Historians, in their somewhat defensive perusal of sociology for sweeping theoretical statements, perhaps underestimate the careful, often narrow, empiricism of much sociological research. Sociologists unearth facts for subsequent historians to work on and sometimes to interpret more broadly. Historical sociologists to the contrary, fact-grubbing services are mutual in the two disciplines. German sociologists were the first to study the social effects of industrialization extensively. By the early twentieth century, when masses of workers were still entering factory industry for the first time, sociologists were ready to investigate the process of adaptation through systematic interviews. British researchers in the same period, besides being dedicated amateurs for the most part, focused on the urban poor and on material conditions too exclusively still. French efforts were even more scattered. Maurice Halbwachs did some valuable studies of consumption patterns, while Le Play and his school contributed rather conservative portraits of individual workers. For purposes of understanding the working class in manufacturing, German sociological research was long unrivaled.

I MET Hajo Holborn for the first time in the fall of 1923 in the archives of the German Foreign Office. Holborn then was finishing his dissertation and editing the Radowitz papers. This first encounter was followed by many brief and hurried talks amid the files of the German Foreign Office: Holborn showed me an exciting note by Bismarck which he had just discovered, or we talked about German politics. I remember vividly a gloomy morning after the election of Hindenburg as President, which gave a severe shock to those who had set their hopes on the development of a democratic Germany. On walks in Heidelberg where Holborn became a Privatdozent in 1926 I could observe how the southern softness of this corner of Germany enchanted this quiet and deliberate North German and I felt happily confirmed in my pride in my native Baden. Perhaps because of the striking difference my next clear recollections of meetings with Holborn are again those of walks, this time in Hyde Park in London on summer afternoons of 1934. The Londoners' joyful surrender to the rare pleasures of sunny weather stood in sharp contrast to the disquieting news from the Continent on which conversation inevitably turned and which confirmed—more convincingly than anyone could have wished—the correctness and necessity of the decision to leave Germany. But I remember that I admired Holborn's ability to shake off the worry about the events in Germany and to study attentively the English life which surrounded him.

On the evening of January 9, 1928, twelve of the most prominent men of German heavy industry, attired in tuxedos, gathered at the Villa Hügel, the Krupp family's grandiose palace outside Essen, for the first meeting of the most mystery-shrouded industrial organization of the Weimar Republic: the Ruhrlade. The man responsible for its formation was Paul Reusch, managing director since 1908 of the coal, steel, and manufacturing combine Gutehoffnungshütte, and a respected figure in German industrial circles. After the First World War and the revolution, Reusch had been instrumental in organizing the Essener Montagsgesellschaft, an informal group of Ruhr industrialists which met in Essen once a month to consider matters of common interest. At the outset, the membership of the Montagsgesellschaft was small, but its admissions policy was liberal, so that within a few years it numbered forty-five. This proved too large a body for the conduct of confidential affairs, and after the group's meetings had been interrupted by the occupation of the Ruhr in 1923, Reusch and its other leaders decided not to revive it. Reusch continued, however, to feel a need for an informal, compact organization of the leading men of German heavy industry. In the fall of 1927 he drafted a charter for such a group, using as his model the statute of a small, highly selective prewar organization of Magdeburg industrialists, the Lade, whose name, the German word for chest or similar repository, apparently signified a commitment to secrecy.

On August 27, 1823, a courier from Rome brought word to Metternich of the death of Pope Pius VII a week before. The news, though long expected, was nonetheless unwelcome, as Pius had in general been a most satisfactory pope from the Austrian standpoint. Now the cardinals would meet in conclave to elect his successor, and Metternich was convinced that their choice was “of the greatest significance for the tranquility of Europe and the interests of our Court.”

Theodor Mommsen called him “the most German man.” The Israelit noted that he had never stepped forward as a Jew. Ernest Hamburger writes that he was the only Jewish deputy who omitted the usual declaration about his religious allegiance in the parliamentary manual. “It was without significance for him.” In his will he requested that “no religious ceremony take place since this is absolutely contrary to my conviction.” And even after his death, when his brother Rudolf established a fund of ten thousand marks for the Berlin Jewish community, it was specified that books could be distributed to talented children except those who attended religious schools. Thus we have a picture of Ludwig Bamberger, the most German man or at least a completely emancipated Jew.

My friendship with Hajo Holborn lasted through a lifetime, almost fifty years to be exact. Holborn used to reminisce about the rather unconventional manner of the beginning of our friendship: as neighbors in one of Meinecke's courses we fell into a conversation—quite contrary to the customary conduct of German students at the time. It so happened that I could be present when, on what was to be his last day, Holborn received the German Inter Nationes award at Godesberg. In a very direct and informal manner he spoke as to friends about his life and his work, thankful “für das, was ich insgesamt als ein glückliches Leben betrachte.”

When in spring 1914 Otto Hintze was elected a member of the Prussian Academy of Science he indicated in his inaugural address that his publications in the field of Prussian history most likely had earned him this honor. He added, however, that the history of Prussia was by no means the exclusive aim of his work as a historian. Alluding to the fact that his professorship at the University of Berlin was a chair for general constitutional, administrative, and economic history as well as for political science (Politik), he continued: “The real goal towards which my scholarly endeavors are directed has always been a universal comparative constitutional and administrative history of the West [der Neueren Staatenwelt—a term which for Hintze, as in Ranke's Epochen der Neueren Geschichte, comprised both medieval and modern Europe], especially of the Romance and Germanic speaking nations. It is in this context that Ranke's lifework could and should be complemented.”

The outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936 manifestly occasioned fundamental adjustments in European strategic considerations. While few powers had given serious thought to Spain's diplomatic, military, or even geographical importance, the rising produced numerous useful opportunities for Germany. It created a potential friend on France's southern frontier, drew the senior, more aggressive dictator, Benito Mussolini, closer to the more recently arrived Adolf Hitler, threatened Great Britain's control of the Mediterranean at Gibraltar, and redirected the focus of international diplomacy. In order to obtain a position of greater influence within the unstable vector of forces created by the new situation the two dictators had dispatched socalled volunteer military and air formations in support of the rising. While these troops and their equipment were of fundamental value to the Nationalists, their presence forced the participating military high commands to reevaluate carefully their positions and intentions.

Although Hitler placed primary emphasis in his propaganda on the “spoken word,” one of his earliest ambitions as a party leader was to own a newspaper. He succeeded in December 1920, little more than a year after he joined the Nazi Party, by purchasing a debt-ridden newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter. It had started life in 1887 as the Münchener Beobachter, a local paper serving the Munich suburb of Haidhausen. After changing names and owners several times, the paper in 1918 came into the hands of Rudolf von Sebottendorff, who was acting for the Thule Society, a right-wing, völkisch group. Early in 1920, he changed the name to Völkischer Beobachter (VB).

Perhaps one of Europe's more remarkable achievements has been the creation of a flourishing bourgeois civilization that has never been free from the most penetrating bourgeois criticism. “Épater le bourgeois” was a great pastime of the last century and the sport still seems to be alive. Ibsen's Pillars of Society, published in 1877, was a radical analysis of the moral pretensions and the moral burden of bourgeois society. The pillars of that society were rotten; the life of the protagonist was a lie violating his own nature and that of his fellowmen. It is as if Ibsen had written a dramatic commentary on the Communist Manifesto without indulging in the comforting hope that a social revolution would create a new man in a newly virtuous society. In the play, salvation came through an improbable act of contrition and self-purgation; at his most revolutionary, Ibsen thought that the feminine slamming of doors sufficed for human improvement.

One of the ironical facts in the history of the Jews in Germany is that it was not until after Hitler came to power that they united and formed for the first time a central organization to represent their interests in politics. Before 1933 German Jews made several attempts to create a separate political platform or pressure group. The first venture had perhaps the best prospects of success. It started around 1900, a time when the ideological divisions that later polarized the German Jews into liberal, Orthodox, and Zionist camps were not yet strongly felt, and when cooperation between liberal and Zionist leaders was possible. Despite what appeared to be an opportune moment, all efforts came to naught. Historians can argue at length over whether or not German Jews committed a grave error in failing to form an independent political front, and whether or not it was possible in Germany for Jews to follow the example of Russian Jews and form an autonomous party. A more fruitful discussion will begin only when historians consider why Jewish leaders, who had stood within the existing party framework since 1848, decided in the late 1890's to organize independently of the liberals to whom they felt indebted for emancipation, and why they never achieved their goal. This essay attempts to answer these questions and to shed light on the political behavior of Jewish notables in Wilhelmian Germany.

During the Second Empire, tens of thousands of poor people from East and West Prussia, Silesia, Pomerania, and Posen moved to Berlin every year. They came primarily to improve their economic position. A large number of them were transient agricultural laborers who had been accosted by private employment agents in Berlin railway stations. Others were provincial craftsmen in declining trades who sought to start a new life in the city: for example the cigar maker hoping to make enough money to buy a tobacco shop. Coming on the mere chance of a job, such men were likely to end up as anything from a coal carrier or hackdriver to kitchen help in the Charité hospital. Most of them became factory hands. Journeymen on the tramp who arrived on foot from as far as the Bohemian border were better off as far as job opportunities went. They had not as yet burnt their bridges and could still move on with a small travel allowance from their guilds if nothing lucrative turned up in Berlin. But Berlin needed young looksmiths, turners, carpenters, molders, tinsmiths, and harnessmakers. (In 1905,72 per cent of the workers in Ludwig Loewe's machine-tool factory were immigrants from outside Berlin.) There were also those who became Berliners in the course of their military service: after two or three years of garrison duty in or near Berlin, a country boy often had no wish to renounce the “big-city life” and would go to great lengths to find a living there.

If every German had had his own home,” wrote the National Socialist Karl Fiehler in 1932, “the revolution of 1918 would not have been possible.” Typical of the Nazi tendency toward exaggeration, Fiehler's assertion nevertheless recognized the role of housing in a stable society. Article 155 of the Weimar constitution of August 11, 1919, promised suitable housing for every German, but that promise remained unfulfilled. The Weimar regime, in fact, left many promises unfulfilled, and the collapse of the republic might be attributed to a lack of effectiveness in solving basic social and economic problems. Existing studies of the Weimar republic provide inadequate treatment of the problem-solving process employed to attack specific problems such as the housing shortage. Students of Weimar Germany have been fascinated with the beginning and the end of the republic, paying little attention to the relatively stable years from 1924 to 1929. Examination of the German housing problem will not explain why the republic fell. Historians have already supplied a rich variety of “explanations” for the fall of the republic: the burden of Versailles, reparations, inflation, depression, constitutional deficiencies, political fragmentation, and unhealthy compromises between the republic and the military, labor and management, and federal and state governments. Not everyone has been convinced. The German sociologist Ralf Dahrendorf criticizes “explanations that do not explain, statements that do not state anything.” Perhaps, as Michael Stürmer suggests, it is time to go beyond the origins and collapse of the Weimar republic. The historical significance of the Weimar republic lies in how it functioned as well as how it fell.