unreliable, arrogant, vain, morally corrupt, and lazy, or conversely as uncivilized, barbaric, uneducated, and porcs.

With the wars between 1848 and 1866, hatred toward everything Italian reached a new peak in the “Holy Land of Tyrol,” although many “Walsche” served in the imperial and royal army and much of the rural population among the Italian-speaking Tyroleans remained loyal to the monarchy. Italians—especially Garibaldi’s troops—were seen as godless agitators and republicans and were denounced from church pulpits between Kufstein and Riva del Garda, both in Italian and in German. The Tyrolean press played a major role in the conflict. After the liberalization of the press in 1867, newspapers achieved a new level of reach. What social media contributes to social division today was in many ways performed by newspapers at that time. Conservatives, Catholics, Greater Germans, liberals, and socialists each had their own press organs, and loyal readers of these hardly neutral publications lived within their own opinion bubbles. The Innsbrucker Nachrichten, with a circulation of about 15,000 copies, was the medium with the widest reach in Tyrol around the turn of the century. Although it did not have an explicitly stated political alignment, it was considered to be Greater German-liberal in outlook. On the Italian side, Cesare Battisti (1875–1916), who was executed by the Austrian military during the war for high treason by hanging, stood out in particular. The publicist and politician from Trento had initially begun studying at the German-speaking university in Vienna, but later transferred to the University of Florence. With a sharp pen, he repeatedly fueled the conflict of nationalities within the borders of the province in the Italian newspapers Il Popolo and L’Avvenire. Owing to his combination of socialist convictions and Italian patriotism, he was regarded by many Tyroleans as the number one enemy of the state and a traitor.

Associations also played a crucial role in the hardening of fronts. In 1867, not only press law but also the law governing associations was liberalized, triggering a veritable boom in new foundations. Sports clubs, gymnastics societies, theater groups, marksmen’s associations, or the Innsbrucker Liedertafel often served not only for leisure but functioned as political pre-organizations. Members met in their own venues and regularly organized club evenings, often also open to the public. Particularly politically active and extreme in their views were the student fraternities. The young men who gathered there came from the upper bourgeoisie or the aristocracy and were accustomed both to giving orders and to bearing arms. One third of the students in Innsbruck belonged to a fraternity, nearly half of them with a German nationalist orientation. Unlike today, it was not unusual for them to appear in public in full regalia—in their colors, that is, in uniform complete with saber, beret, and sash—often also armed with walking sticks and revolvers. Opposing them were the Italian-speaking students, who were inferior not only in numbers but also in organization. After the loss of Padua, Tyroleans of Italian descent no longer had the possibility of completing their studies in their mother tongue within the country; many therefore oriented themselves toward Innsbruck, where they were met with little sympathy. One of the greatest political points of contention between Italian- and German-speaking students was the establishment of an Italian university. The discussion about whether such a university should be located in Trieste (the preferred location of Italian-speaking representatives), Innsbruck, Trento, or Rovereto dragged on for years. Although attending university was essentially a matter for a small elite, irredentist and anti-Austrian Tyrolean deputies from the Trentino repeatedly succeeded in emotionally charging the issue as a symbol of the desired autonomy, given that, since 1867, all language groups within the monarchy were legally to be treated equally. German nationalist politicians such as Innsbruck’s mayor Wilhelm Greil—who was repeatedly reprimanded by the imperial governor of Tyrol for his improper conduct toward the Italian population—used the emotions surrounding the issue to stir up fears of foreign infiltration. Alongside ethnic and racist resentments toward their southern neighbors, conservatives in particular were also influenced by fear of figures such as Cesare Battisti, who as a socialist was seen as embodying absolute evil.

How great the supposed danger of an “Italianization” of Innsbruck by students from Trentino actually was is illustrated by demographic data. Even at that time, facts in public discourse were often replaced by gut feeling and racially motivated populism. After the incorporation of Pradl and Wilten in 1904, Innsbruck had just over 50,000 inhabitants. The proportion of students, at a little over 1,000, was under 2%. Of the roughly 3,000 people of Italian origin—most of them “Welsch Tyroleans” from the Trentino—just over 100 were enrolled at the university. The majority of the “Walsche” consisted of workers, innkeepers, traders, and soldiers. Many had long lived in and around Innsbruck. In somewhat more affordable Wilten, something akin to a “Little Italy” had emerged. Anton Gutmann sold Italian wines in his cellar cooperative “Riva” at Leopoldstraße 30, and across the street one could eat well and cheaply at the Steneck inn. Most of the immigrants, as subjects of the monarchy, spoke excellent German; only a small proportion came from Dalmatia or Trieste and were in fact foreign-language speakers. The differences were of a socio-cultural nature. There were their own associations such as the Club Ciclistico and the Unione Ginnastica, socialist-oriented workers’ and consumer organizations, music societies, and student fraternities.

Although students also made up only a small proportion among Italians, they and the demand for an institute with Italian as the language of instruction and examination received disproportionate attention. After considerable back and forth, it was decided in September 1904 to establish a provisional faculty of law in Innsbruck. This was intended to separate the students without alienating either group. From the outset, however, the project was ill-fated. No one wanted to rent the university the necessary premises. Eventually, the enterprising builder Anton Fritz made an apartment in one of his rental buildings at Liebeneggstraße 8 available. At the inaugural lecture and the festive evening event at the “Gasthaus zum Weißen Kreuz” on 3 November, prominent figures such as Battisti and the later Italian prime minister Alcide De Gasperi were present. As the evening progressed, the mood became increasingly exuberant. When jeering slogans such as “Porchi tedeschi” and “Abbasso Austria” (note: “German pigs” and “Down with Austria”) were shouted, the situation escalated. A crowd of German-speaking students armed with sticks, knives, and revolvers besieged the Weißes Kreuz, in which the Italians—also largely armed—had barricaded themselves. A unit of Kaiserjäger succeeded in dispersing the initial tumult; several Italians were arrested. In the process, the painter August Pezzey (1875–1904) was mistakenly fatally wounded by a bayonet thrust from an overly nervous soldier.

Following the night’s events, the Innsbrucker Nachrichten appeared on November 4 with the headline: “German blood shed!” The reporter present wrote of 100 to 200 revolver shots fired by the Italians at the “crowd of German students,” and of Pezzey’s death. The news of what had happened triggered a wave of acts of revenge and violence. As in any uprising, onlookers and rioters joined the politically motivated participants, people who enjoyed overstepping boundaries in the anonymity of the crowd without holding a genuine political conviction. While the Italians taken into custody sang the martial Inno di Garibaldi in the overcrowded city prison, serious riots broke out in the city against Italian establishments and businesses. The premises of the Weißes Kreuz were completely devastated in a display of loyalty to the monarchy, except for a portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph. Rioters threw stones at the residence of the already unpopular governor in Palais Trapp, because his wife had Italian roots. The building on Liebeneggstraße made available to the university by Anton Fritz was destroyed, as was his private residence.

Once the initial turmoil had subsided, a process of myth-making quickly began around the events. August Pezzey, who had died amid the chaos and came from a Ladin family, was declared a “German hero” in a wave of nationalist fervor by politicians and the press. He was given an honorary grave at the Innsbruck West Cemetery. At his funeral, attended by thousands of mourners, Mayor Greil delivered a pathos-laden speech:

"...A gloriously beautiful death was granted to you on the field of honour for the German people... In the fight against impudent acts of violence you breathed your last as a martyr for the German cause..."

Reports of the Fatti di Innsbruck reached the international press and contributed significantly to the resignation of the Austrian Minister-President Ernest von Koerber. Depending on the medium, Italians were portrayed either as dishonorable bandits or as courageous national heroes, while Austrians were depicted as pangermanist barbarians or as a bulwark against the “Welsch.” On 17 November, just two weeks after its ceremonial opening, the Italian faculty in Innsbruck was dissolved again. A university of their own remained denied to this linguistic group within Austria-Hungary until the end of the monarchy in 1918. The long tradition of viewing Italians as dishonorable and lazy was further intensified by Italy’s entry into the war in 1915 on the side of France and England. To this day, many Tyroleans continue to maintain negative prejudices toward their southern neighbors with great persistence.

Franciscans, Premonstratensians, Carmelites, Servites, Capuchins, Ursulines. Anyone visiting Innsbruck strolls past numerous monasteries—usually without realizing it. Yet the most politically and socially influential order in the city’s history since the sixteenth century was the Jesuits. These “Soldiers of Christ” were founded in 1540 by the Spanish nobleman Ignatius of Loyola (1491–1556). Loyola was a morally rigorous reformer and an influential church politician with access to the highest circles of power of his time. His aim was to reform the Church—not, like Luther, without the Pope as its supreme authority. Nor did he consider dissolving monastic property. Renewal of faith from the top down, rather than the destruction of the existing order, was the guiding principle of the Societas Jesu. The order rapidly gained influence. Its military-inspired organization and structure, the combination of humanist learning with Catholic tradition, its affinity for science and education paired with a form of popular piety imbued with mysticism—all this made the Jesuits attractive to many people who were disillusioned by the moral decay of the late medieval clergy. In these respects, the Jesuits were very much attuned to an era shaped by new political, social, and economic structures. Like the Protestant reformers, they skilfully exploited the new medium of print to disseminate their writings. They represented the confessional continuation of a societal transformation characterized by the growing power of the state, new media, and double-entry bookkeeping. In this environment, spiritual guidance was in high demand. Politically, the Holy Roman Empire in the mid-sixteenth century was steeped in crisis. Italy had been severely affected by the wars between France and the Habsburgs. Major trading houses such as the Fuggers and the Welsers amassed ever greater influence. The German territories were still reeling from the Peasants’ Wars. Inflation posed a serious threat, and the many technological innovations around 1500 inspired fear among broad segments of the population. How, then, could the wrath of God—provoked by the failings of the Renaissance popes—and the looming end of the world be averted, if not through moral reform and a life lived according to the teachings of Christ?

A zealous patron of the Jesuits in Tyrol was the territorial prince and later Emperor Ferdinand I. Like Ignatius of Loyola, he had grown up in Spain. He struggled with German customs, the Reformation movement—unknown in Spain—and even the German language itself. The Tyrolean population, for its part, regarded their sovereign with suspicion, easily mistaking his foreign courtly entourage for an occupying power. A unifying element between these two worlds was the Roman Church, and in particular the modern Jesuit order. Probably the most important Jesuit theologian was Petrus Canisius (1521–1597). Born Peter Kanis into an upper-middle-class household in the Netherlands—his father was mayor of Nijmegen—he was exposed to high politics from an early age and learned courtly manners before studying in Cologne. Canisius became the first member of the order active within the Holy Roman Empire. Intelligent and highly educated, he rose swiftly through the ranks. Ferdinand appointed him to Vienna, where he was tasked with restoring order both as episcopal administrator and at the university. Alongside teaching and research, one of his main duties was to identify and interrogate university members suspected of Protestant sympathies. Canisius also spent several years in Innsbruck. Initially, the Jesuits were supposed to move into the newly completed Court Church (Hofkirche) and assume responsibility for the choral prayers at the tomb of Maximilian I. Canisius, as the highest-ranking representative of the order north of the Alps, politely but firmly declined. In 1563, however, the Emperor succeeded in luring him to the Alps after all. The scholar was needed as an adviser during a dispute with the Pope at the Council of Trent. For Ferdinand, Canisius composed a prayer manual intended to guide the ruler along the right spiritual path. The presence of Petrus Canisius made Innsbruck one of the theological centres of the German‑speaking world in the sixteenth century. In October 1571, he informed the parish of Wilten of the victory of the papal‑imperial fleet over the Ottomans at Lepanto. From the pulpit, Canisius proclaimed the triumph of Christian forces over the looming pagan threat in the greatest naval battle in history, adopting a tone reminiscent of a Catholic news broadcaster. His role as preacher and scholar in the city would be comparable to Albert Einstein holding a teaching post at a university in the 1930s. Canisius himself was deeply impressed by the piety of the Alpine population.

"Tyrol deserves our special attention, because it is even more Catholic than any other region of Germany and has not yet allowed itself to be ensnared by the heretics like the other countries. Even if many places have already been corrupted [...]. Innsbruck is ... the heart and life of the whole country."

Beyond courtly circles, the court preacher also cut a fine figure. While many Innsbruck residents eyed other foreign preachers and advisers at court with suspicion, Canisius was a man of the people. On behalf of his spiritual—and even more so his secular—masters, he travelled across Europe. Like Martin Luther, he “listened to the people’s speech.” Canisius is said to have travelled more than 100,000 kilometres between the Netherlands, Rome, and Poland, usually staying in modest inns. He understood how vital it was to win over the rural population. While his fellow Jesuits evangelised in distant India, he fought Protestantism in the German lands. He recognized that sermons in Latin were ill‑suited to immunise peasants, farmhands, and maids against the threat posed to the Roman Church by Luther’s Protestantism.

The strongest and most enduring pillar in the struggle against the Reformers was education. Canisius regarded many bishops and politicians as corrupt, morally depraved, and sinful. Instead of eliminating them, however, they were to reform themselves under the protective wings of the Soldiers of Christ. By founding new colleges, the Jesuits sought to improve the education of civil servants, the nobility, and the clergy, and to raise moral standards rooted in Christian principles. To this end, they established colleges throughout the Empire. In Protestant regions, German schools, academies, and grammar schools were founded with the aim of enabling as many subjects as possible to read the Bible for themselves in pursuit of piety and salvation. The Jesuits, by contrast, concentrated on educating elites and thus attained lasting influence within the power centres of Catholic states. With his Catechism, Petrus Canisius created a foundational German‑language compendium for the Catholic struggle against the Reformation. Translated into all major European languages, it long served as a guiding text of the Catholic Church. Between 1555 and 1558, three versions of varying complexity were produced for different audiences. Resourceful publishers even created an illustrated catechism for the illiterate. Well into the nineteenth century—and in some regions even beyond the Second World War—the Kanisi, as it was affectionately known, remained the most influential religious‑philosophical work in Tyrol and the foundation of religious instruction in schools. Canisius also made use of the new medium of the pamphlet to reach as wide an audience as possible. Together with those of Luther, his writings were probably the most widely read of the sixteenth century. In Innsbruck, the Jesuits founded the Latin School from which the university later emerged. This new educational institution had a profound impact on urban development, training the intelligentsia that enabled Innsbruck’s rise as an administrative and economic centre. In addition to university chairs, the Jesuits also oversaw the Theresianum. From 1775 to 1848, noble pupils and students housed in the Franciscan monastery were instructed in courtly etiquette and virtuous conduct in preparation for their careers. The Theresian Knightly Academy provided instruction in diplomatic skills such as foreign languages and dance, as well as military disciplines like fencing. Under Joseph II, Jesuit activities were temporarily interrupted. He stripped ecclesiastical orders of power and property, including the Jesuits—an order he personally disliked and which was also banned by the Pope for being too powerful. In 1781, the University of Innsbruck was downgraded to a lyceum. The vacated Jesuit College was used to establish the city’s first botanical garden, which was expanded further after the Theresianum was dissolved in 1808 during Bavarian administration. The Jesuits were recalled to Innsbruck in 1838. In 1910, the garden was relocated to Hötting as part of new school construction.

Through a dense network of influential positions and control over the education system, the order expanded rapidly. Especially during the Counter‑Reformation, the Jesuits succeeded in forging a close alliance with the Habsburg dynasty. The influence of Jesuit education is evident in the governance of many Habsburg rulers. Jesuits such as Bartholomäus Viller and Wilhelm Lamormaini wielded considerable political influence as confessors and advisers in the Early Modern period. It is no coincidence that Jesuits continue to feature as adversaries of Freemasons in countless conspiracy theories and novels, often cast as the modern equivalent of a James Bond villain. At the same time, the Jesuits were remarkably open to research, knowledge accumulation, and education, striving to understand the world as part of Christian creation. To Catholics, this made them a fashionable counterpoint both to traditional, ossified orders and to Protestantism. Faith and empiricism merged into a kind of pre‑modern science seeking to explain nature and physics. The collection of Ferdinand II at Ambras Castle testifies to this spirit of inquiry, as do the alchemical experiments of Emperor Matthias (1557–1619), which now appear rather absurd.

Despite their rational leanings, the Jesuits also re‑introduced mysticism into everyday church life. Passion plays, Holy Sepulchres, processions, and feast days wrapped strict doctrinal principles in spectacle and performance. Work hard – play hard was the motto. Festivities during processions often escalated into exuberant celebrations, not unlike today’s tent festivals, occasionally erupting into brawls and even violent riots. Bread and wine were celebrated in the style of Roman panem et circenses. On behalf of Ferdinand I, Petrus Canisius authored a book promoting a miracle in Seefeld—On the Highly Celebrated Miraculous Sign that Occurred with the Most Holy Sacrament of the Altar at Seefeld in the Princely County of Tyrol in the Year 1384—to stimulate pilgrimage to the site.

The Jesuit order, fully committed to popular belief, was also highly motivated when it came to persecuting witches and people of other faiths. Peter Canisius was one of the masterminds behind the early modern witch hunts:

"Witches are being punished everywhere, and they are multiplying strangely.... They envy children the grace of baptism and deprive them of it. There are large numbers of child murderers among them... Never before in Germany have you seen people so devoted and dedicated to the devil..."

Canisius also attracted attention as an exorcist, particularly in cases involving noblewomen allegedly afflicted by the “virus” of Protestantism. He exploited the public fascination with witches and demoniacs to promote the power and authority of the Catholic Church. At the same time, the Jesuits were highly active in missionary efforts in the then newly discovered New World of the Americas as well as in Asia. Saint Francis Xavier, one of Ignatius of Loyola’s earliest companions, died during a missionary journey in China. An altar dedicated to this Soldier of Christ can be found in a side chapel of the Jesuit Church in Innsbruck.

To this day, the Jesuits continue to exert an educational influence over Innsbruck. When the city was elevated to an independent diocese in 1964 under the Jesuit Paulus Rusch, Petrus Canisius was chosen as its patron saint. Karl‑Rahner‑Platz today is home not only to the Jesuit Church but also to the Faculty of Theology of the University of Innsbruck. In the Saggen district, the Collegium Canisianum remains under Jesuit administration. The principle of broad‑based societal influence aimed at mass audiences has endured on many levels. The Marian Congregation, known in Innsbruck as the MK, was once one of the largest youth centres in Europe and, in a modern sense, stands in the tradition of the Jesuit approach to the gentle introduction into faith and the education of youth within the Church.

Hardly any era is more difficult to grasp than the interwar period. The Roaring Twenties, jazz, and automobiles come to mind just as readily as inflation and economic crisis. In major cities like Berlin, young women carrying themselves as flappers with bobbed hair, cigarettes, and short skirts danced lasciviously to the new sounds. In Innsbruck, American drinks were served during Five O'Clock Tea at the bar in the Knights' Hall (Rittersaal) of the Cafe Gasthaus Zur Annasäule, which later became the Alt-Innsbruck. The suits of armor can still be admired in the bay window from Maria-Theresien-Straße. For the most part, however, as part of the young Republic of German-Austria, Innsbruck’s population belonged to the faction of poverty, economic crisis, and political polarization. Right from the start, the proclamation of the republic in front of the parliament in Vienna before more than 100,000 people—who were less enthusiastic than they were curious and unsettled—was anything but smooth, accompanied by riots, shootouts, two deaths, and 40 injuries. No one knew how things were supposed to continue after the end of the monarchy and the loss of a large part of the state territory. The new Austria seemed too small and incapable of surviving. The bureaucratic apparatus of the Austro-Hungarian Empire carried on seamlessly under a new flag and name. In the constitution, the federal states, as successors to the old crown lands, were granted a great deal of leeway in legislation and administration under the framework of federalism. However, enthusiasm for the new state among the population remained limited. Not only was the supply situation miserable after the loss of the vast majority of the former giant Habsburg empire, but people also distrusted the underlying concept of the republic. The monarchy had not been perfect, but very few people could relate to the idea of democracy. Instead of being subjects of the Emperor, people were now citizens, but only citizens of a dwarf state with an oversized capital that was little loved in the federal states, rather than citizens of a great empire. In the former crown lands, which were largely governed by the Christian Social Party, people frequently spoke of the "Viennese hydrocephalus" (Wiener Wasserkopf) that let itself be fed by the yields of the hardworking rural population. Other federal states also toyed with the idea of breaking away from the republic after the plan to join Germany, which was supported by all parties, was banned by the victorious powers of the First World War. The various Tyrolean plans, however, were particularly spectacular. From a neutral alpine state with other federal states, a free state consisting of Tyrol and Bavaria, or extending from Kufstein to Salurn, an annexation to Switzerland, all the way to a Catholic church-state under papal leadership, many options were considered. The most obvious solution was particularly popular. Feeling German was nothing new. So why not also attach oneself politically to the big brother to the north? This desire was highly pronounced, especially among urban elites and students. The annexation plan (Anschlussplan) received 98% approval in a vote in Tyrol, but it never came to fruition. In Innsbruck, the Tyrolean National Assembly (Tiroler Nationalversammlung) and the Tyrolean National Council (Tiroler Nationalrat)—a concentration government with members from all parties—constituted themselves in the autumn of 1918 from the members of the former provincial parliament (Landtag). The National Council had authority over the people's and citizens' militias (Volks- und Bürgerwehren), which had formed at the municipal level to maintain public order, at least on paper. Primarily between Innsbruck and the Brenner Pass, up to 50,000 soldiers were stationed at the railway stations, causing problems while waiting for their transport home.

Instead of becoming a part of Germany, Tyrol was occupied by the hated Wallsche (Italian forces). For nearly two years after the end of the war, Italian troops occupied Innsbruck. Following the complex and lengthy peace negotiations in Paris, it finally became a certainty: on October 10, 1920, the formal annexation of South Tyrol took place. At the Brenner Pass, the barrier gate went down. On the North Tyrolean side, only a few administrative and customs buildings were erected, but in the southern part of the village, large barracks shot out of the ground to secure the new border militarily. Historical Tyrol was split in two. In Innsbruck and many other Tyrolean municipalities, pompous mourning ceremonies were organized annually on this date for years. In 1924, the Innsbruck city council decided to name squares and streets around the main railway station after South Tyrolean cities. Bozner Platz as well as Brixner Straße and Salurner Straße still bear their names today. Many people on both sides of the Brenner felt betrayed. Although they had by no means won the war, they did not see themselves as losers to Italy. Hatred toward Italians reached its peak in the interwar period, even though the occupying forces acted with pronounced mildness. A passage from the 1930s short story collection "The Front Above the Peaks" (Die Front über den Gipfeln) by Karl Springenschmid reflects the general mood:

"The young girl says, 'Becoming Italian would be the worst thing.

Old Tappeiner just nods and grumbles: "I know it myself and we all know it: becoming a whale would be the worst thing."

Trouble was also brewing in domestic politics. The revolution in Russia and the subsequent civil war with millions of fatalities, expropriation, and a complete reversal of the system cast its long shadow all the way to Austria. The prospect of "Soviet conditions" terrified people. Austria was deeply divided. Capital and federal states, city and countryside, citizens, workers, and peasants—in the vacuum of the first postwar years, each group wanted to shape the future according to its own ideas. The cultural struggles of the late monarchy between conservatives, liberals, and socialists continued seamlessly. The rift existed not only on a political level. Morals, family, leisure activities, education, faith, legal understanding—every sphere of life was affected. Who should govern? How should wealth, rights, and duties be distributed? Liberals and the Tyrolean People's Party (Tiroler Volkspartei), which had emerged from the Peasants' League (Bauernbund), the People's Association (Volksverein), and the Catholic Working Class (Katholische Arbeiterschaft), were at least as hostile toward Social Democracy as they were toward the federal capital of Vienna and the Italian occupiers. A communist overthrow was not a real danger, especially in Tyrol, but it was effectively instrumentalized in the media as a threat to bring Social Democracy into disrepute. Although a workers', peasants', and soldiers' council (Arbeiter-, Bauern- und Soldatenrat) modeled on the Soviet system had proclaimed itself in Innsbruck in 1919, its influence remained minimal and it was supported by no political party. From 1920 onward, so-called soldiers' councils were officially formed, but like the rest of politics, they were dominated by the Christian Socials. The conservative peasant and bourgeois camp right of center militarized itself more professionally with the Tyrolean Homeland Guard (Tiroler Heimatwehr) and enjoyed a stronger influx of members than leftist groups, also thanks to church support. From church pulpits and in conservative media, Social Democracy was referred to as the "party of Jews" (Judenpartei) and homeless traitors to the fatherland. People were all too eager to blame them for the lost war and its consequences. The Tiroler Anzeiger summed up the public fears: "Woe to the Christian people if the Jew-Socialists win the elections!".

While the Tyrolean People's Party dominated in rural districts, Social Democracy in Innsbruck under the leadership of Martin Rapoldi always managed to win between 30% and 50% of the vote in elections from 1919 onward, despite the strong headwinds. Under the new municipal code of 1919, which provided for universal suffrage for all adults, the city council comprised 40 members. Out of 24,644 citizens called to the ballot box, an incredible 24,060 exercised their right to vote. A certain degree of emancipation also became noticeable. Right from the first city council with free elections, three women were represented. The fact that the Social Democrats did not secure the mayoral seat was due to the majorities in the city council formed by alliances among the other parties.

High politics, however, was merely the backdrop to the actual misery. Martin Rapoldi got straight to the point in September 1919: "Gentlemen, for the moment the constitutional question is completely secondary to the population, as is whether the province has more rights or fewer rights. More potatoes is the slogan in our province." Time and again, looting and hunger riots broke out in the provincial capital. Those who had money could supply themselves with food on the black market; the rest depended on charity from foreign aid shipments. Long after the war, the province of Tyrol still required outside help to feed its population. Under the headline "Significant Expansion of the American Child Relief Action in Tyrol," the Innsbrucker Nachrichten reported on April 9, 1921: "Taking into account the needs of the province of Tyrol, the American representatives for Austria have most generously increased the daily number of meals to 18,000 portions." Alongside hunger, medical care was a major issue. The epidemic that went down in history as the Spanish Flu also took its toll in Innsbruck in the years after the war. Exact numbers were not recorded; worldwide, the number of fatalities is estimated at 27 to 50 million. In Innsbruck, at the height of the Spanish Flu, around 100 victims are said to have succumbed to the disease daily. Many Innsbruckers had not returned home from the battlefields and were missing as fathers, husbands, and workers. Many of those who did make it back were wounded and scarred by the horrors of war. As late as February 1920, the "Tyrolean Committee of Siberians" (Tiroler Ausschuss der Sibirier) organized a benefit evening at the Gasthof Breinößl "…in favor of the fund for the repatriation of our prisoners of war…". On top of this came unemployment. Civil servants and public sector employees in particular had lost their jobs after the League of Nations tied its loan to harsh austerity measures. Public sector salaries were cut. Strikes occurred repeatedly. Tourism as an economic factor was nonexistent due to the problems in the surrounding countries, which were likewise ravaged by the war. The construction industry, which had been booming before the war, collapsed completely. Innsbruck’s largest company, Huter & Söhne, had over 700 employees in 1913; at the peak of the economic crisis in 1933, only 18 remained. The middle class largely collapsed. The average Innsbrucker was destitute and malnourished. Often, no more than 800 calories per day could be scraped together. In this climate of poverty, the crime rate was higher than ever before. Many people lost their homes. In 1922, 3,000 families in Innsbruck were looking for accommodation despite a municipal emergency housing program that had already been in effect for several years. Apartments were built into every available property. On February 11, 1921, a long list in the Innsbrucker Nachrichten detailing the individual projects under way included this item:

"The municipal hospital has vacated the epidemic barracks in Pradl and placed them at the disposal of the municipality for the creation of emergency housing. The necessary credit of 295 K (Editor's note: Kronen) was approved for the construction of 7 emergency apartments."

In the early years, there was hardly any improvement in people's everyday lives. The central government had little enforcement power in distant federal states like Tyrol. For a time, Innsbruck, like many other Austrian municipalities, even began printing its own money. The amount of money in circulation rose from 12 billion kronen to over 3 trillion kronen between 1920 and 1922. An epochal inflation was the result. Then, politics woke up from its lethargy. Under Chancellor Ignaz Seipel, the Republic managed to secure a League of Nations loan. The krone, a relic of the monarchy, was replaced by the schilling as the official currency of Austria on January 1, 1925. Between 1918 and 1922, the old currency had lost more than 95% of its value against the dollar relative to the pre-war exchange rate. With the currency stabilization following the League of Nations loan, however, not only did banks and citizens recover, but public sector construction orders also picked up again. Innsbruck modernized. What economists call a sham boom (Scheinblüte) occurred. This short-term economic recovery was a bubble, but it brought major residential construction and infrastructure projects to the city of Innsbruck. In Innsbruck, there are no deliberate places of remembrance dedicated to the creation of the First Republic. The heritage-protected residential complexes such as the Schlachthofblock, the Pembaurblock, the Mandelsbergerblock, the Pembaurschule, the municipal indoor swimming pool (Städtisches Hallenbad), the Höhenstraße up to the Hungerburg, and the cable cars onto the Patscherkofel and Nordkette are contemporary witnesses that remain in operation to this day. The city purchased the Achensee lake and, as the main shareholder of TIWAG, built the power plant in Jenbach. In 1930, the Universitätsbrücke bridge connected the clinic in Wilten with the Höttinger Au. On the Sill river, the Pembaurbrücke and the Prinz-Eugen-Brücke were constructed. In Reichenau, the first airfield opened on June 1, 1925, involving Innsbruck in air traffic 65 years after the opening of the railway line. Many interested onlookers gathered on the meadow east of the city to witness the event. A monument to the pilots who fell in the World War was unveiled before the German airline Aero Lloyd took off for Munich in a single-engine Fokker-Grulich F III. In the autumn, the integration of the new airfield into the Strasbourg – Zurich – Innsbruck – Vienna route by the French Compagnie Internationale de Navigation followed. Thanks to the daring efforts of pilot Raoul Stojsawljewic, remote regions and alpine mountain huts could now also be supplied with food from Innsbruck, as a report in the Innsbrucker Nachrichten from June 7, 1926, shows:

"In fine weather yesterday morning, Major Stojsawljewic from German Lufthansa took off with his aircraft and flew toward Kühtai, where he dropped free beer, donated by the 'Löwenbräu' brewery, by parachute from a low altitude. At 10 o'clock, the Patscherkofelhaus was approached and beer from the Zipf brewery was dropped..."

Trotz der kurzzeitigen Höhenflüge war die Erste Republik auch auf lokaler Ebene eine schwere Geburt und sie sollte nicht lange Bestand haben, obwohl viel Positives seinen Anfang nahm. Aus Untertanen wurden Bürger. Was in der Zeit Maria Theresias begann, wurde nun unter neuen Vorzeichen weitergeführt. Der Wechsel vom Untertanen zum Bürger zeichnete sich nicht nur durch ein neues Wahlrecht, sondern vor allem durch die verstärkte Obsorge des Staates aus. Staatliche Regelungen, Schulen, Kindergärten, Arbeitsämter, Krankenhäuser und städtische Wohnanlagen traten an die Stelle des Wohlwollens von Grundherrn, Landesfürsten, wohlhabender Bürger, der Monarchie und der Kirche. Bis heute basiert vieles im österreichischen Staatswesen sowie im Innsbrucker Stadtbild und der Infrastruktur auf dem, was nach dem Zusammenbruch der Monarchie entstanden war. Auch gesellschaftliche Bräuche und alltägliche Lebenseinstellungen veränderten sich in der Republik nach dem Zusammenbruch der Monarchie. Der 1925 eingeführte Weltspartag erinnert alljährlich an die Einführung des Schillings und die Mahnung an Kinder und Erwachsene zum verantwortungsvollen Umgang mit Geld. Die Handschrift der jungen Massenparteien und das neue Verhältnis zwischen Zentralstaat und Bürger sind bei allem Lokalpatriotismus unübersehbar.

An Innsbruck student nearly changed the course of world history instead of Gavrilo Princip. In 1913, the young man boasted to a waitress about his plans to shoot the heir to the throne, but he was arrested before he could carry them out. Only when the world-changing shots were actually fired in Sarajevo a year later did an article appear in the Innsbrucker Nachrichten on June 30 about the events. The consequences that the First World War, which subsequently broke out, would have for the world and for people's everyday lives could not yet be foreseen after the assassination of Franz Ferdinand on June 28. Two days after the murder of the Habsburg heir in Sarajevo, readers in Innsbruck were already reading prophetic words in their newspaper: “We have arrived at a turning point – perhaps the turning point – in the destiny of this empire.” In Innsbruck, too, enthusiasm for war was widespread in 1914. Driven by the slogan of the time, “God, Emperor, and Fatherland,” the vast majority of people unanimously welcomed the attack on Serbia. Politicians, the clergy, and the press fuelled the general jubilation. Particularly “deserving” in promoting the war were the two theologians Joseph Seeber (1856–1919) and Anton Müllner, known as Brother Willram (1870–1919), who, through their sermons and writings such as The Bloody Year, elevated the war into a crusade against France and Italy. In addition to the imperial proclamation To My Peoples, which appeared throughout the media of the Empire, the Innsbrucker Nachrichten published an article on July 29, the day after Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia, about Prince Eugene's capture of Belgrade in 1717. The tone in the media was celebratory, although not entirely without dark forebodings of what was to come.

"The Emperor's appeal to his people will be deeply felt. The internal strife has been silenced and the speculations of our enemies about unrest and similar things have been miserably put to shame. Above all, the Germans stand by the Emperor and the Empire in their old and well-tried loyalty: this time, too, they are ready to stand up for dynasty and fatherland with their blood. We are facing difficult days; no one can even guess what fate will bring us, what it will bring to Europe, what it will bring to the world. We can only trust with our old Emperor in our strength and in God and cherish the confidence that, if we find unity and stick together, we must be granted victory, for we did not want war and our cause is that of justice!"

Many Innsbruck residents volunteered for the campaign against Serbia, which was believed to be a matter of only a few weeks or months. So many volunteers poured into Innsbruck from outside the city to report to the recruitment commissions that the city was almost bursting at the seams. No one could imagine how differently things would turn out. After the first battles in distant Galicia, it became clear that this would not be over within a few months. The Imperial Riflemen (Kaiserjäger) and other Tyrolean troops were effectively sacrificed. Poor equipment, inadequate supplies, and the catastrophic leadership of the High Command under Conrad von Hötzendorf led thousands either to their deaths or into captivity, where hunger, abuse, and forced labour awaited them. In 1915, Italy entered the war on the side of France and Britain. Under the infamous secret Treaty of London, the young kingdom had been promised generous territorial gains in return for supporting the Entente against Germany and Austria. On May 23, the former ally declared war on the Habsburg Empire. Until regular troops could be transferred from the Eastern Front, regional defence depended on the Standschützen, a force consisting of men under 21, over 42, or those deemed unfit for regular military service. Correspondingly, casualties were high. Fighting in the mountain war stretched from the Ortler in the west across the northern shore of Lake Garda to the Sexten Dolomites. Innsbruck itself was not directly affected by military operations. At the very least, however, the sounds of war could be heard in the provincial capital, as reported in the newspaper of July 7, 1915:

“Soon after the Italians commenced hostilities, cannon fire could clearly be heard in the region of the Serles peak, coming from one of the battlefields in southern Tyrol, probably the Vielgereut plateau. In recent days, the sound of artillery fire has also undoubtedly been detected in Innsbruck itself and in the northeastern parts of the city — individual powerful blasts, dull rather than rolling and resonant, echoing across the Brenner Pass. There can be no mistake. In Innsbruck itself, the thunder of the guns is more difficult to detect because of the noise of the city, but on one occasion, around 9 p.m., when there was some degree of quiet, this unmistakable thunder, originating from our mortars, was clearly heard.”

Although the front was far away, the war increasingly penetrated civilian life. This total involvement of society in warfare was a new phenomenon. The mass mobilization of a large proportion of the working male population brought many businesses to a complete standstill. Shop shelves remained empty, public transport services ceased, and craftsmen and labourers were called up for military service. Companies still able to operate were subordinated to the wartime economy. By the “Hunger Winter” of 1917, Innsbruck’s economy had almost completely collapsed. Food, coal, and firewood were in short supply, and hunger and cold became bitter enemies of women, children, the wounded, and those unfit for military service. During the final years of the war, provisions were distributed through ration cards. The basic weekly allowance per person amounted to 500 grams of meat, 60 grams of butter, and 2 kilograms of potatoes. Archive photographs show long queues of desperate and hungry people outside food shops. Protests and strikes repeatedly broke out. Politicians, trade unionists, workers, and returning soldiers saw an opportunity for change. Under the slogan “Peace, Bread, and Suffrage,” parties of many different political backgrounds united in opposition to the war. The cityscape also changed. Barracks were erected in Höttinger Au to house prisoners of war. Wounded soldiers arrived in such large numbers that civilian buildings, including the university library then under construction and Ambras Castle, were converted into military hospitals. A predecessor of today’s Tram Line 3 was established to transport the wounded from the railway station to the new garrison hospital, today’s Conrad Barracks in Pradl. To cope with the large number of fallen soldiers, the Pradl Military Cemetery was created.

As the war neared its end, the front also drew closer. In February 1918, the Italian air force succeeded in dropping three bombs on Innsbruck. The Neue Freie Presse reported for the first time on the secret Treaty of London, heightening Tyrolean anxiety over the threatened loss of territory south of the Brenner Pass. By then, most people already knew the war was lost and sensed the fate that awaited Tyrol, as this article of October 6, 1918, demonstrates:

“External and internal enemies are gambling today with the land of Andreas Hofer. The latest throw of the dice is even more cruel; never before has a free land been bartered away so disgracefully. The blood of our fathers, sons, and brothers has been shed in vain if this shameful plan becomes reality. The final throw has not yet been made. Therefore, Tyroleans, attend the Tyrolean People’s Assembly in Brixen on October 13, 1918 (next Sunday). German soil must remain German; Tyrolean soil must remain Tyrolean. Tyroleans, decide your own future!”

On November 4, Austria-Hungary and the Kingdom of Italy finally agreed to an armistice. Part of the agreement granted Italy the right to occupy territory of the monarchy. Alarm bells immediately rang among Austria-Hungary’s allies in the German Empire. On the very next day, Bavarian troops entered Innsbruck. Germany was still at war with Italy and feared that the front might shift into North Tyrol, bringing it closer to German territory. Fortunately for Innsbruck and the surrounding region, Germany also capitulated one week later on November 11. As a result, major military engagements between regular armies were avoided.

Nevertheless, Innsbruck remained in danger. Massive convoys of military vehicles, trains packed with soldiers, and thousands of exhausted troops making their way home on foot passed through the city. Anyone who could jumped onto overcrowded trains or military vehicles to leave the front behind and return home. In November 1918 alone, more than 270 soldiers lost their lives during these reckless attempts or had to be admitted to one of the city’s hospitals. The city not only had to maintain order among its own citizens and ensure food supplies but also protect itself against looting. To preserve public order, the Tyrolean National Council established a citizens’ militia on November 5 composed of pupils, students, workers, and ordinary citizens. On November 23, 1918, Italian troops occupied the city and its surroundings. More than 80,000 Italian soldiers were stationed in Tyrol, around 5,000 of whom required accommodation in the starving and destitute city. Schools were turned into barracks. Mayor Greil’s conciliatory appeal to surrender the city peacefully succeeded. There were isolated disturbances, food riots, and incidents of looting, but there were no armed clashes with the occupation troops and no Bolshevik revolution such as the one that occurred in Munich.

The consequences of the First World War for Innsbruck’s population were devastating. More than 1,200 people lost their lives on battlefields or in military hospitals, while approximately 600 were wounded. Memorials to the First World War and its victims can be found throughout Innsbruck, particularly at churches and cemeteries. The Kaiserjäger Museum on Bergisel displays uniforms, weapons, and photographs from the war. The theologians Anton Müllner and Josef Seeber have streets named after them in Innsbruck. A street was also named after Archduke Eugene, commander-in-chief of the Austro-Hungarian Army on the Southern Front. A monument to the unsuccessful military leader stands in front of the Hofgarten. The eastern section of the Amras Military Cemetery commemorates the Italian occupation.