The essays in this special issue all focus on the city of Berlin, in particular, its relationship with its margins and borders over the longue dureé. The authors—Kristin Poling, Marion Gray, Barry Jackisch, and Eli Rubin—all consider the history of Berlin over the last two centuries, with special emphasis on how Berlin expanded over this time and how it encountered the open spaces surrounding it and within it—the “green fields” (grüne Wiesen) referred to in the theme title. Each of them explores a different period in Berlin's history, and so together, the essays form a long dureé history of Berlin, although each of the essays in its own way explores the roots of Berlin's history in deeper time scales, from the early modern period, to the Middle Ages, and even to the very end of the last ice age, more than 10,000 years ago.

In 1783, Friedrich Gedike wondered whether the city of Berlin was growing disproportionately to the rest of the country. Like any good enlightened observer of the city, Gedike praised the open vistas of newly planned suburbs over the cramped streets of the medieval city core. But, though a spacious city allowed for healthy use and recreation and Berlin remained much smaller than great capitals such as Paris and London, Gedike feared that Berlin's growth was becoming too rapid to control. Something, he worried, was out of proportion. Hundreds of buildings had been erected in place of the city's now demolished ramparts. This newly won land had not sufficed, however, and new suburbs with thousands of new buildings arose, streets irregularly placed, without adequate linkages to the inner city. This immoderate growth was evident in the failure to overcome the boundary between the city core and newly developed suburbs. The number of streets broken through the former fortifications land proved inadequate. This continued division, Gedike feared, would impede the city's ongoing development.

On May 23, 1908, Frau Treppens, the proprietress of a Gasthaus near the agricultural estate Klein Ziethen contacted the governing council of Steglitz regarding an urgent concern about water damage. Steglitz was five kilometers south of Berlin's southern boundary; Klein Ziethen was twelve kilometers southeast of Steglitz. Writing on the advice of attorney Georg Hillman, Frau Treppens urgently inquired what the council was going to do about the water on her property, which had already caused “enormous damage.” Like many other property owners near Klein Ziethen, she had been battling water in her basement; for some this had been going on for two years. Frau Treppens inquired what steps Steglitz was taking against Rixdorf, another rapidly growing suburb, located on Berlin's southeast perimeter sixteen kilometers from Klein Ziethen. Why was Frau Treppens turning to the officials of Steglitz, and why did she and her attorney assume that Steglitz and Rixdorf bore responsibility for her water-soaked cellar?

In the conclusion of his 1915 dissertation, the influential German urban planner Martin Wagner argued forcefully for a new approach to the role of green space in city planning. Referring to recent efforts to improve urban hygiene and general cleanliness in major German cities, especially the public bathhouse movement of the late nineteenth century, Wagner claimed that expansion and promotion of accessible green space constituted the next big challenge for those interested in improving urban living:

On April 11, 1977, near a small village northeast of Berlin called Marzahn, construction teams from the Volkseigener Betrieb (VEB) Tiefbau Berlin began digging the first foundation for what became the largest construction site and the largest prefabricated housing settlement (Plattenbausiedlung) not just in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), but in all of Europe (see Figure 1). An army of more than 6,000 workers arrived, and over the course of the next decade, built more than 200,000 apartments in Marzahn and the surrounding areas of the northeast edge of Berlin. These came to house more than 400,000 residents, who moved there from the older neighborhoods of East Berlin and from all over the GDR.

While censorship touched upon the careers of every German writer in the nineteenth century, a few cases stood out to contemporaries, defining their era. If the Demagogenverfolgung stamped the early 1820s and the prohibition of Young Germany the 1830s, the assault on left-wing or “Young” Hegelianism in 1842–43 was the major censorship case of the decade. Banning the Deutsche Jahrbücher, Rheinische Zeitung, and Leipziger Allgemeine Zeitung was part of a significant, coordinated effort to undermine a small but influential faction of radical social critics. This wave of intellectual persecution radicalized the left, sowing the seeds for Marx's thoroughgoing assault on the foundations of European state and society. Understanding these cases in the context of a broader process of the transformation of censorship practices in modern Germany, however, remains an incomplete project for historians.

During his visit to the Federal Republic of Germany in the summer of 1954, Fritz Stern, a young history professor at Columbia University, witnessed in Berlin the memorial service for the victims of the July 20, 1944, revolt against Hitler. His feelings were stirred at the sight of the sorrowful faces of the widows and children of the conspirators who were executed in the aftermath of the failed assassination attempt, and by President Theodor Heuss's speech, recalling the anguish and courage of the Germans who made the decision to rebel in an act of atonement. Born in Germany in 1926 to Protestant parents of Jewish ancestry, Stern experienced racist antisemitism in the Third Reich firsthand before his family emigrated in 1938. He returned to Germany with conflicted emotions. During World War II, when the magnitude of the annihilation of European Jewry was uncovered, he felt intense hatred toward National Socialism. The distinction between German and Nazi became blurred. And yet, he could not bring himself to hold the German people collectively guilty for such crimes and to reject his native land. At the ceremony he struggled with his own feelings, saying to himself at first that “their purposes had not been ours.” Then a sense of shame for his indiscriminate hatred overwhelmed him. He left Germany in August “purged of hatred—though not disloyal to the feelings of the past, and full of forebodings about the future.”