The partitions of Poland can be likened to an assassination per-petrated on a victim who had long before succumbed to an al-most suicidal indifference to the dangers besetting him. Yet this episode in the “diplomatic slaughterhouse,” as Ludwig Dehio termed it, did not merely signify the demise, alternately ignominious and heroic, of an antiquated, quasi-medieval state which, at its height, had measured itself confidently against Habsburg Austria, striven for power in Russia, and scorned the pretensions of the Hohenzollern electors. The partitioning states soon discovered that by annexing large Polish territories and populations they had bequeathed to themselves a problem of political integration which, as modern nationalism spread through central Europe, proved to be increasingly intractable. The “Polish question,” settled in the treaty of 1797, and then again in 1815, never ceased to impinge on the minds of the governors of Austria, Prussia, and Russia, sometimes with the weight of an incubus, until their empires, antiquated in turn, collapsed in the wake of World War I.

Summarizing the activities of the Sigmund-Freud-Institute (SFI) in Frankfurt am Main in 1969, its director Alexander Mitscherlich painted a bleak picture of recent events. Psychoanalysis had always faced opposition in Germany, he wrote, but of late Freudianism contended with several broadsides simultaneously: critics still maintained that it placed too much emphasis on sexuality; some added that behavioral therapy or sophisticated medication did a better job at treating patients than long-term analysis; yet others argued that Freud's teachings may have been relevant in 1900, but that society no longer resembled turn-of-the-twentieth-century Vienna. On top of all this, Mitscherlich complained, a new generation demanded that psychoanalysis figure as chief witness for an antiauthoritarian education that emphasized indulgence rather than sublimation. “Society” continued to make life difficult for psychoanalysis, then, and it was for this reason that the government needed to assist the SFI in its efforts to train a new generation of analysts in Germany.

In 1866, as the result of the Seven Weeks' War with Prussia and Italy, the Austrian Empire lost both her primacy in Germany and the last remnants of her position on the Italian peninsula. The historical dualism of the empire as both a German and a non-German power was, of course, not ended by the conflict—nor, because of Bismarck's prudent moderation, was Austria destroyed as a great power. But the half-century of Austria's predominant influence in European politics was over. The leadership of Germany passed decisively into the hands of Prussia—as would the leadership of Europe in a few short years—and although Austria retained Italian-populated territories, her dominance over the peninsula was irretrievably lost.

At a time when the Republican party in America seems to have abandoned its brief hopes of proclaiming a new paradigm, it may seem apropos to observe that old ones die hard—and not only in public life. A case in point from the scholarly world is the subject of this essay: the persistent historiographical notion of industrial factionalism. Throughout this century, students of German political economy have tended to see the country's business world as divided between two groupings. One comprises the classic heavy industries of the first Industrial Revolution and the Ruhr: coal, iron, and steel. Supposedly oriented toward domestic markets, burdened with high labor costs, doomed to flattening gains in productivity and profits, and habituated to hierarchy within their plants and the nation, executives in this grouping have figured in the historical literature as consistently and intransigently united against free trade, labor unions, and parliamentary government—indeed, against modernization itself.

The Kapp-Lüttwitz Putsch, hastily begun on March 13, 1920, and ingloriusly ended with the resignation of Dr. Wolfgang Kapp on March 17, has already been the subject of significant study. The details of the putsch itself, the character of the conspirators, and their motives, the positions taken by the political parties and leaders, and the reasons for its failure are fairly Well known. It is generally agreed that the circle of conspirators had too narrow a social base and was too divided in its purposes to be successful. In essence, it was a revolt of unemployed reactionary East Elbian officials like Kapp himself and his “Minister of the Interior,” Traugott von Jagow, disgruntled conservative military officers, the most important of whom was Freiherr von Lüttwitz, and military adventurers like Colonel Max Bauer, Major Pabst, and Captain Ehrhardt. Where Kapp sought far-reaching constitutional and political changes, Lüttwitz strove for more short-term goals, i.e., reconstruction of the cabinet to give it an “expert” character, new elections, and a larger army. The Kapp regime was doomed because of the refusal of the government bureaucracy to serve it and because of the general strike called by the trade unions on March 14.

In the writing of the German Reformation, there has long been a strong association between urban history and the evangelical movement. The sentiment has been around since the days of Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886), but it was the publication of Bernd Moeller's Imperial Cities and the Reformation (1962) that turned the rather casual notion into a research paradigm. Moeller imagined the Reformation in terms of the medieval cityscape. “It is important to recognize,” he wrote, “that the Reformation was introduced almost everywhere according to the forms prescribed by the city constitution, and that it had its foundation in the city's communal mentality.” Constitutionally, there was a clear filiation of development to account for the later Protestant church. Throughout the medieval period urban communes had been securing rights and privileges extending the claims and functions of local sovereignty, from the regulation of the immediate economy, the control of taxation, and the administration of lesser jurisdiction, to the guardianship of parish religion. In a similar manner, when Moeller spoke of the collective mentality of the German city, he did so in order to draw attention to the norms and values of urban governance and the similar reserve of norms preached in early evangelical theology. In its origins, the Imperial city was characterized as a political association, bound by oath, joined by common will, created in order to preserve the peace. The urban values underwriting this myth of community were those that placed collective welfare above the interests of the individual—concord, unity, justice, love, peace, and the common good (Gemeinnutz). Further legitimation of the communal ideal was provided by the medieval affinity to imagine the city in terms of a sacral corporation (corpus Christianum), with the religious standing of each member of the union bearing upon collective salvation. Little separates this cast of mind from evangelical theology and its stress on brotherly love, peace, and the community of believers. God's Word, to use the phrasing of the town clerk of Nördlingen, heals the divisions of the commune as it heals the divisions of the soul.

The extent to which German big business aided Hitler in his rise to power is still a matter of controversy. For Marxists, or at least those who follow the Moscow line, there is no problem, since they regard Nazism as a manifestation of the monopoly stage of capitalism. Non-Marxists, however, are widely divided. Some have reached conclusions similar to those of the Marxists; others have exonerated the capitalists. Most have concluded that big business gave some support to the Nazis but have not specified its extent or significance. In part, this wide range of opinion is the result of ideological differences. But just as importantly, the evidence on which existing studies of the subject rest is scanty, sometimes ambiguous, and often of questionable validity. Few aspects of National Socialism have been so inadequately researched. Even the most basic facts remain in doubt, and before any further general interpretations can usefully be put forward toward a resolution of the controversy, it is necessary to return to the fundamental task of setting the record straight. A great deal more evidence is available for this purpose than is generally recognized, enough, in fact, to clear up many disputed issues and produce more than a few surprises. A case in point is that of Emil Kirdorf, long universally regarded as an early and loyal backer of Hitler and National Socialism in the camp of big business.

As Albert Hirschman has recently observed, critics and advocates of a capitalist, market economy are forever reinventing the wheel, repeating arguments made by their forebears decades and sometimes centuries ago. Take the following observations of a social critic—let his name, for the moment, remain a mystery—as he casts his gaze upon the cultural influence of the market. New forms of capitalist economic organization, he observes, have led to the disappearance of the link between ownership of property and civic responsibility. Men are so involved in acquisition, he laments, that they no longer have time for political concerns and public life. He sees an eclipse of civic virtue, a diminishing willingness to sacrifice private concerns for the public good. Changes in social structure brought about by capitalist development are no less worrisome. The process of the market is leading to the replacement of once-independent producers by men who are mere specialized cogs in a productive machine. The cultural consequences of capitalism are cause for despair. The ever-shifting, international fashions on which the market thrives are destroying authentic, indigenous culture. New forms of capitalist merchandising prosper by arousing novel desires, creating tastes for consumer goods which people do not really need, and leading to excessive expenditure which is bankrupting the economy. Most pernicious are unprecedented marketing techniques which undermine the steadying influence of the family by invading the household itself.

On the morning of October 21, 1941, the custodian of Odessa's Museum of Western Civilization summoned twenty-three-year-old Eugenie Anissimoff and her middle-aged mother to lead an unusual and most demanding tour group. Having fled the besieged metropolis weeks earlier to their former residence in suburban Odessa, the two women had returned to their bombed-out apartment in the recently occupied city. Homeless, the pair had sought refuge with the museum's caretaker, an old family friend. Unable to communicate with the delegation of SS and Wehrmacht officers who queued for admission, the Russian-speaking janitor hoped that the two Volksdeutsche women would help to disarm the menacing visitors by granting them a German-language tour. Although ostensibly to inspect the building for booby traps, the visit's true purpose became clear as the Germans began loading paintings, rugs, and even a golden saddle into their vehicles. At the conclusion of the tour-cum-robbery, the group's leader, SS-Obersturmführer Dr. Klaus Siebert, thanked the two women and complimented their excellent German. Hearing of their dire situation, Siebert advised Anissimoff and her mother to register for support at the local SS-run Volksdeutsche Mittelstelle, or Ethnic German Liaison Office (hereafter VoMi), bureau in a former music conservatory on Novovlaskaia Street.

That the Wehrmacht participated fully in a racial war of extermination on behalf of the National Socialist regime is indisputable. Officers and enlisted men alike accepted the logic that the elimination of the Soviet Union was necessary for Germany's survival. The Wehrmacht's atrocities on the Eastern Front are a testament to the success of National Socialist propaganda and ideological training, but the construct of “Judeo-bolshevism” originated during World War I and its immediate aftermath. Between 1918 and 1923, central Europe witnessed a surge in right-wing paramilitary violence and anti-Semitic activity resulting from fears of bolshevism and a widely held belief that Jews were largely responsible for spreading revolution. Jews suffered the consequences of revolution and resurgent nationalism in the borderlands between Germany and Russia after World War I, but it was inside Germany that the construct of Judeo-bolshevism evolved into a powerful rhetorical tool for the growing völkisch movement and eventually a justification for genocide.

For more than eighty years there has been controversy about who set the fire that destroyed the plenary chamber of the Reichstag fire on the evening of February 27, 1933—thereby handing the Nazis a pretext to gut the democratic Weimar constitution through the emergency “Reichstag Fire Decree.” Since the 1960s there has been a consensus among historians that the fire was set by Marinus van der Lubbe, a twenty-four-year-old Dutch journeyman stonemason supposedly acting alone—with no Nazi involvement. Few historians, however, have been inclined to investigate the motives behind the development of this single-culprit narrative, or the reasons for its generally positive reception among postwar German historians. With the aid of newly discovered sources, this article examines the legal and political interests that have underpinned this narrative. The single-culprit narrative was developed by ex-Nazis, whereas accounts of the Reichstag fire stressing Nazi complicity came almost invariably from former resistance fighters and victims of Nazism. Postwar historians responded to these accounts in much the same way they have responded to perpetrator and victim accounts of the Holocaust: with a markedly greater preference for those of the perpetrators. This tendency has shaped the debate over the Reichstag fire in the same way it has shaped other areas of research on the Third Reich.

In his memoirs, published in 1919, Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, the former Secretary of the Navy and architect of the Wilhelmine battle fleet, claimed that it had been his great “fortune” in 1896 to receive a naval command abroad. Deployed to East Asia, he had been able to “take yet another look at the overseas interests of Germandom” right before the “takeover of the Imperial Naval Office and the inception of the naval buildup.” Appointed in late March 1896, Tirpitz commanded the East Asian Cruiser Division until he was summoned back to Berlin twelve months later, on March 31, 1897. He had returned home “with the impression that England sought to block as much as possible our future development,” as he characterized the main lesson he claimed to have learned during the months he spent away from Germany.

Historians of Germany in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have always been spoilt for choice when needing to recommend a good general account of their period. Until recently, their colleagues working on the eighteenth century and the revolutionary-Napoleonic period have been less fortunate. The second volume of Hajo Holborn's A History of Modern Germany contains much that is original, penetrating, and powerful but is also decidedly uneven in quality, patchy in coverage, and not an easy read. A.J.P. Taylor's The Course of German History is a wild mixture of insight and perversity, immensely stimulating but marred by an extreme Germanophobia and distorted by a teleological perspective which sees all German history since the dawn of time heading inexorably for 1933: “it was no more a mistake for the German people to end up with Hitler than it is an accident when a river flows into the sea.” “Modern Germany” has usually been deemed to begin in 1815, so the period which immediately preceded the Vienna settlement has been studied with a view only to what it started.

On November 27, 1918, Konrad Haenisch, the newly installed education minister (Kultusminister) and Majority Social Democrat, issued arguably the most radical decree in the history of Prussian schooling. The “Appeal to Male and Female Pupils in Secondary Schools,” as the edict was titled, aimed to redress the alleged rampant “demons of morbid subservience, mistrust, and lies” in secondary schools. Its proposed solution was for every school to hold an assembly by the end of the year to introduce democratic governance. Each teacher and each pupil in the ninth grade (Obertertia) and higher would have an equal vote on whether they wanted to form a school parliament (Schulgemeinde), a pupil council (Schülerrat), or both. In the school parliament, all teachers and pupils would have equal rights to have an “entirely open discussion” about their school affairs, including matters of discipline, and equal votes to pass resolutions pertaining thereto. In addition, pupils alone would elect a teacher and pupil council that would be standing liaisons to the director and the other teaching staff. Most controversially, the school parliament or the standing pupil council could appoint a representative empowered to bypass the school director and teaching staff and hold conversations with the ministers in Berlin about how to redress inequities in their particular school and change youth policy in the new republic more generally. A last measure in the decree gave pupils the unlimited right to join any association, provided it was “not political.” This new right abrogated the requirement that pupils in secondary schools get permission from their directors to found or join associations in or outside school. Haenisch required that schools post this decree on all blackboards. There were similar decrees issued in December 1918 in Saxony, Württemberg, and Bavaria.

Since the early 1960s, social and economic historians of modern Germany have increasingly turned their attention to the study of the First World War and the postwar revolution. Yet of all the ink that has flowed extremely little has trickled down to the peasantry. Excellent monographs examine the wartime experience of several cities. Historians looking for the origins of proletarian radicalism in the revolution of 1918–19 have carefully scrutinized workers of all sorts, and those in pursuit of the birth or perhaps adolescent crisis of “Organized Capitalism” have studied industrialists and the changing role of the state. But no one has looked very closely at the country cousin. When historians have turned to the agricultural sector, they have with few exceptions focused on estate owners and their workers east of the Elbe.

In the last analysis Prussia is ruled by the Landräte.” Such was the opinion of Georg Gothein in 1910. His judgment, which was corroborated by other observers of the Prussian scene, reflects the singular influence of the Landrat in the government of Prussia, an influence which derived from his being both the Prussian official who governed the rural population for the state and the head of the self-government of the rural Kreis or county. His unique dual position gave him extraordinary opportunities for influence and initiative and for the co-ordinating and reconciling of state and local interests. Although low in the hierarchy of higher administrative officials, the more than 450 Landräte, charged with the actual administration of the countryside, were key figures in that formidable Hohenzollern institution, the Prussian bureaucracy, which may be said to have governed Prussia before 1918. In the last years of the Prussian monarchy the Landratsamt was renowned as the most powerful and the most desirable post in the Prussian administration, short of the top-ranking offices. It was the most coveted. It was also the most criticized.

Horst Fuhrmann's recent survey of medieval hostility toward Germans and their political structures, chiefly the Empire, has a subtitle (Origins of German Imperialism), that might very well be applied to the fate of the historiography of medieval Germany in the English-speaking world from its considerable prominence up to the eve of the First World War to its low point in the aftermath of the second.