Memorialization in Germany since 1945

Memorialization in Germany since 1945

Also by Bill Niven FACING THE NAZI PAST GERMANS AS VICTIMS (edited)

Also by Chloe Paver REFRACTIONS OF THE THIRD REICH IN GERMAN AND AUSTRIAN FICTION AND FILM

Memorialization in Germany since 1945 Edited by

Bill Niven Professor of Contemporary German History, Nottingham Trent University

and

Chloe Paver Senior Lecturer in German, University of Exeter

Editorial matter, selection and Introduction, © Bill Niven and Chloe Paver 2010 All remaining chapters © their respective authors 2010 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2010 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN-13: 978–0–230–20703–5 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

Notes on Contributors

xi

Introduction Bill Niven and Chloe Paver

1

Section 1 Remembering German Losses 1.1 The Volkstrauertag (People’s Day of Mourning) from 1922 to the Present Alexandra Kaiser

15

1.2 Beyond Usable Pasts: Rethinking the Memorialization of the Strategic Air War in Germany, 1940 to 1965 Jörg Arnold

26

1.3 Roads to Revision: Disputes over Street Names Referring to the German Eastern Territories after the First and Second World Wars in the Cities of Dresden and Mainz, 1921 to 1972 Christian Lotz 1.4 Monuments and Commemorative Sites for German Expellees Hans Hesse and Elke Purpus

37 48

1.5 A Memorial Laissez-Passer? Church Exhibitions and National Victimhood in Germany Daniela Sandler

58

1.6 Remembering on Foreign Soil: The Activities of the German War Graves Commission David Livingstone

69

1.7 Neither Here nor There? Memorialization of the Expulsion of Ethnic Germans Dagmar Kift

78

Section 2 Remembering Nazi Crimes, Perpetrators, and Victims 2.1 The Mediators: Memorialization Endeavours of the Regional Offices for Political Education (Landeszentralen für politische Bildung) Dieter K. Buse v

91

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Contents

2.2 Memorialization of Perpetrator Sites in Bavaria Markus Urban

103

2.3 Pieces of the Past: Souvenirs from Nazi Sites – The Example of Peenemünde Ulrike Dittrich

114

2.4 Remembering Euthanasia: Grafeneck in the Past, Present, and Future Susanne C. Knittel

124

2.5 Remembering Prisoners of War as Victims of National Socialist Persecution and Murder in Post-War Germany Jens Nagel

134

2.6 (In)Visible Trauma: Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset’s Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime Thomas O. Haakenson

146

2.7 Memorializing the White Rose Resistance Group in Post-War Germany Katie Rickard

157

2.8 The Role of German Perpetrator Sites in Teaching and Confronting the Nazi Past Caroline Pearce

168

Section 3 Remembering Jewish Suffering 3.1 Memorialization through Documentation: Holocaust Commemoration among Jewish Displaced Persons in Allied-Occupied Germany Laura Jockusch 3.2 Memorializing Persecuted Jews in Dachau and Other West German Concentration Camp Memorial Sites Harold Marcuse

181

192

3.3 Remembering Nazi Anti-Semitism in the GDR Bill Niven

205

3.4 Rosenstraße: A Complex Site of German-Jewish Memory Hilary Potter

214

3.5 The Counter-Monument: Memory Shaped by Male Post-War Legacies Corinna Tomberger 3.6 Stumbling Blocks: A Decentralized Memorial to Holocaust Victims Michael Imort

224 233

Contents

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3.7 Affective Memory, Ineffective Functionality: Experiencing Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe Brigitte Sion

243

3.8 From Monuments to Installations: Aspects of Memorialization in Historical Exhibitions about the National Socialist Era Chloe Paver

253

Section 4 Socialist Memory and Memory of Socialism 4.1 Heroes and Victims: The Aesthetics and Ideology of Monuments and Memorials in the GDR Susanne Scharnowski

267

4.2 Beating Nazis and Exporting Socialism: Representing East German War Memory to Foreign Tourists Lynne Fallwell

276

4.3 Memorializing Socialist Contradictions: A ‘Think-Mark’ for Rosa Luxemburg in the New Berlin Riccardo Bavaj

287

4.4 Challenging or Concretizing Cold War Narratives? Berlin’s Memorial to the Victims of 17 June 1953 Anna Saunders

298

4.5 GDR Monuments in Unified Germany Mia Lee

308

4.6 Memorialization of the German-German Border in the Context of Constructions of Heimat Gerd Knischewski and Ulla Spittler

318

4.7 The Fight in the Prison Car Park: Memorializing Germany’s ‘Double Past’ in Torgau since 1990 Andrew H. Beattie

328

Section 5 Memorializing Germany’s Ambivalent Legacies 5.1 Martin Luther – Rebel, Genius, Liberator: Politics and Marketing 1517–2017 Ulrike Zitzlsperger

341

5.2 Building Up and Tearing Down the Myth of German Colonialism: Colonial Denkmale and Mahnmale after 1945 Jason Verber

351

5.3 Remembering the Battle of Jutland in Post-War Wilhelmshaven Georg Götz

360

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5.4 The Memoralization of 9 November 1918 in the Two German States Arne Segelke 5.5 A Democratic Legacy? The Memorialization of the Weimar Republic and the Politics of History of the Federal Republic of Germany Sebastian Ullrich 5.6 Memorializing the Military: Traditions, Exhibitions, and Monuments in the West German Army from the 1950s to the Present Jörg Echternkamp

369

379

388

5.7 The Legacy of Second German Empire Memorials after 1945 Bill Niven

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Index

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List of Illustrations 1 Representatives of Germany’s five constitutional bodies (the five Bundesverfassungsorgane) lay wreaths in the New Guardhouse in Berlin, 14 November 1993 2 Expellees’ Monument in Tornesch, Schleswig-Holstein. The inscription reads ‘There Is Only One Germany’ 3 Expellees’ Monument in Tornesch, Schleswig-Holstein, after the inscription was altered in 1997 to read ‘In Memory of Our Unforgotten Home’ 4 Exhibition chronicling the history of the KaiserWilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, Berlin 5 Frauenkirche, Dresden, monument comprising a piece of the original dome, whose silhouette is represented on its face 6 Model rocket near the entrance to the Visitor Centre, Peenemünde 7 Build-your-own model of the ‘Führer’s’ bunker at the site of the former Wolf’s Lair in Poland 8 The Grey Bus Memorial during its stay in front of the Berlin Philharmonic on Tiergartenstrasse, from January 2008 to January 2009 9 Named single graves, 1945. They later became the Ehrenhain Zeithain 10 The ‘universal monument’ at the Sandbostel cemetery today 11 Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime in the Tiergarten, Berlin 12 Still image from the film loop that currently appears in the Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime 13 Memorial to the White Rose set into paving stones in front of the main entrance to Munich University 14 Marble sculpture of Sophie Scholl (centre of photograph on plinth) by Wolfgang Eckert 15 1946 Jewish Memorial in Belsen 16 1967 Jewish Memorial in Dachau 17 The three central sections of Ingeborg Hunzinger’s sculpture Block of Women (Block der Frauen) 18 One of two advertizing columns – visible between the parked cars – used to display an exhibition about the Rosenstrasse Protest, close to where it took place 19 The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin

ix

22 53

54 59 65 118 120

130 136 139 147

152 158 160 194 200 217

219 244

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List of Illustrations

20 Detail from an installation in the exhibition Home and Exile: Jewish Emigration from Germany since 1933 at the Jewish Museum Berlin 21 Detail from one of a series of banners listing the names of victims of National Socialist persecution, shown in the exhibition National Socialism in Mainz 1933–45: Tyranny and Everyday Life 22 Fritz Cremer’s Buchenwald sculpture 23 Soviet memorial in Schönholzer Heide Park 24 Section of the ‘Think Mark for Rosa Luxemburg’ near the People’s Theatre, Berlin 25 Wolfgang Rüppel’s Memorial to the Victims of 17 June 1953, with Max Lingner’s mural in the background

256

259 272 280 288 304

Notes on Contributors

Jörg Arnold was awarded his PhD by the University of Southampton, and recently took up a position at the University of Freiburg (under Ulrich Herbert). He has research interests in the social and cultural history of modern wars, the history of memory, and the history of the emotions. He is currently working on a monograph of the memorialization of the bombing war in post-war Germany. Riccardo Bavaj is Lecturer in Modern European History at the University of St Andrews (UK). He has published widely on twentieth-century German history, including Die Ambivalenz der Moderne im Nationalsozialismus: Eine Bilanz der Forschung (Munich, 2003). Andrew H. Beattie is Lecturer in German studies at the University of New South Wales, Sydney. His publications include Playing Politics with History: The Bundestag Inquiries into East Germany (New York, 2008). Dieter K. Buse is Professor Emeritus, History Department, Laurentian University, Sudbury, Canada. His study The Regions of Germany (2005) complements his Modern Germany: An Encyclopedia of History, People and Culture, 1871–1990 (1998, 2 vols). He has published widely on various aspects of contemporary German history in journals such as Central European History and the Journal of Modern History. Ulrike Dittrich is a freelance text editor and works for a consulting firm. She was an academic assistant at the Ravensbrück Memorial Museum. Her book KZ-Souvenirs (on concentration camp souvenirs) was published by the Brandenburg Office for Political Education in 2005. Her research project on memorial souvenirs was affiliated to the Center for Interdisciplinary Memory Research in Essen. Jörg Echternkamp holds a PhD from the University of Bielefeld and has been a Fellow at the Research Institute for Military History (MGFA), Potsdam, since 1997. He was visiting professor at Calgary, Canada, in 2004, and has been associate lecturer at the Sorbonne (Paris). He is author of Kriegsschauplatz Deutschland 1945. Leben in Angst, Hoffnung auf Frieden. Feldpost aus der Heimat und von der Front (Paderborn, 2005). Lynne Fallwell is Assistant Professor of History at Texas Tech University. Her publications include work on tourism and representations of German food in Edible Ideologies: Representing Food and Meaning (K. LeBesco and P. Naccarato, eds). She is currently completing a book on English-language guidebooks to Germany post-1945. xi

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Georg Götz has developed history exhibitions and collection management schemes for museums in North Germany. His recent publications have focused on the visualization of German regions in photobooks, and on Second World War memorials. He teaches history and English at a grammar school in Bavaria. Thomas O. Haakenson is Associate Professor and Chair of the Liberal Arts Department, University of Minnesota, where he completed his doctorate in 2006. He has articles forthcoming in Cabinet, New German Critique, The Rutgers Art Review, and the anthology Legacies of Modernism, among others. He has received several awards and fellowships, for instance from the US Fulbright Program. Hans Hesse is a historian and project leader of the ‘Archive of Memorialisation of the Third Reich in the Rhineland’ at the Art and Museums’ Library of Cologne. His main publication deals with de-Nazification (Konstruktionen der Unschuld. Die Entnazifizierung am Beispiel von Bremen und Bremerhaven (Bremen, 2005)). Michael Imort is an associate professor in the Department of Geography and Environmental Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo (Ontario, Canada). His research examines the political instrumentalization of landscape representations and focuses on the use of the German forest landscape by both nationalist and environmentalist groups. Laura Jockusch is Kreitman Postdoctoral Fellow at the Department of Jewish History at Ben Gurion University of the Negev and fellow at the International Institute for Holocaust Research at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. She studied Jewish studies, modern history, and sociology at the Free University in Berlin and received her PhD in Hebrew and Judaic Studies from New York University in 2007. Alexandra Kaiser was fellow of the Collaborative Research Centre on War Experiences, Tübingen, between 2005 and 2008. Her doctoral thesis focuses on the history of the People’s Day of Mourning, and its role in German memory culture and politics. Since 2009 she has been a museum trainee at the Forum for Contemporary History in Leipzig. Her research interests include German memory culture, National Socialism, museum studies, and regional ethnography. She has published several essays. Dagmar Kift is senior curator at the LWL-Industrial Museum in Dortmund and was head of the exhibition project ‘Rebuilding the West’. She studied history, German literature, sociology, and law at the Free University in Berlin and was a British Council scholar at Oxford University (St Antony’s College). She has published widely on German social, cultural, and industrial history. Gerd Knischewski is Senior Lecturer at the School of Languages and Area Studies and a member of the Centre for European and International Studies Research (CEISR) at the University of Portsmouth, and a member of the Editorial Committee of the Journal of Contemporary European Studies Research. His publications include work on war memory in Germany, and united Germany’s attempts at coming to terms with the past.

Notes on Contributors

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Susanne C. Knittel is currently finishing her dissertation ‘Uncanny Homelands: Grafeneck, Trieste, and the Struggle for Memory’ at Columbia University. It combines an analysis of two memorial sites – one dedicated to the memory of National Socialist euthanasia in Germany, the other to the memory of Fascist anti-Jewish and anti-Slav persecution in Italy – with a discussion of the various literary texts that address the memories of these specific historical sites and events. Mia Lee is Assistant Professor of History at the University of Warwick. She is completing a book on art and political movements in West Germany. David Livingstone is a Lecturer in History at Moorpark College in California. He holds BA and MA degrees in modern European History from California State University, Northridge. He has previously taught Strategy and Policy for the United States Naval War College and has travelled extensively to European military cemeteries. Christian Lotz studied history and social sciences at the Universities of Leipzig, Edinburgh, Vienna, and Poznan. He is a member of the ‘Leipziger Circle – Forum for Science and Art’. In 2007 he received his PhD at the University of Stuttgart for a thesis entitled Interpretations of Loss: Political Controversies in Divided Germany about the Memory of Flight, Expulsion and the Eastern Territories (1948–1972), subsequently published with Böhlau (2007). Harold Marcuse is professor of contemporary German history at the University of California, Santa Barbara. In addition to works on the history of the reception of the Nazi past in Germany, he has written about the memorialization of events during the Second World War around the world. Jens Nagel is head of Zeithain Memorial Site, Germany. In his research, he focuses on the history of Wehrmacht POW camps, looking particularly at the treatment of Soviet, Polish, and Italian POWs. He has published widely on this topic, most recently in the German history journal Vierteljahreshefte für Zeitgeschichte 4 (2008). Bill Niven is Professor of Contemporary German History at Nottingham Trent University, UK. He is author of Facing the Nazi Past (2002), and editor of Germans as Victims (2006). He is currently preparing a book called A Post-Holocaust History of Germany, 1945–2010, and editing a volume on the history and memory of the sinking of the Wilhelm Gustloff. Chloe Paver is a Senior Lecturer in German at the University of Exeter, UK. She is the author of Refractions of the Third Reich in German and Austrian Fiction and Film (Oxford, 2007). Since undertaking research as a Humboldt Fellow at the University of Konstanz in 2006–07, she has published a series of articles on historical exhibitions about the National Socialist era; she is preparing a monograph on the subject. Caroline Pearce is Lecturer in German at the University of Sheffield. Her research focuses on German confrontation with the National Socialist past since 1990 and

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the role of memorial sites. Her most recent publication is Contemporary Germany and the Nazi Legacy. Remembrance, Politics and the Dialectic of Normality (Palgrave Macmillan, 2007). Hilary Potter is a postgraduate student in the European Studies and Modern Languages Department at the University of Bath, UK, where she has taught on undergraduate courses in German and in European Studies. She is currently completing her PhD on Representations of the Rosenstrasse Protest in Post-Wende Germany. Elke Purpus is Director of the Art and Museums Library of Cologne. Her most recent publication focuses on memorialization in Northrhine Westfalia (Gedenken und Erinnern im Rhein-Erft-Kreis. Ein Führer zu Mahnmalen, Denkmälern und Gedenkstätten (Essen, 2008)). Katie Rickard completed her PhD in 2006. She was a Lecturer at the University of Bath, UK, where she also worked in the Graduate Office. She now works at the University of Reading, UK, for Aimhigher Berkshire. Daniela Sandler is an architectural and urban historian, specializing in Germany and Brazil. Her research and teaching focus on social inclusion, memory, culture, and representation in the built environment. She has a PhD in Visual and Cultural Studies from the University of Rochester (2006). She also has a professional degree in Architecture and Urbanism from the University of Sao Paulo, Brazil. She teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design in the USA. Anna Saunders is a Lecturer in German at Bangor University, Wales. Her research interests include questions of history and memory in eastern Germany, memorialization in contemporary Germany, and socialist and post-socialist youth culture; her monograph, Honecker’s Children, was published with Manchester University Press in 2007. Susanne Scharnowski has research interests in German literature of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries. She has also published on memorial art in the GDR. She has taught at the Free University of Berlin, Germany, the University of Cambridge, UK, National Taiwan University, and the University of Melbourne, Australia. Since 2008, she has been administrative director of the PhD programme at the Friedrich Schlegel Graduate School of Literary Studies. Arne Segelke graduated from the University of Hamburg, Germany, and is currently writing his doctoral thesis on ‘Images of the First World War in Scandinavia’. He lives in Colombo, Sri Lanka. Brigitte Sion is Assistant Professor/Faculty Fellow at New York University’s Program in Religious Studies and Department of Journalism. Her doctoral dissertation in Performance Studies focused on the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin and the Monument to the Victims of State Terrorism in Buenos Aires.

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Ulla Spittler is Principal Lecturer at the School of Language, Literature, and Communication at the University of Brighton, UK. She has published on memorialization of the Holocaust and the GDR, on German perspectives on Europe, and war memory in Germany. Corinna Tomberger, PhD, is an art historian and social scientist working on memory politics and visual representation. She has been teaching gender studies and art history at the Humboldt University and the University of Arts in Berlin, Germany. Lately she has been preparing an exhibition on national symbols for the ‘Haus der Geschichte’ Foundation in Bonn. Sebastian Ullrich wrote his PhD on the ‘Weimar-Complex’ of the early Federal Republic. He is editor for modern history, contemporary history, and politics at the publishing house C. H. Beck in Munich, Germany. Markus Urban is a public historian and works as a freelance lecturer, author, and tour guide in Nuremberg, Germany. He is author of a book on the Nazi Reich Party Rallies (Die Konsensfabrik. Funktion und Wahrnehmung der NS-Reichsparteitage, 1933–1941 (V&R Press, 2007)). Jason Verber is a PhD candidate in the Department of History at the University of Iowa, USA. His dissertation, which is in its final stages, examines the relationship between Germans and colonialism after 1945. Ulrike Zitzlsperger is Senior Lecturer in German at the University of Exeter, UK. Her main research interest lies in the culture and literature of twentiethcentury Berlin, with a particular focus on the 1920s and 1990s. She also works on sixteenth-century culture in Germany with a focus on Reformation pamphlets.

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Introduction Bill Niven and Chloe Paver

Memorialization in Germany since 1945 Observers of contemporary Germany’s relationship to its past cannot fail to notice the very high number of memorials and memorial sites throughout the country. Nor can they fail to notice how seriously Germany takes its memorials and memorial sites. A measure of this is surely Germany’s Federal Strategy for Memorial Sites (Gedenkstättenkonzeption des Bundes), which passed into law in 1999 (and was amended in 2008).1 While Germany’s Basic Law ascribed the task of overseeing memorial sites to the federal states (Länder), some sites of national importance were able to call on central state funds for all or part of their costs, particularly after 1989. The Gedenkstättenkonzeption put an end to these rather piecemeal arrangements, formalizing the division of responsibilities between central and regional government by defining what counted as a ‘national’ memorial site. To some degree, then, the Gedenkstättenkonzeption can be viewed simply as an overdue bureaucratic tidy-up, concerned with funding budgets. Nevertheless, it was also born of more lofty considerations: recommendations made by the panel of experts advising on how Germany should deal with the memory of the East German dictatorship (the second of the so-called ‘Enquete-Kommissionen’). Accordingly, the strategy endeavoured to formulate a statement of the meaning and purpose of memorials for the German state and its people. The otherwise bureaucratic ‘framework principles’ end with the statement: ‘In remembering the National Socialist reign of terror, Stalinism, and the SED dictatorship, and in commemorating the victims and those who opposed or resisted these regimes, we strengthen our sense of freedom, justice, and democracy, and consolidate the anti-totalitarian consensus in Germany.’2 A further measure of the importance Germany’s government and parliament ascribes to processes of memorialization was its involvement, from its inception through to its completion, in the building of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin (which is analysed in the chapters by Brigitte Sion and Corinna Tomberger in this volume); a parliamentary resolution backing the memorial was passed on 25 June 1999. At the same time, the memorial was not just a focus of parliamentary interest: it would never have been built without the initiative of the 1

2

Introduction

citizens’ action group ‘Perspective for Berlin’, founded in 1989, or without public donations to supplement the government support. The gestation process of the memorial was long; it was accompanied by years of discussion in national and regional newspapers, while scandals accompanied its construction. Even following its dedication in 2005, it has continued to attract discussion and debate.3 The extent of political involvement, public interest, and media coverage enjoyed – if that is the right word – by this memorial is probably exceptional. Nevertheless, as several contributors to the current volume (including Michael Imort, Mia Lee, and Riccardo Bavaj) show, there are many other examples of memorials in Germany whose conceptualization, planning, and execution were also a matter of considerable public and political attention. This edited collection is the first of its kind to assess the nature and chart the extent of this phenomenal memorial activity in Germany. In so doing, it focuses largely on processes of memorialization since 1945. Why 1945? It would have been possible to extend the perspective back to consider memorialization during the Third Reich, the Weimar Republic, and the Second Reich – and indeed much earlier in German history. That this book would then have been unmanageably long (it is quite long as it stands), represents a practical reason for the decision to circumscribe the focus. But the choice of the post-1945 period is above all a conscious one. The year 1945 was not a ‘Zero Hour’ (Stunde Null) in the history of memorialization in Germany, but it did represent a watershed in this history as it did in so many other areas of German political, cultural, and economic history. The Second World War ended, for Germany, in catastrophic defeat, mass expulsion, and occupation; for many soldiers, the experience of war scarred them for life, while civilians were traumatized by the effects of carpet bombing. Yet, Germany had started this war, and had conducted it – especially in the East – with unbelievable cruelty; 6 million Jews were murdered, 3.3 million Soviet POWs perished in German captivity, hundreds of thousands of Sinti and Roma were killed. Many, many others suffered a similarly murderous fate. In view of the above, the self-celebratory tradition of German memorialization was severely ruptured. After 1945, the heroic messages of Second Reich memorials to Wilhelm I and Bismarck, or of Third Reich memorials to military heroes such as Hindenburg, rang hollow. Many were removed – not just by the Allies, but also by Germans themselves. Even a straightforward appropriation, in memorials to the Second World War, of the tradition of self-pity typical of Weimar Republic memorialization of the First World War proved difficult to sustain. One should not, however, imagine that self-pitying traditions died out. The year 1945 brought with it not only flight and expulsion, but the de facto loss of the former Eastern homelands (discussed in the present volume by Christian Lotz, and by Elke Purpus and Hans Hesse). It also initiated the process which led to German division and the establishment of two German states, each of which perceived the inhabitants of the other Germany as ‘victims’ – of capitalism and communism respectively. With the onset of the Cold War, narratives of victimhood soon became intimately bound up with political propaganda. In the GDR, East German citizens learnt that the legacy of communist suffering under Hitler was the

Bill Niven and Chloe Paver 3

obligation in the present to resist the continuation of fascism in the West. The triumphalist gesture of much communist statuary in the GDR – evidence that the heroic tradition had not yet had its day – stressed, however, that suffering had been productive: Nazism had been overcome, and the struggle against the West would surely end in victory. Susanne Scharnowski’s chapter demonstrates this tendency. East German commemoration of the bombing of Dresden also had the function of raising awareness of the alleged destructiveness of capitalism and strengthening ‘resistance’ in the present (for memorialization of the bombing war, see Jörg Arnold’s chapter). In West Germany, expellees, former soldiers, and victims of bombing, among others, sought with varying degrees of success to have their suffering inscribed in memorial form onto townscapes.4 Politicians in the West were often complicit in the instrumentalization of the memory of expulsion and division to discredit the communist East and the GDR in particular. Some monuments lamenting division, such as the repurposed Kaiser Wilhelm memorial in Koblenz (discussed in the chapter on Second Empire memorials by Bill Niven), were not without a degree of nationalistic swagger. The present volume, among other things, examines the commemorative preoccupation with tragic, sometimes heroic, often politically charged and propagandistic notions of German victimhood in West and East Germany, especially in the 1950s and 1960s. Still, by and large West Germany did eschew the nationalistic tradition of memorial-building after 1945. While the resistance of the Stauffenberg circle did, in time, become a source of pride, the 1950s memorial to resistance in Berlin’s Bendler Block is modest to say the least (for discusson of the memorialization of military traditions, see Jörg Echternkamp’s contribution). Moreover, the East German celebration of communism in its memorials cannot be taken as a symptom of an indigenous nationalism; after all, it reflected the greater glory of Soviet communism, rather than expressing a national spirit – and whether East Germans identified with the often-memorialized figure of German communist leader Ernst Thälmann is debatable. As for the preoccupation with German victimhood, this did begin to recede in the 1960s and especially the 1970s. Increasingly, in West Germany at least and particularly as of the 1980s, memorials to Jewish victims of Germans were constructed (see, in particular, Harold Marcuse’s chapter). Many factors have been adduced for this, such as generational shifts; the impact of the Frankfurt Auschwitz trials (1963–65); and the shift, in 1969, to a coalition government of Social Democrats and Liberals. Even in East Germany interest in the commemoration of Jewish suffering under Hitler began to emerge in the late 1970s and early 1980s (see Bill Niven’s chapter on memorialization of the Holocaust in the GDR). It follows from this that one could certainly overstate the significance of 1945 as a watershed since, to an extent, the evolution of a ‘counter-monumental’ culture was a gradual process that only started to gather strength in the 1970s and 1980s. However, the cracks in the tradition of heroic memorialization were already clear in 1945. What of 1990? The Cold War had in many ways hindered the development of a confrontation with the legacy of Nazism; each German state could not resist the

4

Introduction

temptation to pin blame for dictatorial developments on the other German state. After 1990, with this hindrance removed, the memorialization of the victims of National Socialism developed at a more rapid pace than ever before. This was particularly the case in Eastern Germany, which had lagged behind the Western part of the country in its acknowledgement of the Holocaust. A visitor to most of the larger memorial sites in Germany today – for instance, to Dachau, Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, or Neuengamme – will be struck by the attempt to document and memorialize the wide range of Nazi victims. Buchenwald Memorial Site, for instance, now has memorials to Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Sinti and Roma, and victims of Nazi military injustice; it has also set up a number of important exhibitions since 1990 (some of which are discussed in Chloe Paver’s chapter). Berlin’s Topography of Terror Foundation has been equally active in memorializing various groups of Nazi victims (see, for instance, the chapter by Hilary Potter). At central level in Berlin, there is now not only the Holocaust memorial (since 2005), but also, since 2008, a Memorial for the Homosexuals Persecuted under National Socialism (analysed in Thomas Haakenson’s chapter), while a Memorial for the Sinti and Roma Murdered under National Socialism is also planned. United Germany, it seems, is taking responsibility for its murderous past – at central, regional, and local level (see, for instance, Susanne Knittel’s chapter on memorialization of euthanasia victims). In certain areas, however, such as the memorialization of Soviet POWs who suffered at the hands of the Wehrmacht, more could certainly be done (as Jens Nagel’s chapter shows). Until a few years ago, the evolution of German memory, and certainly its memorial landscape, towards a self-critical preoccupation with the legacy of German crime seemed unstoppable, raising fears even of a ‘negative nationalism’. Could self-indictment form a sound basis for national self-regeneration after 1990? Yet 1990 also set in train a process towards a resurgent interest in injustice done to and suffering endured by Germans (discussed here by Dagmar Kift, amongst others). The post-1990 transformation of East Germany’s memorial landscape, which has certainly been greater than that of the landscape in the West, would seem to confirm this. The end of the GDR led to a discrediting of communism, and to the removal of many (though not all) memorials and street-names honouring the heroes of the communist pantheon (see Lee’s chapter). Shortly afterwards, memorials and memorial sites began to spring up throughout Eastern Germany which commemorated the suffering caused by the Soviet interregnum (1945–49) and the East German communist regime and its security system, as well as resistance to the latter (as documented in the chapters by Andrew Beattie and by Gerd Knischewski and Ulla Spittler). Some locations, such as Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen memorial sites, became lieux de mémoire for Germany’s ‘double’ past of National Socialist and communist injustice (a process discussed by Beattie). In addition, long-standing West German memorial traditions soon spread eastwards. Memorials to the victims of flight and expulsion, for instance, have been erected in Eastern Germany since 1990 (see Hesse and Purpus); such memorialization, with its implicit criticism of the Soviets for their part in this expulsion, would

Bill Niven and Chloe Paver 5

not have been possible in the GDR. At the same time, there has been a degree of ‘cross-fertilization’. Memory of the bombing war was more common in the GDR than in West Germany; in united Germany, it is ubiquitous. Opinions are divided on what this (re)discovery of narratives of German victimhood means, and on their impact on ‘Holocaust-centred’ memory.5 Many reasons could be adduced for the phenomenon: the end of the Cold War (which made certain narratives of German suffering politically inopportune); the quite natural wish to come to terms with the criminal legacy of the ‘second German dictatorship’; a renascence of totalitarian theory (according to which suffering caused by Germans is cancelled out by suffering endured by them, opening the way for a more positive German self-image); the development of a politically more self-confident Germany; changes in government since 1990; generational shifts; the eruption of a long-standing discrepancy between private and public memory (with the former focused on German suffering, the latter on German guilt);6 the impact of a worldwide trend towards the rewriting of national history as the history of victimhood; or indeed a combination of these, and of other factors. Yet whatever the reasons, the interest in German victimhood is (by and large) free of the resentment and politicization which characterized it in the 1950s. Certainly, concern has been expressed in Germany that the federal government leans more towards supporting the memory of communist, rather than National Socialist injustice; by doing so, of course, the focus can be shifted from German crime under National Socialism towards German victimhood under Soviet-imposed socialism. Thus, in 1997, the Association of Concentration Camp Memorial Sites in the Federal Republic objected to planned revisions to the Federal Strategy for Memorial Sites not least because of the danger that the significance of National Socialism for German history would be rendered ‘unclear’.7 The Gedenkstättenkonzeption was subsequently rephrased in the light of criticism from various quarters.8 To date, so it seems at least, the focus on communism or German victimhood has not ‘ousted’ the Holocaust from the centre of German memory or memorialization. The year 1990, then, triggered processes of change during which memorial traditions were either rejected, extended, modified, introduced, or revitalized. Yet for all that, 1945 remains the most decisive turning point. Flight, defeat, expulsion, occupation, the confrontation with German crime and guilt, political transformation, division, and the Cold War can all be linked – directly, indirectly, or in significant part – to this year. National Socialism became a legacy as of 8 May 1945, and to this day German memorialization concentrates almost obsessively on this legacy. Not that there were not attempts to memorialize earlier periods in German history; nor were all pre-1933 memorials simply removed. But it became difficult to regard the Weimar Republic and the Second Empire – or indeed historical periods which precede these – without the knowledge of what came after (see, for instance, the chapters by Jason Verber, Ulrike Zitzlsperger, Arne Segelke, and Sebastian Ullrich): National Socialism cast its shadow over all that followed it, including all subsequent appraisals of what preceded it.

6

Introduction

Memorials and memorialization This is a book, then, about post-1945 memorialization. But what do we mean by this term? In the 1980s, Pierre Nora developed the concept of lieux de mémoire, generally rendered in English as ‘sites of memory’. For Nora, such ‘sites’, in the case of France, encompassed not just memorials, memorial sites, or graves, but also emblems and flags (such as the tricolore), the Marseillaise, or even the Code Napoléon.9 Recently, in analogy to Nora’s three-volume ‘anthology’ of 130 essays on sites of French memory, Etienne François and Hagen Schulze brought out a three-volume collection of essays on German lieux de mémoire, or ErinnerungsOrte as they translated the term (though German-speaking academics tend to prefer Nora’s French term). In addition to memorials, museums, and buildings, this collection includes among such sites works of literature, authors themselves, philosophers, historical treaties, battles, specific days, whole historical periods (such as the Reformation), laws, symbolically charged slogans (such as ‘Made in Germany’), concepts (such as ‘Blood and Soil’), organizations, and fairy-tales.10 Sites of memory, here, are understood as widely as they conceivably could be to embrace every person, idea, artefact, time, or event around which collective memory crystallizes. The editors of this volume have followed Nora only in part. Memorialization, as we understand it, is a conscious process. Nora certainly has such a process in mind to a degree, but his ‘places of memory’ include many sites which seem to ‘secrete’ themselves into collective memory in ways that are far less direct. Also, while Nora’s ‘places of memory’ include many sites that exist in the collective imagination, inscribed onto our mental map, we focus in this volume on sites of memory which (also) exist as marks on the physical and temporal landscape – be these memorials in the traditional sense, memorial sites (such as at former concentration camps), commemorative days and rituals, flags, street-names, or exhibitions (which, beyond their informative and pedagogical function, enjoin us to remember). Our book is interested in other words in ‘reading’ the more visible, tangible markers of memory, and what they tell us about Germany’s relationship to its difficult past. If memory is about what we see and don’t see, then this book focuses on the former. A more restrictive, perhaps ‘conventional’ understanding of lieux de mémoire was necessary not least on practical grounds: every book has its physical limits. For reasons of space, too, we decided not to include discussion of those ‘sites of memory’ which exist in the virtual world of the internet, concentrating instead on physical locations that the reader might not be able to visit; in any case, most virtual lieux de mémoire in the German case are ‘offspring’ of physically existing memorial sites, foundations and institutions (although there certainly are exhibitions that only exist virtually).11 Furthermore, the reader will not find in this volume exhaustive treatment of well-known memorials which have already been the subject of academic study elsewhere. While the volume does contain chapters on Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, and on the memorial sites at Buchenwald and Dachau, these contributions examine relatively under-explored aspects

Bill Niven and Chloe Paver 7

of these sites, rather than reprising what is already known. The main aim of our book is to provide analysis of less well-known memorials and memorial sites, and to convey thereby an impression of the range of memorialization in Germany since 1945. This book is not a lexicon: not every memorial site is discussed here. But the volume certainly aims to provide key examples of typical and emerging patterns, together with models for understanding and evaluating them. A further aim is to do justice to what we see as an increasing trend towards the blurring of boundaries between those very categories the volume examines. Visitors to the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin will have been struck by the fact that it is a memorial above ground, and an exhibition below. Many German concentration camp memorial sites are themselves amalgams of exhibitions, memorials, graveyards, archives, and libraries. They also provide a focus for acts of commemoration. Perhaps it is not simply boundaries that are being blurred, but the very substance of original memorial forms that is being called into question. James Young uses the term ‘counter-memorial’ or ‘counter-monumental’ to describe recent memorials in Germany which challenge the concept of monumentality.12 This volume discusses examples of memorials which either disappear or are inverted into the ground, for instance (a particular focus of Tomberger’s chapter). The more fleeting, hidden memorial may, as Young suggests, return ‘the burden of memory to those who come looking for it’.13 The volume also considers memorials which either move from place to place (as Knittel shows in her chapter), or are set into the pavement outside doorways (see Imort’s chapter). Rather than memorials eking out a distant existence on a hilltop, they come into the cities, invoking memory of injustice by drawing attention to its traces. They are thus not only fleeting or hidden, but they can be insistent, importunate, and intrusive. The second generation of ‘counter memorials’ is perhaps far less self-effacing than the first.

Critical approaches Like other subjects within the wider field of German cultural memory, the subject of memorials and memorialization attracts scholars from a wide range of disciplines, most notably history, art history, museum studies, literary and film studies, and cultural geography. While most of these modes of scholarly enquiry would fit under the interdisciplinary umbrella of Cultural Studies, in practice relatively few scholars approach memorialization using the theoretical repertoire of Cultural Studies, with its interest in the intersections between ethnicity, nationality, gender, and social class. Possibly there is something in the topic itself – the fact that ideology is written all too obviously across many memorials and decried very explicitly by others – that makes memorials less than intriguing to those working in Cultural Studies. This is not to say that contributors to this volume are either disinclined to theoretical approaches or wedded conventionally to single disciplines: historian Lynne Fallwell’s work on tourism or historian Jörg Arnold’s interest in the history of emotions remind us how fluid disciplinary boundaries have become. Nevertheless, much work on memorialization is, quite properly, still

8

Introduction

grounded in distinct disciplines, each with its own working methods and expectations. As a result, scholars from different disciplinary backgrounds pose different questions of memorialization, its processes, and the meanings it generates. In the final part of this Introduction we ask how different approaches to memorialization frame memorials and memorial activities in different ways and, in the process, create different kinds of knowledge about them. The historians who have contributed to this volume have drawn on unpublished or little-known archival material such as government and civil service documents, institutional memoranda, and contemporary newspaper reports. One of the most valuable aspects of such archive-based research is that it looks beyond the neat models and paradigms that necessarily characterize broad-brush narratives of post-1945 cultural memory to the messy complexity of memorial activities as they are lived out. The ‘messiness’ derives partly from the fact that individual examples resist neat periodization. The broadest chronological narrative of post1945 memory (the amnesiac years of the ‘economic miracle’, the radical 1960s, the citizens’ initiatives of the 1980s, and post-Wende normalization) turns out, when the archives are consulted, to involve all kinds of false dawns and sudden reversals, and surprisingly liberal moments in the most conservative of times. Several chapters (including those by Arnold and by Laura Jockusch) deal partly or wholly with the very early post-war years, when positions in memory politics were not yet fixed and the survivors and bereaved briefly had a strong lobbying voice on matters of memorialization, which they were able to use with varying degrees of success. A Jewish survivor group that collected a vast documentary archive concerned with Jewish life and its destruction, as a memorial to what had been lost, is analysed by Jockusch: had it remained in Germany and been published or publicized it might have had a significant effect on German memory culture, especially since it contained material about, and even supplied by, the perpetrators; instead it was shipped to Israel and left no mark on Germany. While there is nothing new in regarding the supposed ‘Zero Hour’ of 1945 as a myth, the chapters by Alexandra Kaiser, Jörg Arnold, and David Livingstone, in particular, shine a light on the practical details of that continuity in the realm of memorials and commemoration, demonstrating how pre-1945 commemorative practices survived the moral and political ruptures of the National Socialist years often for pragmatic reasons (because alternative ritual forms or institutional structures were not readily available) – though such continuities became less ‘innocent’ as the years progressed. The ‘messiness’ of memorial activity derives also from the fact – demonstrated in many of the contributions – that memorial culture does not only consist of ‘memory contests’ of the kind that produce a clear winner and a clear loser: on the contrary, competing memory discourses often co-exist without directly clashing, even where they come into contact with one another. Arnold finds evidence that, in the post-war years, citizens of Germany’s ruined cities quietly appropriated municipal commemorations to serve their own, private needs, which ran counter to the intentions of the municipality. Georg Götz shows that those responsible for memorial discourses in the naval town of Wilhelmshaven continued to celebrate

Bill Niven and Chloe Paver 9

the same German naval traditions as before 1945, often using identical ritual and rhetoric, while also laying claim to a new international spirit which would allow Germany to play a role within the new Europe. Alexandra Kaiser shows how the two parts of an official national ceremony in commemoration of the dead – one part more liberal and inclusive, the other based on an exclusive notion of the ‘German’ dead – for years pulled against one another in terms of their meanings and symbolism, without this tension ever coming to a head. Finally, case studies and archival work can call into question the kinds of political categorizations that are taken for granted in debates about post-war memory. By studying the nitty-gritty of civic disputes about contentious street names, Christian Lotz discovers that the conventional Left-Right paradigm that is generally assumed to operate in political attitudes towards the National Socialist past breaks down in particular cases: Lotz reminds us, for instance, that the expellees from Germany’s former Eastern territories, who have become a byword for right-wing attitudes to the past, initially included social democrats as well as conservatives.14 Similarly, Markus Urban’s case study of Bavarian ‘perpetrator sites’ reveals that the campaign for a proper public documentation of the Nuremberg Party Rally Grounds benefited from the landslide victory, in local elections, of the conservative CSU over the previously dominant Social Democrats (SPD). By contrast with historians, scholars whose training is in the Arts are more likely to be interested in narrative structures, iconographical traditions, and processes of symbolization, in other words in the visual and verbal rhetoric of memorials. On the whole, memorials (as distinct from memorial sites, which generally contain museums) favour the visual over the verbal, but the very fact that any text featured on a memorial is artificially restricted makes it an interesting object of study. The terseness of monumental inscriptions – which cannot contextualize and relativize as scholarly and political discourse may do – favours those memorial-makers who want to convey programmatic messages, such as the expellees whose memorials are analysed by Hans Hesse and Elke Purpus, and those wishing to obscure awkward particularities such as the distinction between perpetrators and victims or between different kinds of victim. The best known example of this, the New Guardhouse (Neue Wache) memorial in central Berlin, re-dedicated in 1993 to ‘The Victims of War and the Rule of Violence’, provides a reference point for several of our contributors, while Katie Rickard points to a provincial example: the bust of Sophie Scholl in the national pantheon of Walhalla, whose glib dedication to ‘all those who bravely resisted the injustice, violence, and terror of the “Third Reich”’ belies the fact that resistance took widely differing forms, some of which – unlike the resistance carried out by the hugely popular Scholl – stand little chance of national memorialization. Susanne Knittel provides a positive counter-example, a memorial that rejects the categorical statements of the traditional inscription: drawing on a Jewish story about a man who invites God to form prayers from the alphabet he recites, Diane Samuels’ memorial at Grafeneck provides only individual, scattered letters, from which the viewer must form names or sentiments. However, attempts to counter

10

Introduction

the foreshortening tendency of inscriptions are not always so successful: Hesse and Purpus show that simply supplementing an existing, now politically unacceptable inscription (which makes territorial claims on lands forfeited in 1945) with a more long-winded, politically acceptable one fails to re-signify the memorial. Anna Saunders shows how a recent attempt to reform the conventional inscription by borrowing its epigrammatic form but replacing the confident, unambiguous statement with an open-ended question – made yet more hesitant by the use of a subjunctive – ended only in a failure of communication and the scrapping of a worthwhile memorial project. If the demands of concision can unhelpfully limit the expressiveness of the memorial text, the visual signification which is the dominant language of the memorial may be dangerously uncontrolled. Daniela Sandler argues that largeformat images of burning churches, once detached from a textual narrative, encourage an emotional response to the terrors of fire (and thus an ahistorical identification with the victims). More positively, Chloe Paver argues that some historical exhibitions, while deliberately employing art installations to evoke emotional responses, maintain a responsible framework of meaning through the dominant historical discourses in the exhibition as a whole. Several contributions consider the significance of the vertical and horizontal planes in the visual language of memorialization. Not for nothing are the verbs ‘to erect’ and ‘to put up’ commonly collocated with the noun ‘monument’ in English, since the vertical is the traditional plane of monumentality. Livingstone discovers that, on German war graves abroad, flat crosses were perceived as less threateningly nationalistic than erect crosses. Tomberger questions whether the much vaunted ‘counter-monument’ can ever really neutralize the masculine symbolic power of the soaring vertical simply by sinking it in to the ground, while Paver finds examples of the use of the anti-monumental horizontal plane in art installations that, while located within exhibitions, serve a clearly commemorative function. Analyses of the rhetoric and symbolism of memorials may sometimes run the risk of treating the memorial as a static object, one that might just as well be viewed as a photograph in a catalogue. Two kinds of approach ensure that this does not happen in this volume as a whole. In the first, which may be grounded variously in performance studies, visual theory, or cultural geography, the memorial is understood from the point of view of the participant, conceived either as an embodied viewer who physically experiences the memorial space (as in the chapters by Haakenson and Sion) or as a tourist and consumer (in Ulrike Dittrich’s analysis); in the second approach, which tends to be based on an analysis of institutional publications, the memorial is seen as ‘coming alive’ only through the institutional practices that publicize, frame, and explain it (see chapters by Dieter Buse, Caroline Pearce, and Lynne Fallwell). This Introduction has attempted to convey a sense of the complexity of the questions at issue in memorializing Germany’s past, in particular its National Socialist past. That complexity is evident both in the approaches taken to the material and in the insights gleaned from it. To help orientate the reader we end

Bill Niven and Chloe Paver

11

with a rather more conventional summary of the content of the five sections. Section 1 considers the often problematic ways in which the non-persecuted German majority has remembered its ‘own’ losses and sufferings: soldiers killed in action, civilians killed and towns destroyed in the air war, and the trauma of flight and expulsion from the former Eastern territories. Section 2 addresses two related questions: the memorialization of (often unjustly neglected) victims of National Socialism, such as POWs, homosexuals, people with disabilities, and those active in resistance; and the problems of finding an appropriate memorial form and an appropriate use for sites associated with the activities of the National Socialists and their supporters. Section 3 examines a range of ways in which Jewish suffering and loss has been commemorated, from the early endeavours of Jewish survivors to the divided memory cultures of the Cold War and the most recent memorials and exhibitions. Section Four focuses on memory in the GDR and memory of the GDR, from the heroic traditions of Socialist Realist sculpture to the toppling of statues after the collapse of communism and the building of new memorials and museums in memory of the GDR past. In Section Five, the volume acknowledges that Germany has more ‘pasts’ than just its two dictatorships. Throughout the post-1945 years, Germany has looked back – though rarely in straightforward celebration – at pasts as diverse as the Reformation, Prussia, the brief colonial era, the First World War, and the Weimar Republic.

Notes 1. The official title appears to be ‘Konzeption der künftigen Gedenkstättenförderung des Bundes’ (Strategy for the Future Funding of Memorial Sites by the Federal Government), though the strategy is known, in government documents and publicly, by its shorthand ‘Gedenkstättenkonzeption des Bundes’ or ‘Gedenkstättenkonzeption der Bundesregierung’. Archived under: Deutscher Bundestag, 14. Wahlperiode: Drucksache 14/1569. 2. Ibid., p. 3. 3. For more on the Berlin memorial, see B. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London and New York, 2002), and C. Pearce, Contemporary Germany and the Nazi Legacy: Remembrance, Politics and the Dialectic of Normality (Basingstoke, 2007). 4. For an excellent discussion of the memorializing activities of such groups in the city of Nuremberg in the 1950s, see N. Gregor, Haunted City: Nuremberg and the Nazi Past (New Haven, 2008). 5. For an overview of the debates, see B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany (Basingstoke, 2006). 6. For more on this discrepancy see H. Welzer et al., ‘Opa war kein Nazi’. Nationalsozialismus und Holocaust im Familiengedächtnis (Frankfurt am Main, 2002). 7. See V. Knigge, ‘Stellungnahme zur Fortschreibung der Gedenkstättenkonzeption durch den Beauftragten der Bundesregierung für Kultur und Medien vom 22. Juni 2007 für die Anhörung des Ausschusses für Kultur und Medien des Deutschen Bundestages am 7. November 2007’, at http://www.bundestag.de/ausschuesse/a22/anhoerungen/gedenkstaettenkonzept-nicht__ffentlich/Stellungnahmen/Knigge.pdf (accessed 18 February 2009). 8. For the revised version, see ‘Fortschreibung der Gedenkstättenkonzeption des Bundes: Verantwortung wahrnehmen, Aufarbeitung verstärken, Gedenken vertiefen’ (Deutscher Bundestag, 16. Wahlperiode: Drucksache 16/9875, 19 June 2008), at http://www.

12

9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14.

Introduction bundesregierung.de/nsc_true/Content/DE/__Anlagen/BKM/2008-06-18-fortschreibunggedenkstaettenkonzepion-barrierefrei,templateId=raw,property=publicationFile.pdf/ 2008-06-18-fortschreibung-gedenkstaettenkonzepion-barrierefrei (accessed 18 February 2009). See Pierre Nora (ed.), Les Lieux de mémoire, 3 vols (Paris, 1992). E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, 3 vols (Munich, 2001). For a particularly rich range of virtual exhibitions, see The Topography of Terror Foundation’s website at http://www.topographie.de/en/index.htm. One particularly noteworthy exhibition offered by the Foundation which leads a purely virtual existence is Der 20. Juli 1944: Erinnerungen an einen historischen Tag. Reden und Gedenkfeiern, at http://www.20-juli-44.de/index1.html (accessed 19 February 2009). In contrast to physical exhibitions, virtual ones can be easily updated – as is the case with the 20 July 1944 exhibition. See J. E. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven, 1993). See Shoah Resource Center, ‘Excerpt from Interview with Professor James E. Young’ (24 May 1998), at www1.yadvashem.org/odot_pdf/Microsoft%20Word%20-%203852.pdf (accessed 19 February 2009). Similarly, Dagmar Kift notes in her chapter that the Czech Republic has belatedly begun to commemorate – initially in the form of an exhibition – opponents and victims of Nazism who were expelled from Czechoslovakia after 1945 on the same basis as those Germans that had consented to National Socialist rule.

Section 1 Remembering German Losses

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1.1 The Volkstrauertag (People’s Day of Mourning) from 1922 to the Present Alexandra Kaiser

‘Back to the old Volkstrauertag’, proclaimed the People’s League for the Maintenance of German War Graves (Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, hereafter Volksbund or VDK) in its newsletter Kriegsgräberfürsorge in 1950.1 While the year 1945, an undoubted watershed in German memorialization, is rightly taken as a starting point for this volume, a sweeping characterization of 1945 as Germany’s ‘Zero Hour’ (Stunde Null) fails to do justice to the Volkstrauertag which, as the opening quotation hints, survived the historical caesura of 1945. Introduced in the 1920s as a commemoration day for the dead German soldiers of the First World War and continuing as Heldengedenktag (Heroes’ Remembrance Day)2 in the Nazi era, it was retained in West Germany (the FRG) but not in the east (the GDR). With unification, it came to be observed nationwide3 and is currently celebrated on the November Sunday two weeks before the beginning of Advent. The main Volkstrauertag ceremony has been held in Berlin since 1992, with parallel events in communities throughout the country. As in the Weimar Republic, the Volksbund remains the chief impetus behind the commemoration day. The organization is mainly active abroad (see this book’s chapter by David Livingstone), but the Volkstrauertag both encapsulates its ideology and serves as its central domestic public forum. The institutionalization of the VDK’s commemoration day in spite of its origins in private rather than government initiative can be seen as reflecting the political difficulties inherent in commemorating soldiers ‘fallen’ for a lost cause or publicly assigning a higher meaning to their deaths. Like the Second World War, the First World War made it impossible for official Germany to connect reverence for the dead with a normative national identity. The Volkstrauertag played the role of ‘surrogate’ in the absence of an official holiday. Following a review of its history in the Weimar Republic and the Nazi era, this chapter will focus on continuity and changes in the meaning and ritual procedures of the Volkstrauertag after 1945. Given the Wehrmacht’s role in a war of aggression and its record of atrocities, the most striking question is how it proved possible to continue the tradition at all. How could honouring German soldiers in a public ritual after the Second World War be even remotely tenable? Part of the answer can be found in the Volkstrauertag’s outward transformation, from the 1960s onward, 15

16

The Volkstrauertag from 1922 to the Present

into a Commemoration Day for all Victims of War and Violence (Gedenktag für alle Opfer von Krieg und Gewalt) that included not only the dead soldiers and other German war dead but also those who were persecuted under Nazi rule. But how was this transformation of the commemoration day managed? How was its new face popularized? And how has the day’s ostensible role changed since unification? In trying to answer these questions the chapter draws, to a large extent, on previously untapped archival sources.

From Volkstrauertag to Heldengedenktag: The commemoration day from 1922 to 1945 After the First World War new memorial days and commemorative rituals for dead soldiers were introduced in every European country that had taken part in the war. But given its defeat and the change in the political system, remembering the war dead was problematic in Germany, despite its two million ‘fallen’.4 There was no political consensus in Germany on the war itself or the legacy of the soldiers’ deaths. Thus, notwithstanding repeated efforts, the government failed to establish a national commemoration day. Instead, the Volksbund succeeded in popularizing its conception of a Volkstrauertag, with an essentially anti-Republican thrust. On 5 March 1922, the VDK announced its first call for participation in a commemorative ceremony to honour the fallen at the Reichstag in Berlin.5 A commemorative ceremony on the national level was held every year thereafter, beginning in 1924, and local VDK chapters organized parallel events all over Germany. The VDK saw the Volkstrauertag not merely as an act of commemoration, but as a means of ‘healing’ dissension within the German Volk (a term that the Volksbund would continue to use even after 1945, despite its contamination by National Socialism).6 Thus, the VDK had always insisted on an additional, non-denominational commemoration day to be staged as a unifying event for all Germans, dramatizing the difference between death under ‘normal’ circumstances and ‘honourable’ death in war. Secondly, the VDK wanted a date in springtime to symbolize the resurrection of the German nation after its defeat.7 Positioning the Volkstrauertag six or (from 1926 on) five weeks before Easter, on Reminiscere Sunday,8 suggested an image of the fallen as ‘heroes’ who had sacrificed their lives for Germany’s better future. That interpretation of the commemoration day made it possible for the National Socialists to adopt the VDK’s conception without a hitch: according to Nazi ideology, the ‘sacrifice’ of the fallen had fulfilled its purpose with the rise of the Third Reich. In 1934, the Volkstrauertag was renamed Heldengedenktag and made a national holiday. Responsibility for its organization was delegated to the Ministry of Propaganda and the Ministry of the Interior.9 At the centre of interest was now the annual state ceremony in Berlin, consisting of a ceremony at the state opera house (Staatsoper) or, from 1940 onwards, in the Zeughaus on Unter den Linden, followed by a pompous wreath-laying by the Führer in the nearby New Guardhouse (Neue Wache), framed by a detachment of troops. In 1939, the commemoration day was severed from the ecclesiastical year, but it still took place in

Alexandra Kaiser

17

spring, on the Sunday before 16 March.10 In 1940, the commemorations began referencing the ‘fallen heroes’ of the Second World War.

Reviving the tradition: Reintroducing the Volkstrauertag after 1945 After the Second World War, Germany had to come to terms with the deaths of more than five million soldiers and roughly half a million civilians.11 Unknown numbers were disabled, refugees, or prisoners of war. And beyond the victims in its ‘own’ ranks, the nation was forced to face the consequences of crimes committed by Germans both at home and abroad, suffering what Bernhard Giesen has called a ‘trauma of perpetrators’.12 In VDK ideology, neither 1933 nor 1945 constituted a caesura in its conception of the Volkstrauertag or its function of commemorating the ‘fallen’. The continuity in meaning is most clearly reflected in the uninterrupted use of the ‘Song of the Good Comrade’ (‘Lied vom guten Kameraden’).13 With its melancholy tune and lyrics, the song functions as the commemoration day’s most fundamental symbol. Without giving any reason for the war and emphasizing the arbitrariness of a soldier’s death, the ballad had been one of the most popular songs among German soldiers in the First World War. In the Weimar Republic it was sung annually at the Volksbund’s main ceremony and it was later adopted into the ritual of Heldengedenktag. After 1945, the song again became an essential element of Volkstrauertag rites, and it can be heard at the central commemoration in Berlin to this day. After the Second World War, the VDK extended its conception of commemoration: German civilians who had died in the war and its aftermath were to be explicitly included. From the perspective of the VDK, the role of the Volkstrauertag was (still) to commemorate one’s ‘own’ dead, that is the German war dead, but it tacitly excluded those Germans (and people of other nations) who were persecuted and killed by the Nazis, that is those who had already been excluded from the ‘folk community’ (Volksgemeinschaft) during the Third Reich as ‘foreign elements’ (Gemeinschaftsfremde). From the government’s standpoint, however, it was impossible – in light of German atrocities – to retain the exclusive focus. Aleida Assmann has postulated a ‘memory of suffering’ (Leidgedächtnis) in German families, represented by the Volksbund, in contrast with the ‘memory of guilt’ (Schuldgedächtnis)14 embodied by the state; to survive, the Volkstrauertag had to encompass both aspects. In 1950, the Volkstrauertag was officially revived. The VDK – on Reminiscere and exactly 28 years after its first commemoration in Berlin – organized a commemoration ceremony in the Bundestag in Bonn, with a wreath-laying at the nearby war cemetery in Ittenbach.15 The twofold structure, consisting of a commemoration ritual and a wreath-laying following the example of the official ceremony on Heldengedenktag, became typical for the VDK commemorations after the Second World War. Since 1951, the wreath-laying has normally been held at Bonn’s North Cemetery.16 In 1952, the Volkstrauertag was moved to the autumn. On 16 November 1952, the commemoration day was held simultaneously in all federal states for the first time,17 and it has since been celebrated every year in November.

18

The Volkstrauertag from 1922 to the Present

The re-establishment of the Volkstrauertag in the FRG marked the end of a ‘state of transition’18 in German public memory culture that characterized the period from 1945 to 1949. In the years immediately after the war, German society not only suffered from a loss of meaning and the lack of a new master narrative, but also lacked – after the suspension of Nazi rituals and symbolic language, but before the establishment of new memorial forms or the rehabilitation of older ones – stable structures for a public commemoration.19 Moreover, under the protection of the Allied occupation forces, those who had been persecuted in the Third Reich were able to influence the public culture of memory to a greater degree than in later years.20 Before the two separate German states came into being, commemorations for the ‘victims of fascism’ were celebrated throughout Germany, even though most German people were unable, or rather unwilling, to identify with such commemorations: the dead to be remembered were – unlike those later honoured by the Volkstrauertag – not conceived as ‘their own’. In 1947, with support from the Association of the Persecutees of the Nazi Regime (Vereinigung der Verfolgten des Naziregimes or VVN), a Commemoration Day for the Victims of Fascism (Gedenktag für die Opfer des Faschismus) was fixed on the second Sunday in September, bringing together the antifascist commemorations. That commemoration day was preserved in the GDR and became an element of the SED’s official antifascism, but it quickly lost its significance in the FRG.21 The National Commemoration Day of the German People (Nationaler Gedenktag des Deutschen Volkes) on 7 September 1950 was intended as a direct counterpart to the commemoration day of the VVN,22 which in the FRG had been disparaged as a communist front since 1948. Held on the anniversary of the first sitting of the Bundestag, it indicated more than mere symbolic separation from the GDR; it was also the sole attempt in FRG history to link public commemoration of the war dead and victims of the Nazi regime with reference to the state’s democratic foundations and thus with a positive national identity.23 But the ‘experiment’ was not repeated. Celebrations in 1951 and 1952 no longer included the dead. That task was re-assigned to the Volkstrauertag – and thus put to a large extent under the control of the Volksbund. In 1954, National Commemoration Day in September was replaced by the Day of German Unity (Tag der deutschen Einheit), celebrated on 17 June.24 In 1948, soon after its readmission in the Allied occupation zones (later FRG), the VDK began to demand a revival of the Volkstrauertag.25 Dismissing its recent past, the VDK stressed the day’s roots in the Weimar Republic, proclaiming it a way for a ‘fundamental and positive use of this war catastrophe for the life of our people’ that would make ‘the deepest experience of suffering by the German people in its history . . . productive’.26 Thus, by gathering the bereaved, the Volkstrauertag would constitute a forum for staging a Volksgemeinschaft after the collapse of the Third Reich. In early articles and memoranda produced by the VDK, a sacrificial interpretation of soldiers’ deaths clearly predominates. By emphasizing their ‘duty’ and ‘good faith’ in defending the beloved native land (Heimat), the Wehrmacht

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soldiers could be cast as heroes whose deaths should be revered. The inclusion of civilians in the Volkstrauertag commemorations did not entail an ideological rupture; they became ‘fallen’ – and thus implicitly ‘heroic’ – in the Volksbund’s vocabulary as well. Paralleling the ideological continuity, the post-1945 VDK clung to the Volkstrauertag’s traditional date, demanding not only an additional commemoration day to supplement the ecclesiastical memorial days but, again, striving to attach it to Reminiscere. The Ministry of the Interior and the federal states, as well as the Protestant church, preferred to reschedule the day due to its symbolism.27 The date in November was a compromise. No longer suggesting a national resurrection – and with it, the controversial notion of death in war as ‘sacrifice’ – a damp, grey Sunday in late autumn would emphasize grieving for the dead. Significantly, the compromise did not satisfy the demands of the Protestant church. It had asked to combine the Volkstrauertag with its own memorial for the dead (of all eras, in war and in peacetime) on the last Sunday of the church year,28 and thus to respond – in a different way to the VDK – to the high rate of casualties among civilians and ‘normal’ Germans.

Expanding the concept: The Volkstrauertag as a Commemoration Day for All Victims of War and Violence The rescheduling was not the only change to the Volksbund’s original conception. The Bundestag ceremony and the cemetery wreath-laying were held in the presence of senior representatives of the state. Although the Volksbund was mainly responsible for it, the federal government identified with the event and exerted an influence on the arrangements. This became especially apparent in the late 1950s, when, against the background of FRG membership in NATO and the reintroduction of compulsory military service, remembering German soldiers acquired a new political significance. Thus, it was the government that ordered the increased Bundeswehr presence at the wreath-layings from 1960.29 But while promoting the day’s militarization, the government had also begun, much earlier, to compel the VDK to mention the victims of Nazism.30 The Bundestag ceremony was the stage where the expanded commemorative conception of the Volkstrauertag was acted out. Politicians invited as guest speakers were the first to advocate it openly. In 1951, Hermann Ehlers (CDU), then President of the Bundestag, made reference to resistance fighters and those murdered in concentration camps.31 In 1952, Federal President Theodor Heuss (FDP), whose speech can be viewed as a prototype for later collective memory strategies, told his audience that he wished ‘on purpose’ to equate the fallen soldiers on the battlefields with those killed in air raids, victims of the concentration camps, and the dead in Jewish cemeteries.32 Since 1954, a text honouring the dead (the so-called Totenehrung) has been recited each year by a representative of the government – since 1976 by the German Federal President. The necrology, naming different groups of dead to be recalled on Volkstrauertag, represents a kind of closure or counterpart to the ‘Song of the Good Comrade’ (with its restriction to dead soldiers). Today, each

20

The Volkstrauertag from 1922 to the Present

central commemoration ceremony in the Bundestag ends with the Totenehrung and a performance of the song – followed, since 1983, by the German national anthem. From 1958 onwards, victims of Nazi crimes were regularly included in the Totenehrung’s catalogue. In 1973, at the suggestion of Chancellor Willy Brandt (SPD), the Totenehrung was introduced with the sentence ‘Wir gedenken der Opfer von Krieg und Gewalt’ (‘We remember the victims of war and violence’).33 The introductory phrase became something of a motto for the Volkstrauertag. While the VDK had resisted the inclusion of the victims of Nazism during the 1950s, it adopted an expanded conception from the 1960s onwards, calling Volkstrauertag a commemoration day for all victims of war and violence, especially towards the end of the decade. Likewise, in the 1970s when families’ grief had faded, the Volksbund de-emphasized the day’s function of helping to overcome the past, but directed its message ‘toward the future’, even calling it a Day of Admonition to Peace (Friedensmahntag).34 By accepting the inclusion of those persecuted by Germans, the VDK followed a general shift in public opinion and memorialization in the FRG. After the crimes of the Nazis and the Wehrmacht began to enter public awareness in the late 1950s (helped in part by the foundation, in 1958, of a central West German office for the investigation of Nazi crimes), it became increasingly difficult to demand a distinctive or extraordinary form of reverence for fallen soldiers. The re-branding of the Volkstrauertag can thus be regarded not only from a moral perspective, but first and foremost as a strategy: only by erasing the distinction between those who had fought for the Third Reich and those who were persecuted by it was possible to ‘honour’ the former group any longer in the public eye.35 At the same time, the blurring of different cohorts of the dead, which facilitated the sublimation of German guilt, might be interpreted as a means of coping with a ‘trauma of perpetrators’. The ‘all-victims-together’ model, as Bill Niven has termed it, which became quite widespread in memorialization in the FRG beginning in the mid-1960s, is reflected in the phrase ‘alle Opfer von Krieg und Gewalt’ (or ‘Gewaltherrschaft’, the rule of force). The levelling function of this dedication is reinforced by the ambiguity of the German word ‘Opfer’, which can mean either ‘sacrifice’ or ‘victim’. That is, a central term in German public memory allows no differentiation between giving one’s life voluntarily and the involuntary suffering of helpless victims. The use of the term Opfer enabled the transformation of Wehrmacht soldiers – would-be ‘heroes’ whom defeat had turned into ‘perpetrators’ – into ‘victims’, and at the same time helped them save face as, if not heroic, then at least decent men.36 The annual event in the Bundestag, with speeches by politicians and prominent personalities and the recitation of the Totenehrung, served to embody the politically motivated ‘memory of guilt’. It presented the Volkstrauertag’s ‘new look’ as a day for all victims of war and violence and – being disseminated by mass media, notably on television37 – dominated public perceptions of the Volkstrauertag, at least on the level of national politics. But the Volkstrauertag’s position – between commemoration of the ‘fallen’ and commemoration of ‘all victims’ – was always ambivalent. That ambivalence is reflected in the juxtaposition of the Totenehrung

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and the ‘Song of the Good Comrade’ in the Bundestag ceremony, but it is also evident in the duality of the celebration’s overall structure. The wreath-laying, rather than conforming to the new image of the Volkstrauertag, stressed its traditional aspects. Likewise, the victims of Nazi crimes, however conspicuous in the Bundestag event, were not commemorated appropriately by a wreath-laying clearly devoted to soldiers. This was readily apparent not only in the martial atmosphere evoked by the stark presence of the Bundeswehr and the display of elements of military tradition, but also in a glance at the list of participating (military) organizations and a consideration of the locality: while the North Cemetery contains graves of German soldiers of both World Wars and non-combatant victims of Allied air raids, there is nothing to remind participants and viewers of Germans persecuted or murdered for religious, racial, or political reasons, much less to remind them of other ‘peoples’. The ‘traditional’ face of the Volkstrauertag remained particularly prominent at the local level. Ute Frevert has noted: ‘The greater the distance to the capital, the more the commemoration became restricted to the fallen soldiers.’38 In most communities, people gathered at local war memorials or the graves of ‘fallen’ family members, places naturally devoid of reference to those killed by the Wehrmacht or the Nazis. The expanded conception of a commemoration day for all victims of war and violence thus failed to influence the great majority of Volkstrauertag commemorations. It never filtered down to the local level, where families’ memories of their ‘own’ dead have always dominated and still do – a reality unaffected by German unification. But how did unification alter the function of the Volkstrauertag on the public, political level?

Remembering ‘one’s own dead’: The Volkstrauertag’s function since unification The unification of the two Germanys opened a new chapter in German memorialization. Not only has the perspective on the German past changed, but the pattern of the construction of national identity as well. At the same time, shifts in public discourse and ruptures or lapses in memory culture in the Berlin republic have influenced the Volkstrauertag. The ‘all-victims-together’ model that had been the basis of public memory culture in the ‘old’ FRG is disintegrating. The official culture of memory is no longer dominated by the elision of difference between victims and perpetrators, but is instead characterized by extensive public presentation and dramatization of German crimes. Like the Holocaust Memorial in the heart of downtown Berlin, the Commemoration Day for the Victims of National Socialism (Gedenktag für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus) held each year on 27 January – the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz – exemplifies the shift in perception of Germany’s past and the phenomenon Bernhard Giesen has called the ‘public confession of guilt’.39 The new commemoration day, inaugurated in 1996 by German President Roman Herzog,40 clearly suggests that the Volkstrauertag never achieved acceptance as a commemoration day for all victims (of war and violence). By questioning this role,

22

The Volkstrauertag from 1922 to the Present

the new day posed direct competition while, at a political level, the Volkstrauertag reverted – almost automatically – to the function it had always retained at a local level: the (exclusive) commemoration of the German dead.41 The significance of the Volkstrauertag at the local level has receded with fading memories of the Second World War. Today, it is largely the elderly who attend local ceremonies. Not least in view of the competition from 27 January, one might therefore expect a decline in its relevance on the political level as well. But that is not the case: public attention has increased since German unification. On Volkstrauertag 1993 (14 November), the New Guardhouse was dedicated as a National Site of Admonition and Remembrance (Nationale Mahn- und Gedenkstätte). Annually – and with extensive coverage from TV and print media – wreaths are laid in front of the Kollwitz pietà in the guardhouse by representatives of the five branches of government (Figure 1): the Federal President, the Chancellor and cabinet, the Bundestag (parliament), the Bundesrat (a body composed of delegates from the federal states), and the Bundesverfassungsgericht (supreme court). While the main Volkstrauertag ceremony, held in the Bundestag’s new quarters in the former Reichstag since 1999, is still directed by the VDK, the wreath-laying in the guardhouse has become an act of state organized by the Ministry of the Interior. The government has thus reasserted at least partial responsibility for public commemoration of the German war dead, avowing the past in a novel way. At the same time, the wreath-laying is evidence of a new conception of German national identity: after the return to normalcy symbolized by unification, the

Figure 1 Representatives of Germany’s five constitutional bodies (the five Bundesverfassungsorgane) lay wreaths in the New Guardhouse in Berlin, 14 November 1993 (photo reproduced here courtesy of the German Federal Press Office)

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German government sees itself as entitled to mourn its losses just as any other nation might.42 With regards to the Volkstrauertag’s current political role, another striking change can be noted. In 2006, Bundeswehr soldiers killed during recent military operations abroad were included in the Totenehrung by Federal President Horst Köhler for the first time.43 Their deaths were assuredly not in compliance with the Volkstrauertag’s positioning as a commemoration of the ‘victims’ of war, but conform instead to the notion of active, voluntary ‘sacrifice’. Their inclusion thus ushers in a revival of the Volkstrauertag as a commemoration day for German soldiers, re-emphasizing the sacrifice-related rationalization of the commemoration. In a sense, Volkstrauertag came full circle in the 1990s, reset to its original meaning as a day of mourning for German losses. The expanded conception of Volkstrauertag as a ‘commemoration day for the victims of war and violence’ that had served to mask its purpose since the 1960s became dysfunctional. At the same time, the linking of today’s Bundeswehr to the fallen of previous generations has established a new and troubling memory construction whose consequences have yet to be fully discussed.44

Notes 1. Anon., ‘Warum Volkstrauertag?’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 26:2 (1950), 11. 2. For ease of reading, I will use the German terms Volkstrauertag, Heldengedenktag, and Volksbund/ VDK instead of the English translations in this chapter. 3. In the new Germany (as in the Weimar Republic and in the ‘old’ FRG) holidays are under the jurisdiction of the individual federal states. The Volkstrauertag is not an official nationwide commemoration day, but its status is similar, since it is observed in all states and city-states without exception. See also T. P. Petersen, Die Geschichte des Volkstrauertages (Bad Kleinen, 1999). 4. On this period of the VDK’s history see A. Kaiser, ‘“Allerheldentotenfest”: Politische Sinnstiftung und rituelle Formung des Gefallenengedenkens im Volkstrauertag’, in G. Korff (ed.), Alliierte im Himmel. Populare Religiosität und Kriegserfahrung (Tübingen, 2006), pp. 83–125. 5. Anon., ‘Unsere Gedenkfeier im Reichstagshaus’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 2:3 (1922), 26. 6. Anon., ‘Jahresbericht 1920’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 1:1/2 (1921), 2–6, here 5. 7. Ibid. 8. During the 1920s, there were extensive discussions about the date of a Volkstrauertag or rather about whether to initiate a commemoration day for the ‘fallen’ at all. See F. Schellack, Nationalfeiertage in Deutschland von 1871 bis 1945 (Frankfurt am Main, 1990), pp. 148–56, 204, and 231–46; M. Lurz, Kriegerdenkmäler in Deutschland, 6 vols (Heidelberg, 1985–87), vol. 4, Weimarer Republik, pp. 414–22. 9. Petersen, Geschichte des Volkstrauertages, p. 22. 10. Ibid. The date was reminiscent of 16 March 1935, when Hitler had introduced military service in violation of the Treaty of Versailles. 11. On this chapter in the VDK’s history see A. Kaiser, ‘“Sie wollen gar nicht, dass wir mit lauten Worten sie ‘Helden’ nennen”. Der Volkstrauertag und der Mythos vom Sinn des Sterbens im Krieg’, in H. Hein-Kircher and H. Hahn (eds), Politische Mythen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert in Mittel- und Osteuropa (Marburg, 2006), pp. 63–80.

24

The Volkstrauertag from 1922 to the Present

12. B. Giesen, ‘The Trauma of Perpetrators. The Holocaust as the Traumatic Reference of German National Identity’, in J. Alexander et al. (eds), Cultural Trauma and Collective Identity (Berkeley, CA, 2004), pp. 112–54. 13. The lyrics were written by the German poet and politician Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862) in 1809 and set to music by Friedrich Silcher (1789–1860). 14. A. Assmann, Der lange Schatten der Vergangenheit. Erinnerungskultur und Geschichtspolitik (Munich, 2006), pp. 203–4. 15. Anon., ‘Ihr seid nicht allein und verlassen in Eurem Leid’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 26:4 (1950), 26–7. 16. Between 1964 and 1968 it was moved to the Hofgarten park in Bonn. 17. Anon., ‘In Stadt und Land gedenken wir der Kriegstoten’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 28:12 (1952), 125. 18. S. Behrenbeck, ‘Between Pain and Silence: Remembering the Victims of Violence in Germany after 1949’, in R. Bessel and D. Schumann (eds), Life after Death: Approaches to a Cultural and Social History of Europe during the 1940s and 1950s (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 37–64, here p. 40. 19. For the memory culture of the immediate post-war years see also F. Maciejewski, ‘Trauer ohne Riten – Riten ohne Trauer. Deutsche Volkstrauer nach 1945’, in J. Assmann et al. (eds), Der Abschied von den Toten. Trauerrituale im Kulturvergleich (Göttingen, 2005), pp. 245–66; G. Margalit, ‘Gedenk- und Trauerkultur im Nachkriegsdeutschland. Anmerkungen zur Architektur’, Mittelweg 36 13:2 (2004), pp. 76–92. 20. Behrenbeck, ‘Between Pain and Silence’, p. 41. 21. For the history of the commemoration day, see H. Coppi and N. Warmbold, Der zweite Sonntag im September. Gedenken und Erinnern an die Opfer des Faschismus. Zur Geschichte des OdF-Tages (Oswiecim, 2006). 22. See proposal of the Federal Minister of the Interior Gustav Heinemann (CDU, later SPD) from 14 August 1950, Bundesarchiv Koblenz (BArch) B106/77151. 23. See announcement of the Federal Press Office dated 30 August 1950, BArch B106/77151. 24. For a brief history of the National Commemoration Day see BArch B106/77151; B106/77152; B106/77153; S. Behrenbeck, ‘Rituale des Zwiespalts. Politische Feiertage in Ost und West’, in H. Hastedt et al. (eds), Zeichen und Mythen in Ost und West. Rostocker Philosophische Manuskripte, NF 6/1999 (Rostock, 1999), 45–70. 25. A first discussion paper (Denkschrift) was published in October 1948 (others were to follow in the succeeding years), Archive VDK (Kassel). 26. ‘Denkschrift über den Volkstrauertag’ (28 December 1949), Archive VDK. 27. There were further complex discussions about fixing the date of the Volkstrauertag in the early 1950s. See BArch B106/104109; B122/2238; B136/3003. 28. See Evangelisches Zentralarchiv Berlin (EZA), 2/4416. 29. For the state’s interventions in the organization of the Volkstrauertag, see BArch B106/77166; B136/4931; B122/5150. 30. The government communicated its desires to the VDK explicitly at a meeting in 1953. See ‘Niederschrift der Präsidiumssitzung vom 17.3.1961’, Archive VDK. 31. See the transcript of Ehler’s speech, Anon., printed in Kriegsgräberfürsorge 27 (1951). 32. ‘Kriegsleid bindet Menschen und Völker’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 28:12 (1952), 141–5, here 142. 33. See Bulletin des Presse-und Informationsamtes der Bundesregierung, No. 149 (20 November 1973), 1135. 34. See, for instance, Anon., ‘“Volkstrauertag ist Friedensmahntag”’, Kriegsgräberfürsorge 56:1 (1980), 4–7. 35. See, for instance, the programmatic title ‘Der Tod hat alle Unterschiede ausgelöscht’ (Death Has Eliminated all Differences) which was given to an article in Kriegsgräberfürsorge 39:5 (1963), 90–1. 36. G. L. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (New York, 1990), p. 216.

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37. Already in the 1950s and 1960s, people could follow the entire celebration in the Bundestag as a live broadcast. 38. A. Assmann and U. Frevert, Geschichtsvergessenheit – Geschichtsversessenheit. Vom Umgang mit deutschen Vergangenheiten nach 1945 (Stuttgart, 1999), p. 210. 39. Giesen, ‘The Trauma of Perpetrators’, p. 146. Originally, Giesen applied this interpretative model to Chancellor Willy Brandt’s gesture of kneeling in the Warsaw ghetto in 1970. 40. Thus, the commemoration day in Germany was a forerunner of Holocaust Remembrance Day, officially introduced by the UN in 2005. 41. This has, however, not (yet) affected the Volksbund’s propaganda, which continues to conform to the ‘all-victims-together’ model. 42. B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany (Basingstoke, 2006), p. 19. 43. Anon., ‘Gedenken an getötete Bundeswehrsoldaten’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 20 November 2006, 1–2. 44. For an analysis of some of the problems involved in constructing a ‘tradition’ for the Bundeswehr see the chapter by Jörg Echternkamp.

1.2 Beyond Usable Pasts: Rethinking the Memorialization of the Strategic Air War in Germany, 1940 to 1965 Jörg Arnold

Recent scholarly research into the cultural impact of Second World War bombing has done much to dispel simplistic notions about an alleged absence of the bombing war from the political cultures of the two successor states of the Third Reich.1 In the German Democratic Republic, the Communist elites were quick to exploit collective memories of urban destruction and mass death for the political confrontations of the Cold War. As Gilad Margalit, Matthias Neutzner, and others have shown, it was above all the bombing of Dresden on 13–14 February 1945 that served state-sponsored propagandists as a powerful symbol of both ‘imperialist’ atrocity and German victimhood.2 Meanwhile, the air war also occupied a prominent place in public discourse west of the inner-German border, albeit on the communal rather than the state level. In cities such as Hamburg, Pforzheim, Kassel, and many others, annual commemorations were held in memory of the bombing, attracting a considerable number of residents.3 In West German cities, public memory was dominated by the local elites of City and Church, who harnessed the air war to the task of physical and spiritual reconstruction while largely avoiding thorny questions of agency and causality. Much of this scholarship adopts a functionalist approach to the study of memory, working on the premise that the memory of past events serves the needs of the present. On this view, memorial cultures are best explained by looking at the social contexts and political motivations of the present rather than the lived experiences of the historical events themselves.4 Such an approach has done much to shed light on the politics of memory, demonstrating the bewildering array of contradictory myths to which narratives of Second World War bombing have contributed – myths of resilience and sacrifice, overpowering and victimhood, guilt and atonement. It has also considerably broadened our understanding of the ‘agents’ of public memory and their goals of political mobilization, social integration, and community building. Yet, for all its merits, the present historiography shows a troubling tendency to prioritise questions of function and usability over ‘existential’ issues of loss and bereavement.5 This imbalance is in part a consequence of the broader framework of Vergangenheitsbewältigung within which most studies operate. There are, of course, perfectly valid reasons for an approach that examines the post-history 26

Jörg Arnold 27

of the strategic air war through the lens of German society’s inability to come to terms with the Nazi past. However, there is a danger here of reducing the cultural repercussions of urban catastrophe to a relational history between competing groups of victims, and thus to histories of Aufrechnung.6 All too often, the result is a history of the memory of Second World War bombing with the bombing ‘left out’.7 This chapter seeks to go some way towards redressing the imbalance between ‘function’ and ‘grief’ in the current historiography on air war memory. Drawing on evidence from the cities of Heilbronn, Darmstadt, Pforzheim, Hamburg, Kassel, Magdeburg, and Dresden, it applies Jay Winter’s argument about inter-war commemorations to the memory of Second World War bombing. ‘Sites of memory’, it is argued, were not only sites of social integration and political mobilization but also ‘sites of mourning’ – in post-1945 Heilbronn or Dresden no less than in post-1918 London or Paris.8 At the same time, the author seeks to question Winter’s contention of a fundamental break with tradition in the post-Second World War commemorative landscape.9 Locally, traditional languages continued to provide the most important vocabulary of commemoration well into the 1960s, not despite but because of the unprecedented nature of the war.

The problem of non-combatant death in the air war Any investigation that seeks to uncover the cultural impact of Second World War bombing on post-war urban communities across Germany must begin with the phenomenon of violent mass death. Without death in the bombing raids, there would be no memory of the bombing.10 Precise estimates are difficult but most scholars agree that anywhere between 360,000 and 410,000 German noncombatants died in the strategic air war of 1940–45.11 Although substantial, the death toll amounts to no more than six per cent of German overall losses of 6,350,000 soldiers and civilians during the Second World War.12 Yet, when the focus is shifted from the national to the local, a radically different picture emerges. In urban communities that suffered indiscriminate air raids in the Second World War,13 the ratio of air war casualties to fallen soldiers was not one to twenty but two to one. In Kassel, for example, the overall death toll amounted to 15,000, of which more than 9000 had died in the air war.14 At a time when a combination of medical and sanitary advances had pushed once ubiquitous death further from the centre of urban life than ever before, the phenomenon returned in the form of airborne catastrophe.15 In addition to the scale of the slaughter, there was the nature of the killing. In urban communities such as Kassel, Heilbronn, Würzburg, or Dresden, the death toll did not result from a process of gradual accumulation but from single raids whose duration could be measured in minutes. The consequence was a compression of mass killing into a very brief period of time. Moreover, the victims of the air war did not simply pass away but were, in the words of one contemporary, ‘hit by heavy bombs, torn apart by explosions, burnt to death in their homes, suffocated in cellars or died of lack of oxygen’.16 Partly as a consequence

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Rethinking Memorialization of the Air War

of the overwhelming presence of the dead in the aftermath of the raids, burial occurred in a manner that defied all received cultural norms of propriety and dignity.17 Although the profound shock over the return of mass death is most commonly associated with the mass slaughter of soldiers on the Western Front in the First World War,18 non-combatant death in the air war posed a challenge that was qualitatively different. Ever since the Napoleonic wars, there had been cultural props in place that rationalized the violent death of the citizen-soldier as a sacrifice for the higher goal of the nation.19 The fallen soldier was a central element of what George L. Mosse has called the ‘Myth of the War Experience’, which sanctified the death of the soldier as an imitation of the passion of Christ.20 But could the same be said of the non-combatants who had been killed in the air war? Did the residents of the big cities, with a disproportionate number of elderly people, women and children among them, really fall into the same category as the soldiers killed on the battlefield? During the war, the National Socialists thought that non-combatant death could be reconciled with the Myth of the War Experience, or, at least, they pretended that they thought so. National Socialism made strenuous efforts to integrate the civilian casualties of the air war into the National Socialist cult of the dead.21 As ‘soldiers of the Heimat’,22 they were said to have sacrificed their lives on the altar of the fatherland just as the fallen soldiers in both world wars and the ‘martyred’ National Socialist ‘fighters’ during the ‘time of struggle’ had done.23 In Nationalist Socialist rhetoric, the meaning of civilian death was closely linked to a successful outcome of the war. The death of non-combatants obligated the racial community to carry on with the struggle until ‘final victory’.24 While the dead were placed at the centre of elaborate funeral ceremonies, both symbolically and literally, the Nazi cult of the dead provided few if any emotional outlets for the bereaved other than hatred of the enemy.25 The ostentatious display of confidence notwithstanding, there was, however, uncertainty even among National Socialists about the extent to which death in the air war could really be equated with death in battle. In a commemorative address that was reprinted in the official circular of the Party Propaganda Office (Reichspropagandaleitung) in January 1945, a functionary admitted as much when he spoke about how difficult it was to find meaning in the death of men and women, and in particular of children, on the home front.26 From a different angle, a ‘racial comrade’ complained to the Party Chancellery in April 1943 that the practice of awarding military decorations to injured civilians amounted to a ‘desecration’ of the sacrifice of soldiers who had been wounded in battle.27 And indeed, alongside the celebration of the air-raid casualties as heroic ‘soldiers of the home front’, there coexisted in Nazi propaganda an alternative conceptualization that described the dead as innocent civilians who had fallen victim to a crime by a sadistic enemy. The motif was employed in exemplary fashion by propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels when he spoke at a funeral ceremony in Wuppertal in June 1943 of a ‘defenceless civilian population’ that had been subjected to ‘malicious’ and ‘insidious’ ‘air terror’.28

Jörg Arnold 29

To the post-war world, Nazism left a deeply problematic legacy. Throughout the cities of the Reich, regional and local Nazi functionaries had laid claim to the civilian casualties of the air war as pledges to ultimate victory. Nazi idiom had permeated the experience of aerial bombardment while public narratives about the meaning of death in the bombing raids had been shaped in accordance with National Socialist ideas of heroic sacrifice and innocent victimhood. Elaborate public ceremonies had been staged in order to commemorate the dead while their burial sites had been laid out according to National Socialist designs.29 Yet, this legacy was uneven. Whereas in the middle phase of the war of 1942–44, the Nazi Party generally responded to air raids by organizing public funeral ceremonies in order to demonstrate its unbroken hold over German society,30 by late 1944 and early 1945, even heavy air raids with thousands of casualties were no longer commemorated by the regional and local branches of the Nazi Party.

Sites of memory, sites of mourning Scholars of the post-history of the air war have frequently noted the connection between the emergence of memorial cultures and the Cold War. With the founding of two German states in 1948/49 and the outbreak of the Korean War in the following year, memories of Second World War bombing became politically usable in the ideological struggles of the day. This was especially pronounced in the German Democratic Republic where the ruling Socialists turned the anniversaries of the bombing of Dresden into ‘anti-imperialist’ ‘day[s] of struggle’ that were celebrated by mass rallies throughout the country.31 In West German cities, too, the 1950s witnessed a noticeable upsurge in commemorative activity. In Kassel, Darmstadt, Pforzheim, and elsewhere, the tenth anniversaries of heavy air raids were commemorated extensively as days of municipal ‘rebirth’ that were designed to bring together the residents of the post-war city as a community of shared pain and reconstruction.32 Yet, as a closer look reveals, the history of post-war commemoration cannot be reduced to a history of usable pasts. For a start, in many urban communities, and in particular in those cities that had been bombed during the final months of the Second World War, attempts to commemorate the dead pre-date the onset of the Cold War. In Heilbronn, for example, provisional mayor Emil Beutinger requested permission from the military government to hold a ‘commemoration for those residents killed in the air raid of 4 December and thereafter’ as early as August 1945.33 The request was denied but a religious ceremony was eventually allowed to go ahead three weeks later.34 East of the emerging inner-German border, too, Dresden City Council asked the Soviet military governor for permission to hold ‘mass rallies’ on the first anniversary of the air raid of 13 February 1945.35 Here, the occupation authorities were more accommodating but stipulated that the event should be held in an optimistic, forward-looking spirit.36 To be sure, the question of public memory was not taken up by all city councils with equal urgency. In Kassel, for example, the municipal authorities initially showed little inclination to single out the anniversary of the city’s ‘day of death’

30

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by way of a public commemoration. Here, the last Sunday before Advent was chosen in 1945 to hold a funeral ceremony for ‘all the victims of this great murder of nations’ (Völkermorden), as the local newspaper put it.37 Similarly, in Magdeburg, in the Soviet zone of occupation, the city council did not organize annual commemorations until the early 1950s.38 But whenever the subject was ignored by the highest political representatives of the city, alternative agents tended to step into the vacuum. Often, this role was taken on by the Churches, as was the case in Hamburg, where memorial services were held from 1945 onwards.39 At other times, political interest groups managed to establish themselves as the arbiters of air war memory. In Kassel, for example, the emergence of a commemorative tradition was in large measure due to the initiative of the so-called League of Air Raid Victims (Bund der Fliegergeschädigten), who claimed to represent all non-expellee citizens who had lost property in the war.40 How is one able to account for this widespread concern about public memory at a time when the everyday life of many Germans was characterized by hunger and material deprivation? Part of the answer must surely be sought in the realm of politics, but not just in the politics of the Cold War: also in the politics of identity. By taking over from the Nazi Party the organization of public funeral ceremonies, the reconstituted municipal authorities staked a claim to the status of genuine representatives of the local body politic. Not unlike the National Socialists before them, they professed to act as the legitimate mediators between the dead and the living. At the same time, city councils considered public funeral ceremonies an opportunity to foster a sense of community among a dispirited and divided population.41 In memory of the dead, the living would put their differences behind them and reach out to each other. Yet, any explanation that conceives of public memory solely in terms of politics, even at communal level, runs the danger of reducing a complex phenomenon to its functional aspects. In particular, such an approach tends to overlook the extent to which the emergence of urban memorial cultures was influenced by a complex interplay between initiatives ‘from above’ and expectations ‘from below’. In organizing public ceremonies, the Church and the City did not only engage in a politics of identity but also responded to a number of emotional needs among broad sections of the population, in particular the needs of the bereaved and of the evacuees. Prominent among these was the need to demarcate anew the boundaries – both real and symbolic – between the dead and the living; the need to reach some kind of closure through a ‘dignified’ burial ceremony; and the need to provide a site – both temporal and spatial – for public and private mourning. Ever since the publication of W. G. Sebald’s influential On the Natural History of Destruction in 1999, it has become customary among cultural critics to bemoan the post-war memorialization of the air war as formulaic in form and apologetic in content.42 And indeed, examples are not difficult to find of commemorative practices that strike present-day observers as peculiar at best and mendacious at worst. In Darmstadt, in 1954, prominence was accorded to the ode ‘To the Peoples of the World’ (‘An die Völker der Erde ) by the Catholic convert and representative

Jörg Arnold 31

of ‘inner emigration’, Werner Bergengruen (1892–1964). The poem claimed that throughout the years of 1933–45 the German people had suffered ‘on behalf’ of all the peoples of the world as the first victim of a European-wide break-away from the Christian faith.43 Anticipating this self-serving rhetoric, the Social Democratic mayor of Kassel, Willi Seidel, had spoken in 1953 of the air war as a ‘natural disaster’ that had struck ‘our poor city’ seemingly out of nowhere. In the same address, Seidel had urged his audience to put the past to rest for the sake of a brighter future.44 Here, as elsewhere, public discourse on the recent past appeared to be characterized by a twin tendency of evasion and self-victimization.45 What has sometimes been under-appreciated in the scholarly literature, however, is how extraordinarily difficult it was for the post-war carriers of public memory to find a frame of reference that would endow non-combatant death with meaning in the wake of total defeat. Not only had the National Socialist rationalizations become discredited by the physical and above all the moral collapse of the Third Reich, even on the National Socialists’ own terms the ‘soldiers of the Heimat’ had died in vain with the failure of ‘ultimate victory’ to materialize. In West German urban communities, different agents of the City, the Church, and civil society responded in different ways to this challenge, but very few were prepared to entertain the notion that the death of thousands of residents had been without any meaning whatsoever. Above all, they sought to reclaim the dead as members of the local community, to fetch them home as ‘our dead’. Protestant Bishop Adolf Wüstemann expressed this idea in a commemorative address in Kassel in October 1951: ‘We commemorate the dead as those who have shared their lives with us in this city.’46 However unsatisfactory and incomplete these rationalizations may appear in view of the support of broad sections of urban society for ‘Hitler’s war’, it is important to recognize that they were not necessarily considered as problematic or shallow by contemporaries. Although questions of audience reception are notoriously difficult, the available evidence suggests that commemorative practices such as the above found a receptive audience among the survivors of urban catastrophe in the late 1940s and throughout the Adenauer years. In a letter to Seidel of 23 October 1953, F. W. Schluckebier spoke of how deeply he had been touched by the mayor’s words the previous evening. He added that ‘many residents’ had responded to the address ‘with their hearts’, and some had expressed ‘their genuine and deeply felt appreciation’.47 In Kassel that evening, there had been 10,000 residents present; in Darmstadt the following year, the crowd numbered 20,000. In Heilbronn, on every 4 December throughout the 1950s and 1960s, thousands of residents would make the journey to the ‘cemetery of honour’ on the outskirts of town in order to listen to a commemorative address that, from a present-day perspective, contained little more than moral platitudes and vague generalizations.48 By contrast, in Darmstadt, where there was a tendency among Social Democratic councillors to use the memorial day as a platform for political interventions in the debate about the armament of the Federal Republic, popular attendance was – with the exception of the tenth anniversary in 1954 – much lower.49

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While there is a need for much more detailed empirical research, the preliminary evidence suggests that public commemorations in the 1950s tended to be most popular where they conformed to contemporary notions of ‘pious’ and ‘dignified’ remembrance. Residents who had come to remember personal loss did not want to be reminded of the horrific details of death under the hail of bombs. Nor did they want to be lectured about cause and effect. They had come to mourn and they expected to be consoled. Commemorations were most popular where these expectations were met, however incomplete the resulting confrontation with the historical events. Even east of the inner-German border, where the ebb and flow of popular participation in public ceremonies was much more directly circumscribed by political directives from above, the eyewitnesses and bereaved found ways to appropriate state-orchestrated memory to their emotional needs. In an internal report from Magdeburg, written in 1953, the ‘peace council’ that had been in charge of a ‘memorial rally’ (Gedenkkundgebung) on 16 January noted with some misgiving the many unauthorized wreaths that had been placed in front of a provisional memorial.50 Similar observations were made in Dresden seven years earlier when the City Council had first organized mass rallies in memory of 13 February 1945. According to an internal city district report, the population had used the occasion to share lived experiences of the ‘day of horror’. As a consequence, the event had taken on the character of a ‘return of the day of death’ rather than of ‘the beginning of the reconstruction’, as had been intended by the municipal authorities.51

Traditional languages In their attempts to articulate loss, local communities everywhere turned to the traditions available to them. Recent literature on the cultural ramifications of the First World War has rightly pointed towards the continuation of traditional modes of expression, alongside the ‘birth of the modern age’ (M. Eksteins), in the crucible of the First World War.52 The same literature has, however, been too rash in positing a sharp cultural rupture for the Second World War.53 The past may have been ‘shattered’ by Nazism, war, and genocide but it was from this fractured past that local communities attempted to retrieve languages that would give meaning to the experience of airborne disaster. These languages were ‘traditional’ in the sense that they drew on a well-established canon of classical, Christian, and romantic motifs and images that dealt with urban catastrophe.54 In Magdeburg, for example, politicians, pastors, and journalists turned to the precedent of the Thirty Years War in order to articulate the destruction of their home town in the final months of the Second World War. Here, the near-total destruction of the late-medieval town in the so-called ‘marriage of blood’ of 10 May 1631 furnished a readily available frame of reference for making sense of the devastation in the air raid of 16 January 1945.55 In Hamburg, meanwhile, the air raids of July 1943 were interpreted as merely the latest chapter in a long history of ‘new beginnings’ in which catastrophes such as the fire of 1842 had been overcome by the resilience of a specifically ‘Hanseatic spirit’.56 More broadly, ideas

Jörg Arnold 33

of Kultur and Heimat were used to frame urban destruction while Christian funerary rites were combined with elements of the nineteenth-century festive culture in order to address the problem of mass death.57 Yet, there was a two-fold problem with this use of traditional frames of reference. The first problem was that in many urban communities, there simply were no local precedents for the devastation of the Second World War. In Kassel, for example, where local development had come to be imagined as a history of continuous progress since the Middle Ages, the invocation of tradition only served to throw into even sharper relief the catastrophic rupture of the air war.58 The second problem was that most traditions had already been appropriated by National Socialism during the war. In Hamburg, the ‘Hanseatic spirit’ had first been invoked by Nazi propaganda in the aftermath of the disaster of July 1943.59 In Magdeburg, the first reference to the Thirty Years War had appeared in the Nazi-controlled press in late January 1945.60 The carriers of the post-war memorial culture tended to react to this challenge by adopting uneasy compromise solutions. Traditions were stripped of what was considered to be their National Socialist, militaristic, or nationalist patina. They were loaded with meanings that they had never been designed to carry. In Darmstadt, for example, the committee that had been charged with preparing the commemoration in 1954 decided to open the ceremony with the funeral march from Samson by Georg Friedrich Handel but edited the original text, replacing the terms ‘hero’ and ‘honour’ with ‘brother’ and ‘pain’.61 In a similar manner, the committee suggested after extensive deliberations that the tune of the German national anthem be played as a closing rite, but without the lyrics. While the City Council approved the edited version of the funeral march, it rejected the proposal about the national anthem, decreeing that the funeral march by either Wagner or Beethoven be used as a closing rite instead. If this was problematic in view of the popularity that both pieces had enjoyed in the National Socialist cult of the dead, the additional stipulation that the flags be raised during the playing of the funeral march was even more so. The practice that was intended to symbolize the victory of life over death echoed directly the ways in which the National Socialists had attempted to rationalize non-combatant death during the Second World War.

Conclusion Drawing on published and unpublished sources, this chapter has suggested alternative ways of understanding the peculiarities of German post-war memory. It has investigated the memorialization of the air war in a number of urban communities in order to argue for an approach that conceives of public memory in ‘existential’ as well as ‘functionalist’ terms. In cities that had suffered indiscriminate bombing raids in the Second World War, the emergence and durability of post-war memorial cultures was as much a function of the lived experiences of broad sections of the population as of the political concerns of national and municipal elites. After 1945, no less than after 1918, sites of memory were also sites of mourning, in addition to being sites of political mobilization and social integration.

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Notes 1. D. Süß, ‘Review Article: Memories of the Air War’, Journal of Contemporary History 43:3 (2008), 333–42; J. Arnold, D. Süß, and M. Thießen (eds), Untergänge und Neuanfänge. Erinnerungen an den Luftkrieg in Europa (Göttingen, 2009). I would like to thank Dr Neil Gregor, Dr Dietmar Süß, Dr Malte Thießen, and the editors of this volume for their helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. 2. G. Margalit, ‘Der Luftangriff auf Dresden. Seine Bedeutung für die Erinnerungspolitik der DDR und die Herauskristallisierung einer historischen Kriegserinnerung im Westen’, in S. Düwell and M. Schmidt (eds), Narrative der Shoah (Paderborn, 2002), pp. 189–207; M. Neutzner, ‘Vom Anklagen zum Erinnern. Die Erzählung vom 13. Februar’, in O. Reinhard, M. Neutzner, and W. Hesse (eds), Das rote Leuchten. Dresden und der Bombenkrieg (Dresden, 2005), pp. 128–63. 3. See M. Thießen, ‘Die “Katastrophe” als symbolischer Bezugspunkt. Städtisches Gedenken an den Luftkrieg in der BRD und der DDR’, in N. Stegmann (ed.), Die Weltkriege als symbolische Bezugspunkte. Polen, die Tschechoslowakei und Deutschland nach dem Ersten und Zweiten Weltkrieg (Prague, 2009), pp. 91–108. 4. M. Thießen, Eingebrannt ins Gedächtnis. Hamburgs Gedenken an Luftkrieg und Kriegsende 1943 bis 2005 (Hamburg, 2007), p. 19. 5. S. Goebel, The Great War and Medieval Memory: War, Remembrance and Medievalism in Britain and Germany, 1914–1940 (Cambridge, 2007), p. 2. 6. O. Groehler, ‘Dresden – Kleine Geschichte der Aufrechnung’, Blätter für deutsche und internationale Politik (1995/92), 137–41. 7. A. Confino, ‘Telling about Germany: Narratives of Memory and Culture’, in Confino (ed.), Germany as a Culture of Remembrance: Promises and Limits of Writing History (North Carolina, 2006), pp. 188–213, here p. 194. 8. J. Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge, 1995). 9. Ibid., p. 9. 10. D. J. Davies, A Brief History of Death (Oxford, 2005), pp. 24–5. 11. R. Blank, ‘Kriegsalltag und Luftkrieg an der “Heimatfront” ’, in J. Echternkamp (ed.), Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg, vol. 9/part 1 (Munich, 2004), pp. 357–461, here pp. 459ff. The figures apply to the German Reich in its 1937 borders, that is excluding Austria, and do not include soldiers and firefighters killed in action, or foreign labour. 12. Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg, vol. 10/part 2 (Munich, 2008). 13. This is not to argue that all RAF raids were indiscriminate but to recognize that many were, and deliberately so, in particular those area raids of RAF Bomber Command that did not target any particular industries but rather built-up urban areas as a whole. 14. Hauptamt Statistik Kassel to author, 3 September 2004. 15. D. Cannadine, ‘War and Death, Grief and Mourning in Modern Britain’, in J. Whaley (ed.), Mirrors of Mortality: Studies in the Social History of Death (London, 1981), pp. 187– 242, here p. 193. 16. Landeskirchliches Archiv Kassel [LKA Kassel], SB Wüstemann, No. 22. 17. ‘Bericht über meine Tätigkeit auf dem Ehrenfriedhof in Heilbronn vom 6.12.1944 bis 19.4.1945’, in Stadtarchiv Heilbronn [StA Heilbronn] ZS 1322/1 (1945–65). 18. Cannadine, ‘War and Death’, pp. 196–202. 19. R. Koselleck and M. Jeismann (eds), Der politische Totenkult. Kriegerdenkmäler in der Moderne (Munich, 1994), pp. 9–50. 20. G. L. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (New York and Oxford, 1990). 21. S. Behrenbeck, Der Kult um die toten Helden. Nationalsozialistische Mythen, Riten und Symbole (Vierow bei Greifswald, 1996), p. 525.

Jörg Arnold 35 22. Hoe, ‘Sie sind unsterblich geworden’, Magdeburgische Zeitung, 10 August 1944, p. 4. 23. Kreisleiter Trübenach, ‘Auch Ihr seid nicht umsonst gefallen!’, Die neue Gemeinschaft 10/12 (December 1944), 575–6. 24. ‘Gedankenführung der Ansprache für die Opfer des Bombenterrors in der Stadt M’, Die neue Gemeinschaft 10/8 (August 1944), 375–6. 25. Behrenbeck, Kult, pp. 507–19. 26. Gau Magdeburg-Anhalt, ‘Gedenkfeier der NSDAP. für die Opfer des Luftkrieges’, Die neue Gemeinschaft 11/1 (January 1945), 35. 27. Bundesarchiv Berlin [BArch] NS 18/1063, fol. 71–9, here fol. 73. 28. ‘Die Schuld am Luftkrieg gegen die zivile Bevölkerung trägt eindeutig der Feind’, Völkischer Beobachter, 19 June 1943, 1–2. 29. Thießen, Eingebrannt, pp. 67–70. 30. Ibid., pp. 61–71. 31. Groehler, ‘Kleine Geschichte’, p. 139; Neutzner, ‘Vom Anklagen’, p. 139. 32. Jörg Arnold, ‘In “Quiet Remembrance”? The Allied Air War and Urban Memory Cultures in Kassel and Magdeburg’, 1940–95 (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Southampton, 2007), pp. 108–24; Stadtarchiv Darmstadt [StADa] 1c. Stadtgeschichte: Luftangriff 11.9.1944/Brandnacht: Gedenkfeiern bis 1969; C. Groh, ‘ “Sehen wir Pforzheim!” Der Bombenkrieg als Trauma der Stadtgeschichte’, in B. Fraisl and M. Stromberger (eds), Stadt und Trauma. City and Trauma. Annäherungen – Konzepte – Analysen (Würzburg, 2004), pp. 123–43. 33. Mayor to Military Government, 3 August 45, StA Heilbronn, ZS 1322/1, p. 1. 34. S. Schlösser (ed.), Chronik der Stadt Heilbronn 1939–1945, vol. 5 (Heilbronn, 2004), entry of 26 August 1945. 35. Neutzner, ‘Vom Anklagen’, p. 133. 36. Ibid., p. 133. 37. ‘Kassel gedenkt seiner Toten’, Hessische Nachrichten, 28 November 1945. 38. Arnold, Quiet Remembrance, pp. 58–65. 39. Thießen, Eingebrannt, pp. 129–31. 40. Arnold, Quiet Remembrance, pp. 109–12. 41. I. Eschebach, Öffentliches Gedenken. Deutsche Erinnerungskulturen seit der Weimarer Republik (Frankfurt am Main and New York, 2005), p. 9, and passim. 42. W. G. Sebald, Luftkrieg und Literatur, 3rd edn (Frankfurt am Main, 2002), pp. 32, 86 (On the Natural History of Destruction, trans. Anthea Bell (London, 2003)). 43. ‘Komitee für die Vorbereitung der Zehnjahrgedächtnisfeier’, StADa. ST 24.11 Kulturamt No. 4/166.1c. 44. StAK, NL Seidel, Ansprachen, no. 84. 45. R. G. Moeller, War Stories: The Search for a Usable Past in the Federal Republic of Germany (Berkeley, CA, and London, 2001). 46. ‘Ansprache am 22. Oktober 1951’, in LKA Kassel, SB Wüstemann. 47. F. W. Schluckebier to Mayor, 23 October 1953, in StAK A.1.10. No. 398. Trauerfeier am 22.10. (1951–68). 48. StA Heilbronn, ZS 1322/1 (1945–65). 49. StADa ST 24.11 Kulturamt No. 4/166; ‘Das Mahnmal ruft’, Darmstädter Echo, 11-9-58. 50. Landeshauptarchiv Sachsen-Anhalt, Abteilung Magdeburg [LA Magd. -LHA-], Rep. P 2. Bezirksfriedensrat Magdeburg No. 54. Berichte, Statistiken, Arbeitspläne und Presseartikel des Kreisfriedensrates Magdeburg, pp. 376–9. 51. Neutzner, ‘Vom Anklagen’, pp. 133ff. 52. Winter, Sites of Memory, p. 5. 53. Ibid., p. 9. 54. Ibid., p. 5. 55. Arnold, Quiet Remembrance, pp. 58–65. 56. Thießen, Eingebrannt, p. 52.

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57. D. Düding, P. Friedmann, and P. Münch (eds), Öffentliche Festkultur. Politische Feste in Deutschland von der Aufklärung bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg (Reinbeck, 1988). 58. J. Arnold, ‘ “Krieg kann nur der Wahnsinn der Menschheit sein!” Zur Deutungsgeschichte des Luftangriffs vom 22. Oktober 1943 in Kassel’, in D. Süß (ed.), Deutschland im Luftkrieg. Geschichte und Erinnerung (Munich, 2007), pp. 135–49. 59. Thießen, Eingebrannt, p. 52. 60. Arnold, Quiet Remembrance, pp. 61–2. 61. ‘Komitee für die Vorbereitung der Zehnjahrgedächntisfeier’, StADa ST 24.11 Kulturamt No. 4/166.

1.3 Roads to Revision: Disputes over Street Names Referring to the German Eastern Territories after the First and Second World Wars in the Cities of Dresden and Mainz, 1921 to 1972 Christian Lotz

On a sunny morning in May 1964, Genosse Fritz Müller, a member of the local branch of the Socialist Unity Party (SED) in the borough of Dresden-Bühlau, prepared himself for a Party meeting in Leipzig that afternoon. He took his small briefcase, closed the door, walked through the front garden, and stepped out onto Insterburger Straße. He walked down the street, turned left into Elbinger Straße, and, crossing Kolberger and Ortelsburger Straße, reached Bautzner Landstraße. Turning left again, he followed the street, passing Memel-Straße, Braunsberger Straße, and Königsberger Straße before reaching the tram station between Thorner and Bromberger Straße. He took the number 11 tram, going all the way down to Dresden-Neustadt, where he got off at the Schlesischer Platz to board his train to Leipzig. In view of Mr Müller’s morning walk, it is surprising that many historians today consider the history of the flight and expulsion of Germans, or the history of East Prussia, Pomerania, and Silesia, to have been taboo in the GDR.1 By exploring the history of street names in East and West Germany, this chapter attempts to shed light on the specific ways in which the history of flight and expulsion, and the loss of the Eastern territories, were commemorated after 1945. It seeks to outline the different politics of memory, taking into account the interrelations between the two German states. The history of expulsion and its commemoration has been the subject of much discussion across several disciplines, from history to cultural studies. This chapter will not only address the debate about a so-called ‘taboo’ in East German memory, but also a number of other debates. These centre on aspects of cultural integration and political strategies, as well as on the question of how to contextualize the expulsion of Germans within a broader European history of forced migration.2 Studies of street names mostly concentrate on the twentieth century because of the manifold changes that occurred during that time. Both Germany and other countries in Western and Eastern Europe that experienced fascist, communist, or 37

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other authoritarian regimes offer many and various examples.3 For Germany, most research has focused on streets named after people, such as Kaiser-Wilhelm-Straße, Rathenau-Straße, Adolf-Hitler-Straße, Karl-Marx-Straße, and their renamings. By contrast, spatial aspects related to street names and processes of street naming have so far been neglected. Although comparative perspectives analysing aspects of the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) and the German Democratic Republic (GDR) have proved to be fruitful, they are still rarely employed. This chapter will therefore focus on a comparison of two cities, one in East and one in West Germany, highlighting the developments of remembrance and the politics of memory in both German states. It examines how and why the topography of memory relating to the Eastern territories of the German Empire changed (and, in some cases, why it stayed the same); it analyses conflicting ideas about how the history of these territories should be remembered; and, finally, it considers which groups or individuals succeeded in establishing their preferred concept or topography of memory. The chapter takes Dresden and Mainz as examples. Although, the two cities are different in size (in the 1960s, Dresden had about 510,000 and Mainz about 190,000 inhabitants), they are suitable for a comparative analysis since both cities were and are administrative centres, for Saxony and Rhineland-Palatinate respectively. Dresden and Mainz were therefore given special public attention and set examples for other towns and cities in their regions. Due to an ongoing increase in the urban population in the 1920s and 1930s, areas adjoining cities were developed, establishing new urban boroughs; at the same time, outlying villages were incorporated into the growing cities. Amongst other issues that had to be discussed and decided, city councils had to create names for the new streets. In both Dresden and Mainz the city councils decided that, at least in one new borough of their cities, the streets would be named after regions that Germany had lost after the First World War. Such a decision may have been a pragmatic party-political compromise, for there was a consensus among German political parties that the new borders of the German Empire drawn by the Versailles Treaty in 1919 were unacceptable, at least in the East. It was easier to reach agreement on naming streets after Posen or Kattowitz, for instance, than to agree on whether Karl Liebknecht, Walter Rathenau, or Albert Leo Schlageter should be the patron of a new street. In 1921, the city of Dresden incorporated some small villages, amongst others the village of Bühlau.4 Almost the whole borough of Bühlau, its old village streets and streets in the newly developed areas, was given street names that derived from towns and places in the Eastern border regions of Germany. From Königsberger to Graudenzer Straße, from Danziger to Posener Straße, the borough’s streets imprinted the revisionist attitude of the late Weimar period and, even more so, of the Nazi era on the city map. The situation in Mainz was very similar. A new part of the town near Zahlbach, next to the remains of a fortification from the seventeenth century, was developed during the 1920s and completed in the 1930s.5 Its streets were given names such as Schlesische Straße, Beuthener, Plesser, and Annaberg Straße. The

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whole borough referred to places and towns in Upper Silesia. Soon it was called Frontkämpfer-Siedlung (which might be rendered as ‘Front Fighters’ District’). Annaberg-Straße in particular recalled the struggles between German and Polish nationalists in 1918/21. The outcome of this conflict was that the Polish state incorporated the eastern part of Upper Silesia, the area’s industrial stronghold, while German nationalists continued to agitate against such a partition. During the Weimar period and the Nazi era, then, the political context in Mainz and Dresden was, as far as street names were concerned, broadly similar. By contrast, after the Second World War politics and society in the occupied zones in East and West Germany quickly developed in different directions. However, both the French administration in Mainz and the Soviet one in Dresden exerted only an indirect influence on the naming of streets, for example by issuing guidelines for newspapers, talking to city council representatives, or putting them under pressure.6 In both cities, the first efforts to rename streets focused on those streets that clearly harked back to the Nazi era, such as the Adolf-Hitler-Platz and HermannGöring-Straße. At the same time, a lively debate about new street names started on both city councils, as well as amongst the public. A wide variety of proposals was announced and it quickly became clear that a consensus would not be easy to achieve. Of course, nobody publicly fought to keep Nazi street names. The archival materials used here, such as council records and articles from newspapers, do not hold any accounts of the views of Nazi supporters, because even if they did not lose their jobs, Nazi supporters mostly did not dare to enter the debate in the immediate aftermath of the war. It is necessary to take this kind of ‘blind spot’ into account when analysing the debates.7 Remarkably, disagreements about street names did not follow the traditional Right–Left scheme of party politics. Instead, debates were characterized by changing alliances and coalitions. In Mainz, during spring 1948, a couple of communist deputies on the city council launched an extensive proposal criticizing all kinds of names that they associated with Germany’s imperial past. They not only rejected the Kaiser Straße but objected to a whole range of geographical names, starting with Beuthener Straße and proceeding through the alphabet from ‘Eupener Straße [. . .], Gleiwitzer Straße, Hultschiner Straße, Königshütter Straße, Oderstraße, Oppelner Straße, Saarstraße’ and Schlesische Straße, to Weichselstraße. In their place, the KPD suggested the names of people they considered to represent peaceful and humanistic traditions in German history, such as August Bebel or Käthe Kollwitz.8 The communists were by no means the only voice that argued against keeping geographical names linked with imperial history. In September 1950 the head of the Europa-Bildungswerk, Rudolf Binapfl, urged the mayor and the council of Mainz to encourage understanding among European nations. There were still, he complained, many street names in German cities ‘recalling the time of European fragmentation [Zersplitterung] such as Sedan-, Orleans-, Coulmiers- or Verdun-Straßen’. Changing those names, he argued, would be ‘a contribution to overcoming historic reminiscences that have hindered European understanding’.9 By contrast, deputies who tried to keep street names as long as they did not

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explicitly refer to Nazi names did not speak with one voice. Of course, many of them were in favour of names commemorating glorious aspects of German history. However, there was no clear consensus on which parts of German history were the glorious ones and therefore suitable for street names. Representatives of expellee organizations could be found on every side of the debate. Among them were Social Democrats as well as conservatives, Catholics as well as Protestants, and therefore supporters of Karl Marx as well as those of Kaiser Barbarossa. With respect to street names referring to geographical places in the East, however, expellee organizations spoke with one voice, arguing vehemently for Danziger and Breslauer Straße, Ostpreußen- and Pommern-Allee. In the summer of 1949, the city council met such requests by naming three small new streets within the existing Frontkämpfer-Siedlung as Breslauer, Beuthener, and Schweidnitzer Straße.10 However, in doing so and by including the name Beuthen, the council created a situation which illustrates well the complicated structure of the debate. The city council’s decision ignored the proposal of the university’s council that had criticized names from Upper Silesia because they ‘seem[ed] not to be very suitable due to the current political situation’.11 The university was probably trying to distance itself from nationalist claims to the eastern part of Upper Silesia that had already become part of Poland in 1918/21. By suggesting that the names of towns in Lower Silesia be used as street names, however, the university implicitly agreed with the common attitude not to accept the Oder–Neiße border. Some years later, the city council of Mainz decided to name additional new streets in the ‘Frontkämpfer-Siedlung’ after places in the East. A small street off Oder-Straße was named Neiße-Straße after the city’s construction department had argued that linking these two names stressed the ‘tragic role’ of the ‘Oder–Neiße Line’.12 It was not just the expellee organizations that supported naming streets after places in the German Eastern territories: so, too, did the Federal Government, the governments of the Länder, and several other institutions, such as the Deutscher Städte- und Gemeindetag, a standing assembly of German city representatives.13 Further attempts by the expellee organizations to introduce street names referring to the Eastern territories were – in most cases – unsuccessful.14 Probably the city council took the expellees’ memorial at the Fischtor-Platz, which declared ‘Germany is indivisible’ (‘Deutschland ist unteilbar’), to be their place of commemoration, making further acts of remembrance such as street names unnecessary. At the same time, the city council opted to keep even Annaberg Straße in the Frontkämpfer-Siedlung,15 and in doing so it paved the way for ongoing misunderstandings about the geographical and political connotations of street names pointing East. In general, the policy of Mainz’s city council for choosing place names from the Eastern territories was not consistent. On the one hand, the city map of Mainz included street names such as Oder-Straße that could be understood as asserting Germany’s continued claim to the Eastern territories lost after 1945. Such a political attitude was widespread in West Germany until the 1960s. On the other hand, the map showed Beuthener Straße and even Annaberg Straße. Beuthen was lost to Poland as early as 1921, while Annaberg was obviously evocative of the

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armed confrontation between Polish and German nationalists during the struggle for Upper Silesia in 1918/21. That those territories that had been lost after the First World War should be regained was certainly a minority view in West Germany, one held only by the nationalistic fringe.16 The fact that Mainz City Council did not distance itself from street names with nationalistic overtones helped blur the line between West Germany’s broadly consensual struggle to regain territories that had been lost after 1945, and the over-the-top nationalistic propaganda of some expellee organizations. For their part, the communists argued strongly against using the German names of places in the Eastern territories: ‘He who says “Breslau”, wants revenge’ (‘Wer Breslau sagt, will Revanche’), communist propaganda argued.17 As a result, a process started in which place names were no longer just geographical references but gained or re-gained political connotations. That process resulted from the specific interrelation between communist propaganda, expellee organizations’ propaganda, and the partly indecisive attitude of council representatives, such as those in Mainz. In Dresden, during the first years after the war, the city provided the stage for a lively debate about new proposals for street names. As early as June 1945, the city archives issued a seven-page overview of Dresden’s street names and their meanings. The overview included suggestions for replacing street names that the Nazis had introduced, proposing the names of scientists, authors, and philosophers, as well as local places that might be suitable for streets in the respective area. As far as was possible, the archive suggested reverting to the names that were used before the Nazis had changed them.18 The city council of Dresden followed the archive’s proposals in most cases. In doing so, it not only restored the honour of street names that the Nazis had expunged,19 but also ‘embellished’ the borough of Bühlau. They abandoned the street names Tannenberg and Ostmark, both introduced during the 1920s: Tannenberg referred to the German victory over the Russian army in 1914, a memory that might have appeared inappropriate given the situation after the Second World War. Ostmark was linked with organizations such as the German Eastern Borderlands Society (Deutscher Ostmarkenverein) and Pan-German League (Alldeutscher Verband), which had notoriously enforced Germanization in the Eastern territories and encouraged eastward expansion since the late nineteenth century. Eventually, these two streets changed their names to Pillau and Braunsberg, both East Prussian towns. In this way the council created an almost homogeneous set of East Prussian street names in the Northern part of Bühlau, which people soon started to call Ostpreußenviertel (the East Prussian quarter). In Dresden’s city centre and in other boroughs, only a few geographical street names were changed in 1946. Obviously, the city council found it most important to abolish Bozen, Memel, and Saar. These streets were given new names that referred to the local landscape, while the Danziger Freiheit was changed to Siegfried-Rädel-Platz, named after a communist member of the German Reichstag (parliament) who was murdered by the Nazis. By contrast, the city council kept not only Königsberg but also Bromberg and Graudenz. Other geographical names

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alluding to the East, including the busy Schlesischer Platz in front of the railway station in Dresden Neustadt and several street names on the south-eastern side of the Elbe (such as Aussiger Straße), which referred to the town of Aussig (U¸sti nad Labem) in Czechoslovakia, were not even an issue and were kept. This specific constellation of continuity and change gives insight into the mental political topography of the city council in the first years after the war. Names such as Bozen, Memel, and Saar were perhaps perceived to be an expression of far-reaching territorial claims associated with Nazi revisionist politics. Moreover, Tannenberg and Ostmark probably had to be changed because of their strong link to nationalist propaganda. Yet other street names which were by no means free of political connotations, such as the Bromberger and Thorner Straße, remained unchanged. During the 1920s and 1930s, those names had been given to point to the ‘tragic’ situation of the Reich’s ‘wounded borders’ (‘blutende Grenzen’) in the East and the loss of ‘German’ territory due to the Treaty of Versailles. But by 1946 those names had presumably lost their strong nationalistic connotations. Perhaps in comparison to Bozen, which never belonged to Germany, and Tannenberg, which celebrated a victorious battle, place names such as Kolberg, Insterburg, and others were understood as ordinary parts of Germany; even Bromberg and Posen seemed to be less problematic or politically ‘suspect’. Finally, Schlesischer Platz and Aussiger Straße were seemingly without political connotation, as Schlesischer Platz had been given its name as early as the nineteenth century and referred purely to the railway line to Silesia that started out from the train station by the square. After the first wave of change during 1945/46, the naming of streets and places in the city remained an issue in Dresden’s public sphere. This was partly due to the heavy damage inflicted on the city by the bombing in February 1945. The air raid had left some inner boroughs of the town without any traces of their former thoroughfares. Therefore, some areas received a completely new set of streets, squares and crossroads, all of which had to be named. Soon, the city council set up a small commission for the naming of streets, which met from the early 1950s onwards. The city council, as well as the city’s Museums and Galleries Department (Städtische Sammlungen) and Planning and Construction Department (Abteilung Stadtplanung) sent a few representatives to sort out the necessary changes and provide proposals for street names. Although the Ostpreußenviertel and its streets did not appear on the meeting agendas of the first few years,20 they were heatedly debated in the public sphere.21 The complaints made about names in the Ostpreußenviertel were similar to those raised about the Frontkämpfer-Siedlung in Mainz: Danziger Straße for instance, was deemed to be too closely associated with Nazi politics (the Nazis had used the town as a ‘bridgehead’); several people pointed out that ‘today Danzig has a Polish name’.22 The head of the Planning and Construction Department, Bronder, collected the different proposals, but he made it clear that the council did not intend any further changes of street names at the time.23 Despite this official stance, the commission had been asked several months earlier, in spring 1954 – probably by the city council – to provide proposals for street names. The reasons for that initiative

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seemed to be twofold. On the one hand, the plans for incorporating further villages made new names necessary to avoid double usage. On the other, it seemed that Dresden’s newspapers, which were by that time controlled by the SED, drove the debate about street names referring to places beyond the German borders, thereby pressurizing the city council into preparing changes.24 Indeed, in November 1954 a list was compiled that included a wide range of proposals for street names in the Ostpreußenviertel, as well as in other parts of the city.25 The commission suggested naming the Ostpreußenviertel’s streets after local places, as well as after famous philanthropists (such as Karl Preußker), social democrats, and communists (such as Max Keilson). The proposals also included well-known Prussian generals and reformers from the beginning of the nineteenth century, such as Yorck and Gneisenau.26 In December 1954, having searched for several months for biographical and geographical details on all these new names, the commission handed the list, containing more than a hundred names with accompanying explanations, to the SED headquarters in Dresden.27 Nothing happened, however. Due to large gaps within the documentary records of the commission and the city council in the city archive, it is not easy to find an answer as to why it took until 1966 to implement the name changes. The only hint the documents give points to the Ministry of the Interior, which allegedly blocked attempts to change names in the 1950s.28 Hopefully, further progress towards the opening up of archival records in Dresden will help answer these questions.29 When the commission finally reconvened in January 1966, the city’s archive representative, Lange, proposed renaming the streets in the Ostpreußenviertel, as well as all those names in town that could be traced back to ‘territorial claims of German imperialism’.30 Thus, almost all streets in Dresden that referred to the former Eastern territories were renamed. The Ostpreußenviertel, whose streets were given mostly regional place names, was not the only district to see a major change: even the busy Schlesischer Platz in Dresden Neustadt had its name changed, to Dr-Friedrich-Wolf-Platz. There were two exceptions in this comprehensive process of renaming: firstly, a few streets on the southern side of the Elbe alluding to the East, such as Aussiger Straße, were kept because – as the commission argued – those names were not linked to imperial claims for territory.31 This seems a surprising decision, because it clearly disregarded the Munich Agreement in 1938, which led to the German occupation of parts of Czechoslovakia, and it ignored the revisionist propaganda of the Sudetendeutsche Landsmannschaft. Secondly, while changes were made to all place names in Bühlau such as Pillau and Thorn, thereby abandoning all references to the Baltic Sea region, one reference was kept: Königsberger Straße was changed to Kaliningrader Straße, keeping the geographical meaning and shifting its political meaning in one stroke. Notwithstanding these exceptions, between 1945 and the end of the 1960s, a process of politicization and re-politicization of memory took place. The reason for that process can be found in an interaction between communist propaganda on the one hand and expellee organizations’ propaganda on the other. The expellee organizations utilized street names and other forms of remembrance

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pointing to the ‘German’ history of the Eastern territories as arguments against the Oder–Neiße border. In their propaganda, the Communists developed a counterargument that suited their own purposes. They referred to the fact that the Polish government and Polish people had stated clearly that Poland would under no circumstances negotiate about Eastern Prussia, Pomerania, and Silesia. Therefore, so the Communists in Germany argued, any argument against the Oder–Neiße border was an argument for war, while references to the ‘German’ history of these territories were also an argument for war because such references were constantly used by expellee organizations to undermine the legitimacy of the Oder–Neiße border.32 In the long term the communists and expellee organizations created, from their opposing viewpoints, a certain undertow within the politics of memory, in particular when it came to judging Eastern politics. Each statement that touched, in whatever way, on the history of the Eastern territories could be utilized to justify or condemn the border, if its author or speaker did not explicitly distance himself from such politicization. However, as time progressed, even such distancing required increasing rhetorical skill. Thus, the communists and the organizations of expellees unwittingly entered a kind of alliance which increasingly politicized the history of the Eastern territories, despite their opposing interests. The communist position was supported by the GDR government, the position of the expellee organizations (until the end of the 1960s) by the Federal government; but within society, both positions had supporters and opponents in East and West Germany. The most tangible expression of such a politicization was the Schlesischer Platz in Dresden. In the late nineteenth century, when the square acquired its name, it basically referred to the railway line to Silesia that started there. Thus, the meaning of ‘Schlesien’ in the square’s name was a geographical one. This meaning prevailed until the beginning of the 1960s. In 1966, however, when the council again debated the renaming of streets, the Schlesischer Platz was renamed because, in the meantime, the meaning of the name had changed completely: ‘Schlesien’ no longer had just a geographical meaning, it had also acquired a political one. Now, the term ‘Schlesien’ sounded like ‘revision’ and ‘war’ and therefore had to be abolished in the ‘Country of Peace’ (‘Friedensstaat’) that the communist government proclaimed the GDR to be. In the course of politicization, the debates focussed firstly on names of larger regions or bigger towns, such as ‘Schlesien’ and ‘Königsberg’. Later, as the debates continued and political pressure increased, names of smaller towns or even villages from the East found themselves likewise subject to the politics of memory.

Conclusion In Dresden, street or square names that alluded to the East for geographical reasons, such as the Schlesischer Platz at the railway station in Dresden Neustadt, have existed since the 1880s. In Dresden and in Mainz during the 1920s, streets in new town boroughs were given street names referring to the loss of territory after 1918, such as Bromberg, Posen, or Beuthen. After 1945, those street names

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alluding to the East were kept in both cities, except in a few cases. However, geographical names taken from the Eastern territories of the German Empire soon became a topic of debate in post-war Germany. Expellee representatives urged the use of German instead of the Polish place names, for example Danzig instead of ´ Gdansk, because they perceived German place names to be a proof of the German history of those territories and therefore an argument in support of the reclaiming of this territory. In contrast, communists argued for the use of Polish place names to refer to Polish history, in deference to Poland’s claims on these territories. Almost every aspect of German or Polish history within the disputed territories could be used as an argument in favour of or against the Oder–Neiße border. While there had been debates in Mainz and in Dresden about politically suitable or unsuitable street names immediately after the war, it took some 20 years for street names to gain or regain their strong political connotations. When this happened, it was not just because of communist propaganda against the use of German place names from the Eastern territories – a use understood to be the expression of German revisionism. It was also a result of propaganda by the expellee organizations, which certainly did seek to use those names with revisionist intentions. Furthermore, the decision of Mainz City Council to keep even those names such as Annaberg that explicitly referred to armed German–Polish confrontations has to be taken into account. Responsibility for politicization was shared.

Notes 1. M. Grottendieck, ‘Egalisierung ohne Differenzierung? Verhinderung von Vertriebenenorganisationen im Zeichen einer sich etablierenden Diktatur’, in T. Großbölting and H.-U. Thamer (eds), Die Errichtung der Diktatur. Transformationsprozesse in der SBZ und in der frühen DDR (Münster, 2003), pp. 191–221, here p. 208; M. Schwartz, Vertriebene und ‘Umsiedlerpolitik’. Integrationskonflikte in den deutschen Nachkriegsgesellschaften und die Assimilationsstrategien in der SBZ/DDR 1945–1961 (Munich, 2004), p. 415, p. 629, and p. 1196; H.-W. Rautenberg, ‘Die Wahrnehmung von Flucht und Vertreibung in der deutschen Nachkriegsgeschichte bis heute’, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte (APuZ) 47/53 (1997), 34–46, here 45; B. Faulenbach, ‘Die Vertreibung der Deutschen aus den Gebieten jenseits von Oder und Neiße. Zur wissenschaftlichen und öffentlichen Diskussion in Deutschland’, APuZ 52/51–52 (2002), 44–54, here 53. 2. An overview of the various debates is given in E. Wolfrum, ‘Zwischen Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtspolitik. Forschungen zu Flucht und Vertreibung nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg’, Archiv für Sozialgeschichte (AfS) 36 (1996) 500–22; C. Lotz, Die Deutung des Verlusts. Erinnerungspolitische Kontroversen im geteilten Deutschland um Flucht, Vertreibung und die Ostgebiete (1948–1972) (Cologne, 2007), pp. 1–20. For the broader context, see K. J. Bade, Europa in Bewegung. Migration vom späten 18. Jahrhundert bis zur Gegenwart, 2nd edn. (Munich, 2000); N. M. Naimark, Fires of Hatred: Ethnic Cleansing in Twentieth-Century Europe (Harvard, 2001). 3. For a useful discussion and references to further research, see J. Sänger, Heldenkult und Heimatliebe. Straßen- und Ehrennamen im offiziellen Gedächtnis der DDR (Berlin, 2006); P. Hnatyszyn, Dzieje nazewnictwa zabrzaskich ulic (w granicach administracyjnich z roku 1950) (Zabrze, 1996); B. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London, 2002), pp. 84–9. 4. R. Lorenz, Stadtteilgeschichten Bühlau, 2nd edn. (Pappritz, 2005).

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5. F. Schütz, ‘Vom Ersten zum Zweiten Weltkrieg’, in F. Dumont, F. Scherf, and F. Schütz (eds), Mainz. Die Geschichte der Stadt (Mainz, 1998), pp. 475–509, here p. 489 and p. 497. 6. Stadtarchiv Mainz [StAM], 1995/29/688, Oberregierungspräsidium Hessen-Pfalz/ Abteilung Innere Verwaltung an Landräte und Oberbürgermeister (16 March 1946), betr. Straßennamen. 7. For an analysis contrasting the perspectives of political party leaders, newspaper journalists, and ‘ordinary people’ (among them Nazi supporters) after the Second World War, see T. Klemm, C. Lotz, and K. Naumann (eds), Der Feind im Kopf. Künstlerische Zugänge und wissenschaftliche Analysen zu Feindbildern (Leipzig, 2005), pp. 39–138. 8. StAM, 1403/1951, KPD Hessen-Pfalz an Oberbürgermeister von Mainz (9 March 1948). 9. StAM, 1403/1951, fol. 10, Europa-Bildungswerk (Rudolf Binapfl) an Oberbürgermeister von Mainz (25 September 1950). 10. StAM, 1403/1951 (A 1403/1/49), fol. 2, Niederschrift über Stadtratssitzung (15 December 1949). 11. StAM, 1403/1951 (A 1403/1/49), fol. 4, Universität Mainz (Ritter) an Oberbürgermeister von Mainz (5 August 1949). The original quotation is ‘scheinen im Augenblick der politischen Lage wegen für nicht sehr glücklich’. 12. StAM, 1403/1952/1955 (1403/2/54), Tiefbauamt an Baudezernat (19 March 1954). 13. StAM, 1403/951 (A 1403, 5/51), Tiefbauamt an Kulturdezernent (12 September 1951). See also Deutsche Presseagentur ‘Erinnerung an deutschen Osten’ in Allgemeine Zeitung (Mainz), 29 May 1951. 14. StAM, 1403/1956-1960 (1403, 1/56), fol. 1, Tiefbauamt an Baudezernat (20 September 1955); StAM, 1403/1951 (A 1403, 5/51), Niederschrift über die Sitzung des Verwaltungsausschusses für das Bildungswesen (2 May 1952); StAM, 1995/29/688, Stadtverwaltung Mainz/ Tiefbauamt an Kultur- und Schulverwaltungsamt (1 February 1966). 15. StAM, 1403/1951 (A 1403, 1/45), fol. 1, Aktennotiz zur Sitzung des Verwaltungsausschusses für Theater- und Kulturangelegenheiten (11 June 1948). 16. Anon., ‘Begegnungen, die zu denken geben’, Die Freiheit, 8 August 1947. 17. H. Kaisch, ‘Breslau oder Wroclaw?’ [sic], Blick nach Polen 1:2 (1949), 33. 18. Stadtarchiv Dresden [StAD], Straßennamen-Collection (AE Ch-Mappe), fol. 1, Stadtarchiv an Stadtrat Matern (21 June 1945). 19. Anon., Verzeichnis der neuen Straßennamen von Dresden mit kurzen Erläuterungen, Stand vom 1. Juli 1946 (Dresden, 1946). 20. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 180, Protokoll der Sitzung der Straßenumbenennungskommission (10 December 1953); as well as: StAD, Coll-Str (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 80, Rundschreiben des Rates der Stadt mit Liste der Straßenumbenennungen (27 January 1954). 21. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 31, Sächsische Zeitung an Rat der Stadt (20 August 1954); StAD, Coll-Str (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 113, Sächsische Zeitung an Rat der Stadt (4 March 1954). 22. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 113, Sächsische Zeitung an Rat der Stadt (4 March 1954). 23. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 19, Rat der Stadt (Abteilung Stadtplanung/Bronder) an Sächsische Zeitung (21 September 1954). 24. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 3, Rat der Stadt/Abt. Stadtplanung an Sekretär des Rates der Stadt Dresden, betr.: Straßenneubenennungen und -umbenennungen (20 November 1954); as well as: StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 2, Neues Deutschland/Bezirksredaktion Dresden an Rat der Stadt Dresden (17 December 1954). 25. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 97, Protokoll über die Sitzung der Straßenumbenennungskommission (4 March 1954); and: StAD, StraßennamenCollection (AE 210-Mappe) fol. 3, Abteilung Stadtplanung und Architektur an Sekretär des Rates der Stadt Dresden, betr.: ‘Straßenneubenennungen und -umbenennungen’, Anlage: Liste ‘I. Neubenennungen’ und ‘II. Umbenennungen’ (20 November 1954).

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26. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 3, Abteilung Stadtplanung und Architektur an Sekretär des Rates der Stadt Dresden, betr.: ‘Straßenneubenennungen und -umbenennungen’, Anlage: Liste ‘I. Neubenennungen’ und ‘II. Umbenennungen’ (20 November 1954). 27. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE 210-Mappe), fol. 1, Rat der Stadt Dresden/Stadtplanung und Architektur an Bezirksdirektion Neues Deutschland, betr.: Straßenumbenennungen im Gebiet Weißer Hirsch, Bühlau (21 December 1954). 28. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE Ch-Mappe), Rat der Stadt Dresden, Protokoll ‘über die Beratung der zeitweiligen Arbeitsgruppe zur Umbenennung des Ostpreußenviertels am 25. Januar 1966’ (27 January 1966). 29. Letter from Herr Volker Schubert (Hauptstaatsarchiv Dresden, AZ: 23-7512.2-2/7898) to the author, re. ‘Straßenumbenennungen in Dresden / Unterlagen der SED-Stadtleitung Dresden’ (5 June 2008). 30. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE Ch-Mappe), Rat der Stadt Dresden, Protokoll ‘über die Beratung der zeitweiligen Arbeitsgruppe zur Umbenennung des Ostpreußenviertels am 25. Januar 1966’ (27 January 1966). 31. StAD, Straßennamen-Collection (AE Ch-Mappe), Rat der Stadt Dresden, Protokoll über die Ortsbesichtigung am 1. Februar 1966. 32. Lotz, Deutung des Verlusts, pp. 206–8, pp. 224–5, and pp. 261–2; K. Struve, ‘Vertreibung und Aussiedlung’, in M. Czaplinski, H.-H. Hahn, and T. Weger (eds), Schlesische Erinnerungsorte. Gedächtnis und Identität einer mitteleuropäischen Region (Görlitz, 2005), pp. 281–305.

1.4 Monuments and Commemorative Sites for German Expellees∗ Hans Hesse and Elke Purpus

Expulsion was a stigmatized issue. The fact that we can now look forward to a happy ending to the story of the documentation centre means that a previously uncharted area of our commemorative landscape will finally be mapped out. This is overdue, helps to consolidate our pan-German identity, and offers some consolation to the expellees.1

From the perspective of Erika Steinbach, Chair of the League of Expellees (Bund der Vertriebenen, hereafter LoE), things seemed to have a ‘happy ending’. In their coalition agreement of 2005, the Christian Democratic Union and Christian Social Union (CDU/CSU), and the Social Democratic Party (SPD) committed themselves to ‘both the social and the historical re-assessment of enforced migration, flight, and expulsion’, and decided to ‘erect a visible sign in the spirit of reconciliation in Berlin in order to [. . .] commemorate the injustice of expulsions and to outlaw expulsion for good’.2 This ‘visible sign’, detailed in a cabinet resolution on 19 March 2008, is to be erected under the auspices of a dependent foundation, with the German Historical Museum (Deutsches Historisches Museum) being named as the supporting legal entity. Apart from members of the German Parliament, the Federal Government, and the German expellees, other social groups have been called to sit on the supervisory body of this dependent foundation. Moreover, an advisory board will be established, including international experts, in particular from neighbouring countries. The intended site is the state-owned Deutschlandhaus in Berlin-Kreuzberg. At the time of going to press there is at best sketchy agreement on the precise form of this ‘visible sign’, and the success of the whole enterprise will essentially depend on how far Steinbach is not going to be involved in it.3 The working title of this enterprise, however, is certainly ill-chosen. The term ‘visible sign’ suggests – and the quote by Steinbach from the beginning of this chapter implies something similar – that the Federal Republic of Germany of today has * no ‘visible signs’ to commemorate expulsion. Steinbach even speaks of an ‘uncharted area’ in the Federal Republic’s commemorative landscape. 48

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It is, of course, a moot point what we understand by a ‘commemorative site’. Broadly interpreted, every commemorative plaque, every commemorative stone, every monument could be termed a ‘commemorative site’, as these places and sites serve the purpose of commemorating expulsion. In a more precise sense, however, a ‘commemorative site’ not only requires an object to trigger off memorialization, but also a documented history, such as that of concentration camps, and, as a third element, an authentic location. Germany’s numerous memorials to concentration camps certainly fulfil these criteria, but where in the country is an authentic location to commemorate expulsion? The term ‘visible sign’ suggests something else as well: namely the existence of scholarly investigations of this topic that, having dealt critically with the monuments and commemorative sites to expellees and expulsion, have established that such a ‘visible sign’ is still lacking. Yet this is not the case. Despite publications by individual regional associations of the League of Expellees, for instance in Hesse, Baden-Württemberg, and Thuringia, and notwithstanding a synopsis by the League’s head office (published on the Internet), a comprehensive scholarly treatment of this issue has yet to be undertaken.4 The present chapter attempts to provide a first overview.5 Its main focus is on the analysis of the following aspects: the number of monuments, the categories of monument, the inscriptions, the initiators, and the dates of their construction. Both an analysis from the viewpoint of art history and an account of the genesis of individual monuments lie beyond the scope of this chapter.

The quantitative dimension More than 1300 monuments are known at the present time, 59 for the new federal states (neue Bundesländer), and 1287 in the states of the old Federal Republic.6 In percentage terms this means that 96 per cent of all these monuments are found on the territory of the former West Germany (hereafter West Germany) and only 4 per cent on the territory of the former East Germany (hereafter East Germany). Of the states that made up the old Federal Republic, Baden-Württemberg (291) and Bavaria (283) have the biggest number of memorials to expulsion. Taken together, 45 per cent of all West German expulsion memorials are to be found in these two regions. The most densely populated federal state, North RhineWestphalia, stands in fourth place (195) and thus illustrates the tendency that monuments to German expellees are chiefly located in rural areas and are underrepresented in large cities. Whereas Cologne, Germany’s fourth biggest city, has only one commemorative plaque in its Town Hall, four exist in the neighbouring Rhine-Erft region. This trend of erecting monuments in the wider landscape mirrors the fact that most German expellees settled in rural regions. Forty-six per cent of all East German monuments (27 of 59) were erected in Thuringia, whereas the figures for the other four new federal states are between 10 and 17 per cent. It appears as if the Thuringian local associations of the League of Expellees are, and always have been, particularly active. This is also evident in the

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brochure listing all monuments.7 One decisive factor in this large East–West difference is the belated start of monument dedications in East Germany. Monuments commemorating expulsion did not exist in East Germany before 1989, because the former GDR had a strict taboo on commemorating the expulsion. In contrast to West Germany, the GDR acknowledged the permanence of its eastern borders early on (1950), with the result that hopes for a return to the lost territories, but also commemoration of the ‘old home’, would have jeopardized Eastern Bloc alliances. Public commemoration was considered revanchist, so that commemoration was only possible within the private sphere. An example is the replacement of the term ‘expellees’ by ‘resettlers’ in official usage.

Categories of monument The differences outlined between the old and the new federal states, but also among the latter, are also reflected in the categories of monument. All monuments can be subdivided into 13 categories. The six most frequent ones are: high crosses, commemorative stones, commemorative plaques, ‘foundling stones’ (large, undressed rocks dating from the Ice Age), monuments proper, and commemorative complexes (combinations of several commemorative elements, for instance a high cross and a commemorative stone). At 20 per cent of all monuments, the high cross with the inscription ‘To the Dead of our/the/East German homeland’ is the most frequent form of monument to the German expellees. In almost all cases, it is located in a cemetery. At first glance, then, these high crosses seem to have been religiously motivated, creating a bridge between the cemeteries in the new homeland and the graves of relatives, now beyond reach in the old. However, at the same time they symbolized the call not to give up the ‘old homeland’. Moreover, these early monuments already focused on memorializing the (old) homeland rather than the expulsion and they reserved the term ‘homeland’ (Heimat) – exclusively, one might argue – for the regions which used to belong to the former German East. These high crosses are characteristic of federal states with a predominantly Catholic population. In the northern federal states Lower Saxony (9 per cent) and Schleswig-Holstein (3 per cent), and in North Rhine-Westphalia (13 per cent), each with a Protestant majority, they play a minor if not entirely insignificant role. In these regions, foundling stones dominate as carriers of commemoration and memorialization. These untreated, rough rocks with inscriptions or with plaques affixed, and ‘commemorative stones’, which differ by having been treated and designed, are mainly found in these federal states (foundling stones: Lower Saxony 30 per cent, Schleswig-Holstein 22 per cent, North Rhine-Westphalia 18 per cent; commemorative stones: Lower Saxony 27 per cent, SchleswigHolstein 22 per cent, North Rhine-Westphalia 16 per cent). The reason for this – apart from religious explanations – can doubtless be found in the reduced material costs, as the fourth most frequently used category is traditional monuments, which are designed with much greater elaboration, sometimes even with artistic additions. In the new federal states, by contrast, commemorative

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stones (50 per cent of all objects) and foundling stones (26 per cent) are the dominant forms.

Inscriptions The domination of the high cross as a monument category in the old federal states has its counterpart in the types of inscription. Fifty per cent of all monuments carry the inscription: ‘To the Dead of the Homeland’ or a variation thereof. This is true for all old federal states, with the exception of Schleswig-Holstein. There, another group of inscriptions prevails which comes in second place in other federal states. These are inscriptions which refer to a lost home, such as ‘Lost Homeland, it is Thee My Soul is Searching For’, ‘Never Forget the German East’, ‘Unforgotten Home’, ‘Faithful From Afar’, ‘Firm and Faithful’, or ‘Expelled From Earthly Soil, yet Not Homeless’. Twenty-two per cent of all inscriptions belong to this group. This finding comes as a surprise, for one might have expected to find a domination of inscriptions dealing with expulsion and flight, or with the dead of expulsion and flight, among the monuments of German expellees. A look at the new federal states shows a different result. There, the dominant inscription is ‘To the Memory of the Victims of War, Violence, and Expulsion’ (48 per cent), followed by ‘To the Memory of the Victims of Flight and Expulsion’ (29 per cent) or its variants. These differences suggest that the inscriptions in West Germany predate those in East Germany. Analysing the timeline of dates on which monuments were dedicated or inscriptions unveiled confirms this assumption. Close scrutiny of the two federal states with the largest number of monuments reveals that the inscription ‘To Our Dead’ took a 65 per cent share in Baden-Württemberg in the 1950s, which dropped continuously in the ensuing decades: 55 per cent in the 1960s, 42 per cent in the 1970s, 31 per cent in the 1980s, and 25 per cent in the 1990s (for Bavaria the corresponding figures are: 75 per cent, 82 per cent, 55 per cent, 7 per cent, and 25 per cent for the 1990s), whereas the share of the inscription: ‘In Memory of the Victims of Flight and Expulsion’ gradually rose: from only 6 per cent in the 1950s to 18 per cent, 33 per cent, 17 per cent, and then 59 per cent in the 1990s (and for Bavaria: from 12 per cent in the 1950s to 67 per cent for post-2000 monuments). This means that the development of inscriptions, from memorialization in the often revisionist tone of Heimat rhetoric to the commemoration of flight, expulsion, and their victims, was a slow and gradual process which took several decades. This finding is even more striking when one includes inscriptions with explicit revisionist demands, such as ‘Germany Should be Whole’, ‘German East Forever’, ‘Protect the Homeland’s Holy Soil, German It Shall Stay’, ‘We Demand Our Homeland’, ‘Only a Cause That Is Given Up Is Truly Lost’, ‘Indivisible Germany’, or ‘What is Right Must Remain Right, Including Our Right to Home’. In combination with maps etched into bronze plaques that show Germany in its borders of 1937, these statements are tinted by an aggressive, revisionist colouring (this also holds true for the so-called ‘East-Land Crosses’ (Ostland-Kreuze) which were erected in

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exposed geographical surroundings and in order to underline the possessive claim on regions in the former German East). Initiators As far as the originators and initiators of monuments to expulsion are concerned, it can be said that in the old federal states, 50 per cent of the memorials were initiated by expellees. An initiative started by the community, town, or region was ascertained as the originator of 32 per cent of all examples, with only 17 per cent being attributable to the LoE (others: 1 per cent). The situation in the new federal states is entirely different, with 66 per cent of all monuments erected by the LoE, only 13 per cent by expellees, and 14 per cent by the community, town, or region (others: 7 per cent). These findings reflect the circumstance that the largest portion of monument dedications in the old federal states took place before the foundation of the LoE, whereas most initiatives in the new federal states during the 1990s were started by the political lobby of the expellees. This conclusion comes with a caveat, however, since this interpretation can only be validated for one third of all examples with any degree of certainty.

Dates when the memorials were erected The dedication of new monuments in the new federal states of the FRG reached a highpoint in the 1990s. For the old federal states, on the other hand, two waves can be ascertained: the first wave of monuments was constructed in the 1950s. Thirty-two per cent of all monuments were dedicated in that decade, whereas dedications decreased markedly in the ensuing decades. It was not until the 1980s that the number of monument dedications rose sharply again: 17 per cent of all monument dedications took place during that decade and afterwards once more decreased sharply. Only in North Rhine-Westphalia did developments follow a more level course: whereas 26 per cent of all monuments were opened in the 1950s, this figure remained at 28 per cent in the 1980s. Both developments show, however, that the memory and commemoration of expulsions and flight were not a hallmark solely of the 1950s. The reasons for the second wave of monument dedications in the 1980s were, on the one hand, the fortieth anniversary of the war’s end, on 8 May 1985, and, on the other, the formation of the conservativeliberal coalition government in Bonn in the year 1982. In contrast to East Germany, West Germany did not see a new wave of monument dedications after the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989. As already mentioned, no monuments to expellees existed in East Germany before 1989, so that there was a deficit to be made up, but West Germany shows a diametrically opposed evolution which, at present, is still hard to quantify. After both German parliamentary bodies – the Bundestag in West Germany and the Volkskammer in East Germany – had accepted the finality of the German–Polish border along the Oder–Neisse Line on 21 June 1990, and the Two-Plus-Four Agreement had been signed on 12 September of the same year, campaign groups in West Germany started to demand the dismantling and/or transformation of a number

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of expulsion memorials. In future, monuments showing Germany in its 1937 borders through maps or inscriptions, and demanding a reunification along these borders, could no longer be justified by reference to the German constitution (the Grundgesetz or Basic Law).8 Several examples can be offered. In Osnabrück the monument inscribed ‘German East Forever’ was dismantled following a decision by the City Council in 1992. In the town of Tornesch, Schleswig-Holstein, in northern Germany, the monument carrying the inscription ‘There Is Only One Germany’ and showing a map of Germany in its 1937 borders (Figure 2), was given the new inscription ‘In Memory Of Our Unforgotten Home’ after prolonged arguments in 1997 (Figure 3). A similar development can be observed in Oberschleissheim near Munich, where the memorial site of the East and West Prussia Foundation (Ost- und Westpreußenstiftung)9 is being transformed. This site consists of several objects, among them a landing boat (Landungsboot) used for escaping over the Baltic Sea, a monument dubbed ‘Little Tannenberg’ by critics because it features a miniature version of the former National Monument in Tannenberg, and a commemorative wall with soil from former areas of expulsion. This, Germany’s largest expulsion memorial, which also includes an exhibition, has been given a completely new political thrust, as it is set to become a location for youth exchange, the Internationales Jugendhaus der Verständigung (literally ‘International Youth House of Communication’),10 run independently by the East and West Prussia Foundation. In other cases, the old monuments have been supplemented with additional commemorative plaques serving as explanations of what have now come to be seen as potentially misleading statements on the original versions of the

Figure 2 Expellees’ Monument in Tornesch, Schleswig-Holstein. The inscription reads ‘There Is Only One Germany’ (photo Hans Hesse)

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Figure 3 Expellees’ Monument in Tornesch, Schleswig-Holstein, after the inscription was altered in 1997 to read ‘In Memory of Our Unforgotten Home’ (photo Hans Hesse)

monuments. The town of Schenefeld, Schleswig-Holstein witnessed heated controversies as early as summer 1989, before the fall of the Berlin Wall, over the inscription of the community’s expellees’ memorial. It reads: ‘Protect the Homeland’s Holy Soil, German it Shall Stay Through All Turmoil. Through All Turmoil, Joy, or Grief, German it Shall Stay For all Eternity’. The monument was dedicated on 17 May 1953. As late as 8 June 1989, only a few months before the fall of the Berlin Wall, the General Secretary of the LoE wrote in a letter to the town’s mayor that this inscription’s removal would illustrate that ‘the political forces responsible for the removal were not willing to uphold the continued existence of Germany in conformance with international and constitutional law.’11 He finished by declaring: ‘I do not intend to keep from you that a removal of the inscription on the homeland monument would lead to severe protests by expellees throughout Germany.’12 In September 1990, after the collapse of the Wall, the local government agreed unanimously on adding a second inscription to the monument: ‘Let Us Honour Freedom and Work for Peace. Let Us Keep to What is Right.’ In addition, the old inscription was to be furnished with the date of its composition, ‘1952’, the new one with ‘1990’. The new inscription comes from an influential speech given by the then President of the Federal Republic, Richard von Weizsäcker, on 8 May 1985, the fortieth anniversary of the war’s end. The sentences are those immediately before the final sequence: ‘Let us serve our inner measures of justice. Let us face the truth, as best we can, on this Eighth of May.’13 To ‘face the truth’, or to accept it, was something the town was only able to do in 1990, after the Wall’s collapse, not in 1985 when von Weizsäcker delivered his speech. Apart from inscriptions of this nature, it is in particular – as for instance in Tornesch – the maps which show the German Reich in its 1937 borders on the

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memorial objects that, in combination with an inscription, gave and continue to give rise to criticism. Whereas critics see this as a revanchist reassertion of the former German Reich, the various Associations of Expellees point out that these maps do nothing more than show the historical geography of Germany. This latter viewpoint, however, is of course a reinterpretation of the maps, as the LoE refuted all pre-1989 criticism of expulsion memorials with the argument that no valid peace treaty had been signed which determined Germany’s borders for good. The town of Bad Arolsen, in the state of Hesse, saw a discussion of its local expulsion monument after the fall of the Berlin Wall. It displays a map of Germany in its borders of 1937 and the inscription: ‘Indivisible Germany’. Eventually, a plaque with an inscription was added to the monument, although for a while its complete dismantling was also discussed. The inscription reads: ‘Since October 3rd, 1990, the united Germany encompasses the areas of the Federal Republic of Germany, of the German Democratic Republic, and all of Berlin. The united Germany holds no territorial claims whatsoever against other nations and will not enforce such claims in the future. The confirmation of the borders of the united Germany is an essential component of the peaceful order within Europe.’ Does this inscription explain the statements of the original monument? Does the new inscription constitute a distancing from the old monument or is it merely a declaration that willingness to accept the borders is now finally prevalent? In our view, the solution realized must be rated as insufficient, as it does not answer these questions. A demolition of the monument would have been less ambiguous. One final point. A further issue must be highlighted in this context of the dates on which the monuments were erected: 2 per cent of all monuments were erected before 1950. Even if the absolute number may appear modest, it is nevertheless surprising as a pointed reminder of the very early start of commemorating expulsion. The monuments commemorating expulsion are thus among the earliest memorials of the immediate post-war period in West Germany.

Conclusion – from monuments to ‘stones of contention’? Back to the starting point of this chapter. Is it correct, in the light of our findings, to talk about ‘uncharted areas’ in the commemorative landscape of the Federal Republic? Are there indeed no ‘visible signs’? Has the memorialization of expulsion been stigmatized? The very number of memorial objects speaks against the assumption that there are no ‘visible signs’. Memorials to expulsion are spread widely around the rural areas of West Germany. If we add the so-called Heimatstuben (‘one-room homeland museums’) and Heimatmuseen (‘homeland museums’) not treated in this chapter, as well as the hundreds of city adoptions (or Patenschaften – Cologne, for example, ‘adopted’ the city of Breslau (Wroclaw)) and the large number of street names commemorating the regions of the former German East, there is a comprehensive commemorative infrastructure within the Western Federal Republic. It also indicates that the topic of ‘expulsion’ has not been stigmatized, but, on the contrary, was anchored in the federal commemorative landscape at a rather early date. Only in the big cities are considerably fewer commemorative objects displayed

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than in the rural areas. ‘Visible signs’ can be found everywhere. Whether these are recognized, however, is a different matter that cannot be fully addressed here. Yet a loss of significance cannot be denied, as the example of what used to be the largest commemorative site to the expellees in Oberschleissheim near Munich bears out. This loss is also illustrated in the old-fashioned ‘Commemorative Site to the German East’ in Schloss Burg near Wuppertal which was opened by the first President of the young Federal Republic on 21 October 1951: plaster is falling from the ceiling onto the showcases, cobwebs enshroud the sculptures, and parts of the location are sometimes used as a drinks warehouse. The number of visitors is so low that the commemorative site is generally locked and visitors must fetch the entry key themselves. Issues which fuelled a heated debate more than 50 years ago nowadays seem only fit for a museum, as if coming from an unknown age. Taking all our findings into consideration, it is clear that the monuments to expulsion reflect the commemorative stance of German society over a period of almost 60 years and have always been more strongly exposed to its various moods and trends than other monuments which are collectively younger, for instance those relating to the Third Reich. Today many monuments create a museum-like impression, as if overtaken by the course of events, and nowadays they pose more questions than they can answer. Commemoration and memorialization of expulsion and flight, as represented in the monuments, memorials, commemorative plaques, commemorative stones, and so on, of the German expellees has been marked by various phases and developmental stages since the first monument openings in the late 1940s and early 1950s. These monuments have been, and will remain, subject to change. For one thing, they have been literally turned into ‘stones of contention’ (the German expression is a ‘stone of contention’ rather than a ‘bone of contention’); for another, German unification has rendered some of the monument statements obsolete, as for instance in the case of the monument in Osnabrück which used to have the inscription ‘German East Forever’ but which was dismantled in 1992, or in the case of the Tornesch memorial where the inscription ‘There Is Only One Germany’ was changed into ‘In Memory Of Our Unforgotten Home’. Quite often, monuments such as these no longer exist, as time has worn them out or vandalism has destroyed them. The monument inscriptions have witnessed a change in commemorative politics: instead of the former political claims for ‘home’ from the 1950s, younger monuments now shift the focus of commemoration and memorialization on to the victims of flight and expulsion.

Notes ∗

Translated from the German by Goeran Nieragden. We kindly thank Jeffrey Paul Luppes for a critical reading of the first draft. 1. E. Steinbach, Chairwoman of the League of Expellees (Bund der Vertriebenen), interview with Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 4 November 2007, p. 6. 2. Federal Government of Germany, ‘Lebenswertes Deutschland’, http://www.bundesregierung.de/Content/DE/StatischeSeiten/Breg/koalitionsvertrag-7.html#doc47278body Text2 (accessed 5 January 2009).

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3. Editors’ Note: Erika Steinbach has since requested that her nomination to represent the League of Expellees on the planned foundation’s supervisory body be withdrawn. See Anon., ‘Bund der Vetriebenen Verzichtet auf Steinbach-Nominierung’, Tagesspiegel, 4 March 2009 (accessed 18 May 2009). 4. BdV-Landesverband Baden-Württemberg (ed.), Dem Vergessen entrissen. Gedenkstätten und Mahnmale der Vertriebenen, Flüchtlinge und Aussiedler in Baden-Württemberg (Stuttgart 2002); BdV-Landesverband Hessen (ed.), Mahn- und Ehrenmale der Heimatvertriebenen in Hessen (Wiesbaden 1992); BdV-Landesverband Thüringen (ed.), Gedenksteine in Thüringen. Den Opfern der Vertreibung gewidmet (Ilmenau, no date); E. Hahn and H. H. Hahn, Flucht und Vertreibung, in E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, vol. 1 (Munich, 2001), pp. 335–51. 5. The authors of the present chapter are working on a monograph on the whole thematic complex. 6. This survey is chiefly based on three sources: 1. the Kurt Schmidt Private Collection (see below), which undertook the first photographic documentation of monuments to expellees, 2. a synopsis on the homepage of the League of Expellees which in turn is informed mainly by the Schmidt Collection, and 3. the authors’ personal research. Monuments outside Germany, and objects which mention expellees only in passing but which primarily commemorate the Second World War more generally, are not considered here. K. Schmidt, Gedenkstätten und Mahnmale der deutschen Heimatvertriebenen in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Martin-Opitz-Bibliothek, Arbeitsberichte; 4, Registerband zur Dokumentation (Herne, 2004). 7. Cf. BdV-Landesverband Thüringen (ed.). 8. Cf. in more detail note 10. 9. According to its Articles of Association, the East and West Prussia Foundation, founded in Munich in 1971, has set itself the task of preserving, cultivating, and fostering East and West Prussian cultural assets as an essential element of German culture that helps shape the character of the whole German people; more specifically, it promotes a continuation of the cross-cultural relations between Bavaria and the German East which have operated for centuries (Cf. http://www.owp-stiftung.de (accessed 5 January 2009)). Alongside various activities, the large-scale commemorative complex in Oberschleissheim forms part of this endeavour. The first part was opened in 1984, consisting of the landing boat (Landungsboot), the Wall of Homeland Soil, and a belfry. A so-called ‘Monument of Honour for the German Soldiers of former East and West Prussian Units Land – Air – Sea who were killed in action, went missing, or died in captivity in two World Wars’ was added in 1995. 10. This institution is to be run by the Municipal Youth Association (Kreisjugendring) in Munich. According to a preliminary proposal, the area is to be redesigned for the purposes of the Association. The monument space is to highlight the statement ‘No more war’. 11. Here, he alludes to the German constitution, the Basic Law. Article 116 stipulates: ‘Unless otherwise provided by statute, a German within the meaning of this Constitution is a person who possesses German citizenship or who has been admitted to the territory of the German Reich within the frontiers of 31 December 1937 as a refugee or expellee of German ethnic origin or as the spouse or descendant of such a person.’ Together with a clause from the constitution’s Preamble, which remained valid until 3 October 1990 (‘The entire German People remains obliged to fulfil the unity and freedom of Germany in free self-determination’), this was used to claim an obligation to work towards re-unification within the 1937 borders. 12. Copy of letter sent as an answer by the Municipal Archive Schenefeld of 17 March 2006. 13. The speech can be read online, for instance at: http://www.dhm.de/lemo/html/ dokumente/NeueHerausforderungen _ redeVollstaendigRichardVonWeizsaecker8Mai 1985/index.html (accessed 5 January 2009).

1.5 A Memorial Laissez-Passer? Church Exhibitions and National Victimhood in Germany Daniela Sandler

Church exhibitions on the Second World War are a common facet of German memorial culture. Overlooked by scholarship – perhaps for lacking the aesthetic sophistication and curatorial self-awareness of many contemporary memorials and museums – these exhibitions are still part of a public realm of discourses on memory demanding critical examination.1 Church exhibitions are heterogeneous in form, content, and tone; they are unified by the use of Christian imagery and values. The explicit presence of religious symbolism inflects the representation of Nazism, the war, and reconstruction by evoking ideas of sin, punishment, and redemption. These themes are potentially problematic in narratives of the German past, decontextualizing German victimhood and suggesting the possibility of historical expiation and normalization.2 Some exhibitions avoid these pitfalls by presenting a broader historical background; others emphasize German suffering without mentioning the war origins, aggressions perpetrated by Germany, or the complicity of some civilians and clerics with the Nazi regime. Taken as a whole, church exhibitions present a variegated, often dissonant discourse on the German past; nonetheless, recognisable types emerge. One type of church exhibition, which I will call broader historical chronicles, includes representations of wartime destruction in the whole history of the church edifice. The war comes up as a pivotal episode among others, such as architectural transformations, artistic endowments, fires, and religious shifts. These exhibitions are usually permanent. A second type of exhibition, which is most commonly temporary, focuses exclusively on the Nazi era and Second World War; I will refer to this type as thematic exhibitions.3 This distinction is important, as the placement of Nazism and the war within a longer historical continuum suggests an impulse towards normalization. Thematic exhibitions are more explicit about the complicated position of churches in the war and the Nazi era, openly addressing instances of collaboration and resistance. This chapter focuses on broader historical chronicles, which usually pose more problems in representations of the German past; as a whole they are also more convergent in structure and tropes. Thematic exhibitions are not only more varied, but they also tend to be more critical and pedagogically aware. Their supporting role here as counterpoint to the first type should not lead the reader to infer 58

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that they are less representative; in fact, this chapter does not aim to present an all-encompassing account, but rather spotlight recurring patterns, which express a significant and complicated component of the memorialization of the Second World War in churches. The broader historical chronicles with which this chapter is concerned are permanent displays on the history of the building, most commonly set in hallways at the entrance to the nave, at the base or top of tower stairs, and on side aisles. They can be as simple as a cardboard sheet with pasted photographs, or as elaborate as spatial structures with professionally designed posters (Figure 4). The displays are fairly common. Out of a sample of 26 Catholic and Protestant churches in Berlin, Cologne, Lübeck, and Dresden, 18 contained such exhibitions (please see the footnotes for a list of these churches and their English translations).4 Five others represented destruction through the ruined or damaged body of the building itself, sculptures, and plaques. Two evoked the war in other ways (the Herz-JesuKirche in Lübeck contained a memorial to priests who fought Nazism; and the other, Cologne Cathedral, is a notorious example of war damage and reconstruction, not only because of media representations and tourist materials, but also because until recently it bore the physical signs of a hasty reconstruction). Only one, the Jakobikirche in Lübeck, did not refer to wartime destruction at all, which is unsurprising since it was left relatively unscathed by Allied air raids.5 The abundance of these displays in German churches, even beyond the four cities examined here, makes their absence from scholarship intriguing – all the more so since the literature on German memorialization is extensive.6 Art historians dissect artworks and monuments; cultural and literary scholars examine books, films, music, and television series. Church displays fall somewhere in

Figure 4 Exhibition chronicling the history of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, Berlin (photo Daniela Sandler)

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between. They are not artworks – graphic design is a better rubric. They are not mass media objects either.7 The methodological questions are correspondingly thorny. Aesthetic criteria from art history are inadequate to assess these displays, and yet they perform symbolic and iconographic functions. It is also difficult to ascertain origin and authorship, as there is often no record of the conception and production of the exhibitions. In order to discuss their semantic and symbolic implications, I will regard them from the viewpoint of visual culture. An iconological investigation will be guided by a consideration of socio-historical context as informative of potential meanings and interpretations.

Apocalypse and redemption The church exhibitions examined here pose at least three related problems. First, they delineate a narrative of apocalypse and redemption, which trivializes the unredeemable destruction of ethnic, sexual, and political minorities in the war and in the Holocaust. Secondly, they emphasize German victimhood, simultaneously de-emphasizing German responsibility. Finally, they omit, for the most part, a critical consideration of the larger context that brought about the attacks on churches: the rise of Nazism as a widely supported movement in Germany; the complicated and often contradictory stance of the Catholic and Evangelical Churches; the socio-political repression under National Socialism; and the destruction carried out by Germany through military attack and in the Holocaust. The displays will be analysed with relation to three criteria: first, their narrative structure as a representation of apocalyptic imagery; second, the visual trope of the ruined church as an icon and index of suffering; and third, the absence of historical context. Church displays follow a similar template. Posters or boards are arranged sequentially, from the origins and transformations of the building over hundreds of years to the climactic destruction in the Second World War and, finally, reconstruction. Images include the intact church in the early twentieth century; wartime photos of raging fires; the ruined nave, roofless and filled with rubble; post-war views of scaffolding; and the reconstituted church at the end. A comparison between eastern and western federal states (Länder) does not yield significant variations. The iconic and narrative path is repeated in Dresden and East Berlin as much as in Cologne, Lübeck, and West Berlin.8 The form of the exhibitions depends on the church. All of the Romanesque churches in Cologne, for example, are supported by the Cologne Romanesque Churches Foundation (Förderverein Romanische Kirchen Köln). The displays in these churches were produced by the Foundation according to the same principles: they are tripartite, movable metal structures framing double-sided, black-and-white printed posters with images and a large body of text in Arial typeface. In other churches, displays often look less planned or professional. In the Parochialkirche in East Berlin, four posters mounted on wood bases hang from nails on the wall of the hallway leading from the narthex to the nave. Text and images are pasted on the grey background, and some are peeling or stained. In the Dreikönigskirche in Dresden, it is the location that seems improvized. Eight large

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posters hang on the wall opposite the altar, sandwiched between light sconces above and a row of chairs below. The chairs, set against the wall, partly obstruct the posters. A few alternative formats attempt to circumvent both the institutional, ‘tradefair’ feel of professionally produced panels, and the amateurish look of handmade posters. The displays in the Marienkirche in Lübeck are made of sheer white fabric printed with large images and brief titles, supported by metal structures cantilevered from the wall. Placed in a dim, tall hallway, they are softly backlit. The posters appear to float away from the wall; when seen upfront, the backlight subtly animates the photographs. The effect is particularly effective in the large, poster-length photo of the burning church on the night of the 1942 Palm Sunday air raid. The re-enactment of the same sequence of visual tropes in different church exhibitions can be seen at first as self-evident. After all, chronologies are intuitive narrative structures. However, the similar pacing of the stories creates an unspoken narrative with symbolic resonances. Photographs and text converge towards the bombing and burning of the church body, and the narrative resolves with reconstruction. Apocalyptic imagery is evoked by the sequence of individual signifiers: the flaming or damaged church as ‘the end of time’; the ruined nave in the aftermath as the moment of taking stock, or judgment; and reconstruction as the redemption of ‘good souls’. The reference to a biblical apocalypse is encouraged by the church settings, which contain religious paintings, mosaics, frescoes, sculptures, reliefs, and altarpieces. The environment provides visual, spatial, and aural cues of biblical symbolism. Not all allusions are to the apocalypse, but the combination of suggestive architecture and art creates an enveloping atmosphere of Christian religion. In some cases, the juxtaposition of displays and sacred art yields powerful implications, especially with reminders of human mortality. For example, in the Dreikönigskirche in Dresden the displays are lined up below Christoph Walther I’s famous Dance of Death frieze (Dresdener Totentanz) dating from 1535.9 In Cologne’s St Maria am Capitol, the displays are positioned near historical tombstones and a candleholder for votives. And in the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche in Berlin, the displays are surrounded by recovered mosaics on the walls, ceiling, and floor; the mosaics are all the more poignant because of missing patches filled in with cement. The spatial and symbolic context supplies meanings and associations connecting the displays to a larger biblical narrative of judgment and redemption, regardless of the intention of display designers. Yet the biblical apocalypse is an inadequate allegory for the Second World War. The apocalypse, both in the sense of ‘end of time’ and ‘revelation’, implies a predetermined fate set by divine powers. The unavoidable destiny of all men is beyond any man’s control – except for piety, which can ensure a soul’s salvation. If this subjacent narrative tinges the perception of history, it removes responsibility from social groups and individuals as if their actions and decisions had no bearing on historical events. In addition, the redemptive aftermath of the apocalypse suggests a break with the past, and the

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beginning of a new era. It might have been an understandable desire in post-war Germany to start anew at the Zero Hour, but the repression entailed by such a break left unresolved historical tensions and unacknowledged continuities.10 The question of redemption is even more complicated. Redemption carries two connotations. The final images of the displays, with the church ‘made whole again’, suggest redemption as recovery of what was lost.11 The perspective of Christian religion expresses another meaning – redemption as forgiveness for sins. A plaque on the outside of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, for instance, calls for ‘reconciliation in Jesus Christ’, implying the harmonious reunion of all parties through, one would assume, forgiveness. While elaborate memorial processes have attempted to reconcile Germans and their former victims, ‘reconciliation in Jesus Christ’ oversimplifies the painful and enduring labour of working through the past. There is yet another implication. The idea of Germans redeemed after the war also suggests Germans as victims themselves – of the Nazi regime, its brutalities, deceits, and the war.12 This focus on the suffering of Germans becomes clearer when a particular visual trope, the ruined church, is examined in more detail.

The ruin and the church Photographs of bombed churches seize the viewer’s attention with an indexical representation of destruction. Their luridness not only captures the gaze, but also causes a slippage between visual perception and emotional reaction; between the present experience of the visual record, and the awareness of the past event.13 This awareness is not necessarily a complex intellectual understanding, but a phenomenal consciousness or acknowledgment of the fact in itself. The sensorial, immediate appeal of destruction scenes can overshadow the task of critical and historical engagement. This is compounded by the layout of the posters, in which the images overshadow the text. From afar, even larger bodies of text recede into the background as images stand out. Up close, a sequence of posters with a large quantity of text does not offer the best conditions for attentive reading and thoughtful reflection. The displays at Berlin’s Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche and at the Marienkirche in Lübeck show exceptional awareness that posters are more than blown-up book pages, and that exhibitions must respond to inhabited space as their medium. In these two churches, photographs take up the whole display, and captions are brief. While these two examples address the visual and embodied nature of exhibitions, they do not quite redress the balance between the pictorial and verbal dimensions, shifting it rather towards the former. The pervasive photographs of ruins stand out as central motifs, which are often reworked through the presence, in the exhibition space, of ruination. The interior of the Parochialkirche (Berlin) was kept raw, with exposed bricks and timberwork, although the exterior was pristinely restored. The Petrikirche in Lübeck is similarly set up, with a whitewashed bare nave. In the entrance hall, a glass plate encases a scraped patch of wall; while the plate might be a protective device, it also frames the scraped surface as a fragment. This fragment and the partially restored traces of decoration throughout the church draw attention to the whitewashed walls that

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surround them – in other words, the spotlighted fragments throw into relief the missing, irretrievable whole. Likewise, in the restoration of the Frauenkirche in Dresden, soot-covered stone blocks are interspersed with lighter, clean masonry as a visual record of the former damage to the church and a reminder of its recent reconstruction.14 In some cases, the whole church is preserved as a ruin. The Kaiser-WilhelmGedächtniskirche is an extant chunk of the original building that was cleaned, secured, and adapted into a memorial and exhibition hall.15 The Klosterkirche in central Berlin is a ruin preserved and maintained as a public space. It is roofless, but still provides a sense of enclosure through enveloping walls, columns, and the main portal. The Klosterkirche does not contain an exhibition, but the ruin serves as a spatial reminder of destruction. The Marienkapelle in Lübeck is also only a ruin, complemented by a glass-encased model of the original chapel. Ruins have historically been used and interpreted from multiple perspectives. The Enlightenment’s study of Classical sites and fragments is different from Romanticism’s fascination with the mysterious qualities of dilapidated Gothic structures.16 The closest paradigm for church displays is the use of ruins as commemorations of war loss.17 Photographs of burning or ruined churches become national monuments and memorials, inscribing traumatic events within cohesive histories of national identity that try not only to make sense of demoralizing or tragic losses, but also recast them in a redeeming light. They are produced within a ‘matrix . . . [that] emplots the story of ennobling events, of triumphs over barbarism, and recalls the martyrdom of those who gave their lives in the struggle for national existence’.18 The church displays function in tandem with preserved ruins as memorial pieces that not only record their own particular traumas or losses, but that also belong in the broader commemorative landscape of the nation. Part of the collective import of these displays is the repetition and recurrence of tropes and structures. This re-enactment might be understood in the light of religious liturgy, which relies on the reproduction and recreation of actions, words, and images according to predetermined structures. The displays are relevant not only because they are produced by specific congregations and placed within particular church buildings, but also as iterations of a broadly shared religious worldview. The last point is important because the study of church displays prompts the issue of particular histories in individual parishes. A number of pastors and priests resisted Nazism, and many were victims of the regime.19 But many clerics were complicit with the Nazi system, from tacit acceptance to active participation.20 The same considerations apply to parishioners. When a church represents the history of Second World War destruction as a narrative of redemption and victimization, it could be tempting to condemn it on the basis of a particular congregant’s history of collaboration, or to praise it in the presence of histories of resistance. But the aim of my argument is different: I want to point towards an understanding of social and historical responsibility by institutions and the groups associated with them. This includes the impact of church exhibitions on a broad audience of Germans and foreigners from diverse social, educational, and ethnic backgrounds.

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Telling absences This brings me to my final point: what is missing from the kind of church displays studied here is as telling as what is included. Most of the exhibitions limit themselves to the construction, destruction, and rebuilding of the church. There is scant mention of the role and status of the church during the Nazi era (either the particular parish, or the Church as an institution). The exceptions are cases of priests and pastors who resisted Nazism – for example, in the Herz-Jesu-Kirche in Lübeck, and in a temporary memorial in St Ursula in Cologne. As importantly, the broader historical context of Germany and Europe is rarely addressed. Visitors familiar with the period might easily understand images of such devastation with relation to the rise of Nazism, German military aggression, and the Allied strategy; those with partial or uncertain knowledge, however, might interpret these images as unjustified violence. The increasing diversity of foreign visitors through mass tourism, and the temporal distance between the Nazi era and newer German generations make it difficult to presume consistent knowledge levels or critical perspectives. Is it unreasonable to suggest that church administrators, clerics, and educators keep in mind the potential didactic role of exhibitions and displays? A few examples suggest that these concerns can be taken into account without undermining the primary goal of recording the history of particular churches. In the Marienkirche in Lübeck there is a multimedia station at the entrance. The coinoperated station offers two animations in several languages: the story of the church, and tales for children. The story of the church starts in the Middle Ages; despite lavish attention to architectural and artistic developments, the narration devotes considerable time to the Second World War. At one point, the voiceover states, ‘as a consequence of the German bombing of Coventry, Lübeck was bombed by the British on the night of Palm Sunday in 1942’. While historians might take issue with such a reductive sound bite, the narration provides a fuller perspective than most displays, and at the very least suggests questions for further investigation. A second example of historical perspective is the Dreikönigskirche in Dresden. The posters include a long passage on the Nazi era, acknowledging the Nazi takeover of church offices and elections by the German Christians (Deutsche Christen) and the resistance of the Confessing Church (Bekennende Kirche). The text recognizes that these oppositions ran deep within the local community, but ultimately aligns the true allegiance of the church with resistance, representing Nazism as a foreign takeover of the church and community. While the representation of Nazism as a strange invasion of the German body poses its own problems, the poster in the Dreikönigskirche is one of the most complete and balanced in comparison to the other displays. The Frauenkirche in Dresden is a more intriguing example. For part of the long reconstruction, the building site was set up with billboards providing historical background. These billboards mentioned the bombing of Coventry in connection with Dresden; they also directed visitors to the reconstructed synagogue a few

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Figure 5 Frauenkirche, Dresden, monument comprising a piece of the original dome, whose silhouette is represented on its face (photo Daniela Sandler)

blocks away. Not only were these billboards informative, but they also attempted to redress the balance somewhat between the attention-grabbing church and the peripheral synagogue (thus perhaps establishing a symbolic balance between Protestants and Jews). Reconstruction was finished in 2005, and the billboards were removed. Current memorialization in the church is strikingly laconic, relying on abstract artworks. The crypt contains two installations of stone sculptures devoted to themes of loss and reconstruction; short texts provide interpretations of the artworks without historical details. Outside the building, a monument represents the fallen original dome through a large piece of stone recovered from the ruins, a bronze plaque and a cut-out of the dome’s silhouette (Figure 5). While the reliance on abstract representation is not in itself a memorial liability, the elision of historical context in the reconstructed Frauenkirche relates to a broader erasure of the church’s long history as the city’s most eloquent pile of rubble.21

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The narratives examined in this chapter are very different from those in thematic church exhibitions, which openly address connections between particular churches and Nazism, and provide ample historical background. The difference between the two types of exhibitions might suggest that it is easier to develop a more critical approach when the Nazi era is isolated from the rest of German history (or from the history of a particular church). The fact that many of the thematic exhibitions are temporary might further reinforce the view of Nazism as a separate chapter that can be ‘closed’. In this light, the recurrence of accounts structured according to the sequence ‘apocalypse followed by redemption’ in so many permanent exhibitions in central, touristic urban churches might represent the normalization of the German past invoked by politicians and historians at least since unification. Perhaps these churches hold a memorial laissez-passer, which allows otherwise repressed views to return and emerge publicly as part of broader constructions of national identity.

Notes 1. This public realm also includes exhibitions set up in schools, government offices, hospitals, and other institutions and public service spaces. See C. Paver, ‘Exhibiting the National Socialist Past: An Overview of Recent German Exhibitions’, Journal of European Studies 39 (2009), 227–51. 2. On German victimhood, see B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims (Basingstoke, 2006). On normalization, see J. K. Olick, ‘What Does It Mean to Normalize the Past?’, Social Science History 22 (1998), 547–71; R. G. Moeller, ‘War Stories: The Search for a Usable Past in the Federal Republic of Germany’, American Historical Review 101 (1996), 1008–48; and S. Taberner and P. Cooke (eds), German Culture, Politics, and Literature into the Twenty-First Century: Beyond Normalization (Rochester, 2006). 3. A notable example is the Martin Luther Memorial Church in Berlin, which was dedicated in 1935 and whose history and architecture are closely associated with the Nazi era. Permanent displays and images address this history clearly and from a critical perspective. For information on this and other thematic exhibitions about the Nazi era in German churches, see Chloe Paver’s research website at http:// people.exeter.ac.uk/cpaver/exhibitions_ausstellungen.html (accessed 25 March 2009). 4. The churches were chosen for their urban or touristic centrality, meaning that they attract a larger and more diverse audience than local or fringe parishes. The examples range from cathedrals to smaller structures; they include Catholic and Protestant congregations, and sometimes accommodate alternative cultural uses. The churches with their German names and English translations are: Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche (Kaiser-Wilhelm Memorial Church), Parochialkirche (Parochial Church), Klosterkirche (Cloister Church), and Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral), all in Berlin; Dresdner Dom (Dresden Cathedral), Frauenkirche (Church of Our Lady), Dreikönigskirche (Three Kings Church), and Kreuzkirche (Cross Church) in Dresden; Kölner Dom (Cologne Cathedral), St Mariä Himmelfahrt (Mary’s Assumption), Antoniterkirche (Antonites), Minoritenkirche (Minorite Church), St Georg (Saint George), St Aposteln (Holy Apostles), St Gereon (Saint Gereon), St Kunibert (Saint Cunibert), St Maria am Kapitol (Saint Mary in the Capitol), and St Ursula (Saint Ursula), all in Cologne; and finally the Lübecker Dom (Lübeck Cathedral), Jakobikirche (St Jacob’s), Marienkirche (St Mary’s), Marienkapelle (St Mary’s Chapel), Petrikirche (St Peter’s), Herz Jesu (Heart of Jesus), Katharinen (St Catharine), and St Aegidien (St Egidius) in Lübeck. I visited these churches several times between July 2002 and June 2007.

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5. D. Wölfel, ‘St. Jakobi-Chronik 1945–2000’, Festschrift zum 775jährigen Jubiläum von St. Aegidien, St. Jakobi und St. Petri in Lübeck (Lübeck, 2002), p. 64. 6. To mention only a few: J. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven, 1993); K. Till, The New Berlin: Memory, Politics, Place (Minneapolis, 2005); R. Koshar, From Monuments to Traces: Artifacts of German Memory, 1870–1990 (Berkeley, 2000). 7. Only a few churches attract a mass public. The Frauenkirche in Dresden, for example, attracted 2,200,000 visitors in 2007. This is an exceptional number; like Cologne Cathedral, the Frauenkirche is a ‘veritable tourist magnet’, as Dresden’s tourism office put it (see Tourismusbericht der Stadt Dresden 2007 (Dresden, 2007), p. 2 and p. 21). 8. This is notable considering the differences between memorialization of the Second World War in East and West Germany, explored for example by J. Herf in Divided Memory: The Nazi Past in the Two Germanys (Cambridge, Mass., 1997) and by Young in The Texture of Memory. The similarity between East and West might be partly due to the fact that most of the displays were set up after unification. But perhaps it is also related to membership in a larger religious body (the Roman Catholic Church in Germany, the German Evangelical Church). Dominant views and practices of the religious system may override local, ideological, historical, or political particularities. 9. C. Hertel provides a reading of Walther’s work alongside two other others – Alfred Rethel’s engravings of 1849 and Richard Peter’s photographs from 1949 – as three Dances of Death that contribute to representing post-war Dresden as ‘a city of death’. In ‘Dis/Continuities in Dresden’s Dances of Death’, The Art Bulletin 82 (2000), 83–116. 10. See for instance T. Adorno, ‘The Meaning of Working Through the Past’, in Critical Models: Interventions and Catchwords (New York, 1998), pp. 89–103; and J.-P. Bier, ‘The Holocaust, West Germany, and Strategies of Oblivion, 1947–1979’, in A. Rabinbach and J. Zipes (eds), Germans and Jews since the Holocaust: The Changing Situation in West Germany (New York and London, 1986), pp. 185–207. 11. Holocaust theory suggests that this ‘making whole again’ is impossible with respect to the social and individual losses of the Holocaust. This adds yet another dimension; however, the distinctions between the Holocaust and the war destruction experienced by Germans are too complex to be explored in this chapter. On the unredeemable nature of the Holocaust, see L. Langer, Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory (New Haven, 1991); D. LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma (Ithaca, 1994). 12. Niven (ed.), ‘German Victimhood at the Turn of the Millennium’, in Germans as Victims, pp. 1–25; Herf, Divided Memory. 13. R. Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (New York, 1981). 14. For a discussion of the building’s reconstruction, see C. Hertel, ‘Beyond In/Authenticity: The Case of Dresden’s Frauenkirche’, in J. Ockman (ed.), Architourism: Architecture as a Destination for Tourism (New York and Munich, 2005), pp. 42–9. 15. Technically, the Memorial Church is not the extant ruin alone, but rather contains it as part of the broader ensemble that encompasses the two Modernist towers designed by Egon Eiermann in 1959. 16. See, for instance, M. S. Roth and others, Irresistible Decay: Ruins Reclaimed (Los Angeles, 1997); C. D. Armstrong, ‘ “Il faut ruiner un palais . . .”: Fragmentation and Human Nature in Leroy’s Les Ruines des plus beaux monuments de la Grèce’, in B. Bergdoll and W. Oechslin (eds), Fragments – Architecture and the Unfinished: Essays Presented to Robin Middleton (London, 2006); A. F. Janowitz, England’s Ruins: Poetic Purpose and the National Landscape (Cambridge, Mass., 1990). 17. The most famous example might be the Archaic temple of Athena in the Acropolis, burned by the Persians in 480 BC and left in ruins in Pericles’ reconstruction of the Acropolis. See G. Ferrari, ‘The Ancient Temple on the Acropolis at Athens’, American Journal of Archaeology 106 (2002), 11–35. Ferrari makes a connection between the Ancient Temple and the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche (p. 28).

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18. Young, The Texture of Memory, p. 2. 19. See D. J. Dietrich (ed.), Christian Responses to the Holocaust: Moral and Ethical Issues (Syracuse, NY, 2003). The resistance of local clerics in Cologne and Lübeck is documented in H. Moll, Wenn wir heute nicht unser Leben einsetzen. Martyrer des Erzbistums Köln aus der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus (Cologne, 1998); and in B. Templin and I. Klatt, ‘Lösch mir die Augen aus. . .’. Leben und gewaltsames Sterben der vier Lübecker Geistlichen in der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus, exh. cat. (Lübeck, 1994). 20. See M. Perry and F. M. Schweitzer, Antisemitic Myths: A Historical and Contemporary Anthology (Bloomington, IN, 2008); M. Burleigh, Sacred Causes: The Clash of Religion and Politics from the Great War to the War on Terror (London, 2007); and Dietrich, Christian Responses to the Holocaust. 21. Hertel, ‘Beyond In/Authenticity’.

1.6 Remembering on Foreign Soil: The Activities of the German War Graves Commission David Livingstone

‘Reconciliation over the graves’ (‘Versöhnung über den Gräbern’) is a slogan of the People’s Association for the Maintenance of German War Graves, or VDK (Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge), an organization that has built and maintained German military cemeteries and memorials since 1919. The VDK was formed in the aftermath of the Great War to recover and commemorate those Germans who had been killed fighting mainly in foreign countries.1 During the war, this task had been the responsibility of the Prussian Ministry’s Central Identification Office (Central-Nachweise-Amt), disbanded in 1918 following the Versailles Treaty.2 The VDK was typical of many post-war völkisch factions with members that included disenchanted soldiers and right-wing radical groups. These individuals espoused the revanchist myth of the ‘stab in the back’, according to which Germany’s soldiers would have won the war had it not been for the undermining efforts of leftist conspiracies on the home front.3 The VDK conceptualized this radicalism in its memorials and cemeteries both at home and abroad.4 These sites were dominated by stone structures called ‘fortresses of the dead’ (Totenburgen) that emphasized heroism and the primacy of the nation over the individual.5 Thematically, VDK projects reflected the ‘stabin-the-back’ legend and provided the right wing with a means by which to refocus aesthetically the memory of the war. Historian George Mosse has asserted that these cemeteries were the focal point of what he called the ‘cult of the fallen soldier’.6 Henceforth, the VDK promulgated the Nazi world-view (Weltanschauung) throughout the Weimar Republic and Third Reich eras. In 1922, it advocated the institution of the People’s Day of Mourning (Volkstrauertag), an annual occasion central to the Nazi commemoration of the war. Later, this was changed to the Heroes’ Day of Commemoration or Heldengedenktag (see the chapter in this volume by Alexandra Kaiser). During the Third Reich, the VDK also strictly forbade the inclusion of Jewish soldiers on its war monuments. By 1945, Germany was again defeated and 5.3 million of its soldiers had been killed, most of them in foreign countries.7 The current chapter will examine several examples of the VDK’s controversial role in German memorialization from 1945 to 2005. During this era, the Cold War, unification, and the passing of the Second World War generation all had 69

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an influence on how it conducted its work. Given the fact that it was originally founded upon right-wing ideology, one might expect that its projects would be undertaken in a manner which prevented the glorification of Nazi soldiers so as not to offend their victims, especially at those sites on foreign soil. Nevertheless, organizational policies and personnel often overlooked Nazi victims, or afforded Nazi soldiers, who were depicted as victims of the senselessness of war in general, a status equal to that of Nazi victims. There has been little contemporary scholarship published on the VDK.8 The examples presented here will reveal that, while on the one hand it provided closure for many German families, on the other it opened old wounds for Nazi victims. It has consistently fallen short of its reconciliation pledge, and is unable to contribute positively to German memorialization because it is not truly committed to changing its past practices. Unlike some of the problematic approaches to memorialisation analysed in this volume, which have now been consigned to the past, this is arguably an ongoing story that still awaits a resolution.

From collapse to division: The VDK from 1945 to 1949 When the world learned about the terrible crimes of Nazism, the very idea of an organization that commemorated its executors was unsettling. In 1946, the Allied occupation governments officially ordered the demolition of many monuments, museums, and anything else associated with the military heritage of National Socialism.9 But for those families who had lost someone at the front there was an emotional need to know the whereabouts of their loved ones.10 The German Red Cross attempted to provide families with some information, but poor record-keeping at the end of the war left many cases open.11 In 1945, the VDK went through a hasty de-Nazification process and began assisting the Red Cross. The diligence in providing surviving families with information on burial sites was arguably its best and least controversial involvement in German memorialization.12 Consider the case of 20-year-old Luftwaffe pilot Paul Riessbeck who was shot down over Normandy in 1944 and buried by locals near a church at Chatellier. On behalf of Riessbeck’s father, the VDK learned that Paul had originally been exhumed by the American Battle Monuments Commission and re-interred at Champigny-St-André. In another instance, the VDK helped the family of 20-year-old Corporal Manfred Kolb, who had been reported ‘missing in action’ in Normandy. Kolb had also been buried by the Americans, but his records were lost in the post-war confusion. VDK representatives worked closely with American officials and traced Kolb to the Orglandes cemetery in France.13 In both situations, these soldiers’ families gained a sense of closure that would probably not have been possible without the VDK. It resolved countless other missing-in-action cases in the same fashion and maintained a vast archive that helped families still searching for lost relatives.14 Despite these successful recoveries, the inconsistency of Allied de-Nazification policies at the beginning of the Cold War allowed many Nazi-era personnel to remain in the VDK.15 For example, in November 1945, VDK architects Oswald

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Langerhans and Wilhelm Hübotter were commissioned by British occupation authorities to construct a victims’ monument on the site of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.16 Both men had been fervent Nazis during the war, and Hübotter designed Heinrich Himmler’s Saxons’ Grove, a gathering place for the SS just 50 kilometres east of Belsen. Their designs angered the Central Committee of Liberated Jews who complained that they produced ‘a naïve belief that the camp could be removed from the memory of history’. This was precisely the kind of ignorance and insensitivity the VDK’s officials were criticized for in connection with many of the VDK’s post-Holocaust memorials.17

The early Cold War: The VDK between 1949 and 1969 Excepting its Bergen-Belsen venture, the VDK primarily continued its recovery program across Western Europe and the Mediterranean without opposition. However, in 1949, Germany was officially divided, and the disposition of the war-dead in the East was assigned to the churches by the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Consequently, the manner in which Germans looked back upon the Nazi era also followed this divide.18 In the Federal Republic (FRG), the Nazi past was overshadowed by the greater threat of communism, while in the GDR Nazism was viewed as the end product of greedy western capitalists.19 Although the Cold War ended any chance of the VDK operating in the east (where most of Germany’s war dead were located), the political tension from the divide allowed it to revive many of its conservative policies without eliciting any critical attention. Quite frankly, the occupation authorities in Europe were far more concerned with geopolitical issues than how the VDK conducted itself. Therefore, most of its sites continued to include the heroic themes and images of the Third Reich era with no consideration for Nazi victims.20 In 1950, the VDK reinstituted the Volkstrauertag and gradually began participating in more commemorative activities. By 1952, it had obtained Allied authorization to construct war memorials within Germany, and many of the First World War sites were adapted to include the names of those killed during the Nazi era.21 With a staff consisting of former soldiers, including members of the Waffen SS, the VDK helped to encourage the myth that the majority of those who fought for Hitler were blameless for his crimes.22 It operated under this ideology throughout the Cold War and extended it abroad as it became the FRG’s ambassador for war graves. In 1964, it crafted an agreement with the United Kingdom’s Commonwealth War Graves Commission to build a cemetery at Cannock Chase in Staffordshire. The cemetery holds the remains of 4929 soldiers from both world wars,23 many of who had been crew members of zeppelins and bomber aircraft responsible for the deaths of innocent civilians. At the entrance of the cemetery, every visitor must pass a dark statue of an anguished body lying in repose, which seems to convey a sense of grief for those inside. A VDK brochure available at the site describes the sculpture simply as ‘a reminder of the consequences of war’, without making reference to the victims of those interred on its grounds.24

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In 1966, the VDK took over the task of administering the German cemeteries in France from the French Burial Service (Service Français des Sépultures). Over 250,000 German soldiers were killed in France during the Second World War, and there were numerous burials resulting from the First.25 The architecture at the French sites continued to reflect a general insensitivity towards Nazi victims by including many of the same design features prominent in the Nazi era. For instance, the Norman cemeteries at La Cambe and Mont-d’Huisnes included centrally located burial mounds reminiscent of the Totenburgen of earlier designs. The French population was still living with the memory of Nazi occupation and often protested the construction of these sites near its communities. In response to the negative attention in France and elsewhere, the VDK began designing its foreign cemeteries to blend in with local features.26

The VDK in the Twilight of the Cold War: 1969–1989 Throughout the era of Christian Democratic Union (CDU) rule in the FRG, the personnel and policies of the Volksbund remained conservatively based. This changed somewhat when Willy Brandt of the Social Democratic Party (SPD) became Chancellor in 1969. Brandt’s attitude towards reconciliation differed from that of his CDU predecessors and he preferred to view the Nazi past with humility instead of disregard.27 Accordingly, the VDK’s work was influenced to some extent by this shift, especially at its foreign sites. In France, Belgium, and Italy, cemeteries were built with hedges that concealed the graves. Markers in the form of Maltese crosses were discreetly set flat into the ground instead of upright like earlier versions. Any references to nationalism such as the famous Langemarck inscription, ‘Germany must live, even if we must die’, were removed.28 The VDK also developed summer work programs that gave German teenagers the opportunity to provide foreign countries with cemetery maintenance while hopefully educating these youngsters about the realities of war.29 As the Cold War entered its final years, Helmut Kohl gained the chancellorship for the CDU, triggering another shift in how Germans in the FRG confronted the past. Kohl set the tone for this transition by bolstering the idea that coming to terms with the Nazi era meant eliminating the dividing line between victim and perpetrator. This exactly matched the views of the conservative VDK.30 Given that the FRG was critical towards the anti-communist stance of the West, it is not surprising that President Ronald Reagan’s 1985 trip to the VDK cemetery near Bitburg opened old wounds for all Nazi victims. Prior to the trip, Reagan’s staff learned that there were several Waffen SS soldiers buried there, including SS Staff Sergeant Otto Bengel, who was awarded the Nazi Cross in Gold for killing ten Americans.31 Letters for and against the trip flooded the White House when Reagan insisted on going despite the SS graves; these letters clearly demonstrate the ambiguity of the general victimization ideals expressed by Kohl and most of those within the VDK.32 Reagan Library archival sources reveal that some of the letters were supportive and even played a role in Reagan’s controversial speech, such as one by

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American veteran Robert Bullard. Bullard, speaking of the burial of a young SS soldier, claimed: ‘these men, too, were Hitler’s victims.’33 Another letter by Monika Roberts, the daughter of a Wehrmacht soldier buried at Bitburg, urged Reagan to visit the cemetery and spoke about the VDK’s help locating his grave. She closed by stating: ‘only a handful of SS troopers are buried at Bitburg, the rest of the graves are those of many Germans like my father, who were forced to serve under the Nazi regime.’34 More telling are those who spoke out against the trip, including Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, who said: ‘that place [Bitburg], Mr. President, is not your place. Your place is with the victims of the SS.’35 Another American veteran wrote: ‘by even considering visiting a place where Waffen SS Officers are buried, you have already opened old, deep wounds.’36 However, Reagan remained committed to go, and prior to the trip he told the Conference on Religious Liberty that ‘my purpose was, and remains, not to re-emphasize the crimes of the Third Reich in twelve years of power, but to celebrate the accomplishments of the German people.’37 His visit may not have re-emphasized the crimes of the Third Reich, but his on-site address certainly distorted the memory of its victims when he stated: ‘the war against one man’s totalitarian dictatorship was not like other wars. The evil wars of Nazism turned all values upside down. Nevertheless, we can mourn the German war dead today as human beings crushed by a vicious ideology.’38 Reagan’s remarks precisely captured the self-exonerating ‘victim of totalitarianism’ ideal of the VDK during the Kohl era. However, when Germany was united in 1990, the VDK faced new challenges that called into question its moral foundation.

The VDK and unified Germany: 1990–2005 The VDK’s most significant challenge after unification was securing access to the sites of eastern front battlefields; such access became easier following the collapse of the Soviet empire. Unification significantly changed how Germans memorialized Nazism, because responsibility for the crimes of the Holocaust had to be borne by one nation instead of two. The end of the geographical and cultural divide provided the opportunities for Germans to view their past collectively and confront the difficult issues of Nazism.39 Nevertheless, the VDK remained rooted in conservative ideology and failed to make policy adaptations as the new era began. At the VDK cemetery in Costermano, Italy, citizens complained that three notorious architects of Hitler’s euthanasia program were buried among the German dead and listed in a ‘book of honour’. One of them, Christian Wirth, had served as a Commandant and director of euthanasia at Treblinka, Belzec, and Sobibor.40 Public protests and debates in both the Italian and German press brought European-wide attention to the case. Italian citizens submitted a written demand for the three men’s exhumation and removal, but VDK officials refused on the grounds that the men were buried in mass graves. The Italian government responded by cancelling the observance of Volkstrauertag at the cemetery, and the German Consul General to Italy, Dr Manfred Steinkühler, resigned his post in protest, calling the VDK ‘insincere and misleading, an insult to victims and

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an enduring shame for Germany’.41 In 1992, after nearly four years of protest, the names of Wirth and the others were removed from the ‘book of honour’ at Costermano. Nevertheless, the organization had only acted after negative public pressure forced its hand, proving that its sensitivity to the issue of Nazi victimhood was insufficient. VDK insensitivity was further exhibited in 1997 when the organization erected steel poles at the Buchenwald memorial to commemorate the Germans who died there under Soviet captivity after the Second World War; yet many of those who had died had been Nazi functionaries (albeit low-level ones). By inscribing the poles with the word ‘unknown’, the VDK implied that these Germans had as it were died in battle, which diminished Nazi crimes in the face of Stalinism, something memorial site director Volkhard Knigge wanted to avoid at all costs.42 Problems also emerged at the VDK’s sites in Poland and Russia when public concerns over the memorialization of former enemies developed among local citizens. At Nadolice cemetery outside of Warsaw, locals protested when they learned that members of the SS who had been guards at Auschwitz were buried there. The VDK acted swiftly (perhaps learning from Costermano) by sponsoring an inquiry, which was ultimately inconclusive.43 VDK spokesman Fritz Kirchmeier said that Nadolice was not built to memorialize German soldiers, but rather to provide them with a proper burial, which revealed an organizational shift away from commemorative events that glorified Nazi soldiers without considering those who had been their victims.44 Kirchmeier’s comments also indicated that the VDK was beginning to reconsider what contribution, if any, it really had to make towards reconciliation. Unified Germany’s willingness to confront its past and the diminishing Nazi era generation, made its previous themes unappealing to most contemporary Germans, many of who felt no wish to support its work with donations. Time for new strategies and financing was running out as tensions rose in former Eastern bloc nations such as Albania, where the government suspended the VDK cemetery near the city of Tirana after veterans protested that it was too close to a partisan memorial.45 Similarly, in the Czech Republic, the remains of 4000 Germans were stored unceremoniously in the basement of a plumbing factory near Prague, because a suitable burial site could not be agreed upon by its citizens. The VDK also came under fire in 2002 for a planned ceremony at a Great War memorial in Israel that included the names of Nazi era soldiers; at Kaliningrad in 2003, it attempted to build a Wehrmacht memorial near a cemetery for victims of SS medical experimentation. In Russia, where the recovery effort was greatly needed, local residents looted German burials for war souvenirs as their post-Cold War economy deteriorated.46 The Russians themselves were divided on the value of cemeteries that commemorated enemy soldiers who had waged a brutal war against their country for four years. In 2004, at the Sologubovka cemetery, where many of the Germans who had besieged Leningrad are buried, the VDK built memorials that recognized Russian victims, funded reconstruction of an Orthodox church, and spent nearly 1 million Euros in improvements for the local community. They also brought Russians and Germans together at the dedication ceremony, but feelings about the site remained

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mixed. Photographer Michael Stephan documented the event and felt the site was an insult to Russians. He observed: ‘many [German veterans] still speak of themselves as victims and claim they were unaware of civilian deaths.’ Lida Titarenko, who was enslaved by the Germans when they occupied Sologubovka in 1941, believed that their effort was good because they were rebuilding what the Nazis had destroyed. But Russian Veterans’ Committee President Zoya Kornilyeva felt that German money and rebuilding efforts did nothing to compensate for the crimes of Nazism.47 Germans and their former enemies remain divided over the VDK. While it has shown some post-unification advancement, its work does not go far enough to accomplish its motto of ‘reconciliation over the graves’. As fewer Nazi era veterans fill out its ranks, the potential for organizational change is better, but despite this trend, it still manages to attract neo-Nazi activists and other radical movements. Its value within the broader framework of German memorialization depends upon an intensified organizational commitment to move away from the conservative themes of its past. But in the final analysis, it may be that the VDK would better serve society by staying out of the memorialization business all together and simply sticking to the recovery of remains. Perhaps Jewish philosopher Walter Benjamin (who died before the war) best characterized the true problem with an organization like the VDK when he expressed his idea that ‘remembrance as a means of healing may perpetrate injustice by covering up crimes and thereby protecting their perpetrators’.48

Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

8.

9. 10.

P. Haythornthwaite, The World War One Sourcebook (London, 1993), pp. 54–5. G. L. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (Oxford, 1991), p. 82. I. Kershaw, Hitler: 1889–1936 Hubris (New York, 1999), p. 97. The terms of the Versailles Treaty limited the jurisdiction of the VDK abroad until the late 1960s. J. Bulmahn, Places of Commemoration: Search for Identity and Landscape Design (Georgetown, 2001), p. 242. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, p. 80, p. 86, and p. 106. R. Overmanns, Deutsche Militärische Verluste im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Munich 1999), p. 316; D. Bankier, ‘Hitler and the Policy-Making Process on the Jewish Question’, Holocaust and Genocide Studies 3:1 (1988), 1–20, here 11; G. Megargee, War of Annihilation: Combat and Genocide on the Eastern Front, 1941 (Lanham, 2006), pp. 1–4; Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, p. 82. Former VDK director Hans Soltau published an anthology of speeches from the Volkstrauertag during the 1951–95 period titled Wir Gedenken. Reden zum Volkstrauertag 1951–1995 (Kassel, 1995). See also: H. Boehlke, Zum Zentralinstitut und Museum für Sepulkralkultur. Geschichte der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Friedhof und Denkmal e.V. Zweiter Teil 1977–1992 (Kassel, 2007), which contains some references to the VDK; M. Lurz, Kriegerdenkmäler in Deutschland 6 vols (Heidelberg, 1985–87); and E. Siegel, ‘Graveside Reconciliation: The German War Graves Commission in Russia’, Osteuropa 58 (2008), 307–15. Lurz, Kriegerdenkmäler in Deutschland, p. 123. Anon., ‘Search for the Fallen in a Now Quiet Forest’, Los Angeles Times, 2 May 2007.

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11. Many grave sites were concealed by the Wehrmacht during their retreat to prevent local civilians from desecrating them. See S. Schmitz, A Stranger to Myself: The Inhumanity of War in Russia, 1941–1944 (New York, 2005), p. xi. 12. There is as yet no significant scholarship on the de-Nazification of the VDK. See US National Archives RG-260/OMGUS. 13. F. Avril, Gardens of Remembrance: The Men and Their Destiny (Cully, 2006), pp. 40–4. 14. Ibid. The author visited both cemeteries in Normandy in 2004 and 2005. 15. H. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau: The Uses and Abuses of a Concentration Camp, 1933– 2001 (Cambridge, 2001). See in particular the section ‘Denazification and Brown Collar Criminals’, pp. 88–94; Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, p. 213. 16. Bulmahn, Places of Commemoration, p. 281. 17. Ibid., p. 280. 18. B. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London and New York, 2002), p. 5. 19. J. Herf, Divided Memory: The Nazi Past in the Two Germanys (Harvard, 1997), p. 73 20. Ibid., p. 3. 21. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, p. 217. 22. A. Reith, Denkmal Ohne Pathos. Totenmale des Zweiten Weltkrieges in Süd-WürttembergHohenzollern (Tübingen, 1967), p. 16. 23. Author’s 2002 visit to Cannock Chase. 24. Author’s 2002 visit to Cannock Chase. See also the VDK brochure, Cannock Chase (Kassel, 2002) (author’s private collection). 25. Avril, Gardens of Remembrance, p. 37. 26. Ibid., pp. 38–9. 27. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 105. 28. Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, p. 212. 29. H. O. Weber, Dienst am Menschen Dienst am Frieden. 75 Jahre Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge (Kassel, 1994), pp. 144–5. 30. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 105. 31. ID#301482, TR-123-01, WHORM (White House Office of Records Management): Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library. 32. The entire collection of Bitburg letters can be accessed under TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library, Simi Valley California. For Kohl and the VDK, see W. Kansteiner, In Pursuit of German Memory: History, Television, and Politics after Auschwitz (Ohio, 2006), p. 271. 33. ID#301485, TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File. See also OA# 205-206, White House Office of Speechwriting, Speech Drafts, Ronald Reagan Library. 34. ID#301487, TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library. 35. Elie Wiesel’s Congressional Gold Medal acceptance speech (19 April 1985) ID#301619, TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library. 36. ID#301580, TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library. 37. ID#275503, TR-123-01, WHORM: Subject File, Ronald Reagan Library. 38. OA#17890, ‘Remarks: Lunch at Bitburg Air Force Base’, White House Office of Speechwriting, Ronald Reagan Library. 39. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 2 and p. 4. 40. T. Segev, Soldiers of Evil: The Commandants of the Nazi Concentration Camps (New York, 1998), pp. 202–11. 41. M. Brieger, Auf dem Soldatenfriedhof in Costermano werden die Spuren von Widerstandskämpfern und Kriegsverbrechern verwischt (Germany, 1993), p. 3, http://www.resistenza. de/content/view/88/58/ (accessed 13 January 2009). 42. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, pp. 46–8. 43. Anon., ‘Relatives Help Inaugurate Cemetery in Poland for Thousands of German Soldiers Killed in WW II’, Associated Press, 5 October 2002.

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44. B. Pasek, ‘Poland Probes Burial of German Soldiers’, Associated Press International, 3 February 2004. 45. L. Cota, ‘Albania Halts Monument to German Soldiers’, UPI, 25 April 2002. 46. Anon., ‘Nazareth Memorial for German Soldiers Delayed after Rebuke for Including Nazis’, The Jerusalem Post, 28 October 2002; ‘Killers Honored at Their Victims’ Gravesides’, www.german-foreign-policy.com/en/fulltext/33036 (accessed 7 May 2003); A. Hall, ‘Russian Treasure Hunters Robbing German Graves to Sell Nazi Medals’, Scotland on Sunday, 28 September 2002; R. Boyes, ‘German War Dead No One Wants to Remember’, The Times, 7 June 2008. 47. I. Traynor, ‘A Corner of Russia that is Forever Germany’, The Guardian, 11 September 2000; M. Jones, Leningrad: State of Siege (New York, 2008), pp. 2–3. 48. Quoted in J. Winter, War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 1999), p. 5.

1.7 Neither Here nor There? Memorialization of the Expulsion of Ethnic Germans Dagmar Kift

In February 2008 German newspapers reported on an agreement reached between the German and the Polish governments on the controversial German plans to erect a ‘Visible Sign against Flight and Expulsion’ (‘Sichtbares Zeichen gegen Flucht und Vertreibung’).1 The new Polish government under Donald Tusk will not be participating in this venture but did not preclude the involvement of Polish historians. For its part, the German government promised to take the deportation of Polish people into consideration. This agreement ended a controversial debate on how (and where) to commemorate the flight and expulsion of the German population from those parts of Germany which were handed over to Poland and the (former) Soviet Union after 1945 (East Prussia, Silesia, parts of Pomerania, and East Brandenburg), and of ethnic Germans from their areas of settlement in the former Czechoslovakia, in Hungary, Romania, and the former Yugoslavia. The ‘Visible Sign’ will be based on the main narrative of the exhibition Flight, Expulsion, Integration (Flucht, Vertreibung, Integration), staged by the Federal Republic’s House of History (Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland) in Bonn. It was one of three major exhibitions which in 2005 and 2006 tackled the issues of flight and expulsion and the history of the refugees and expellees in post-war Germany. The other two were Rebuilding the West (Aufbau West. Neubeginn zwischen Vertreibung und Wirtschaftswunder) by the LWL Industrial Museum in Dortmund, curated by the author of this chapter, and Forced Transits (Erzwungene Wege) by the Centre Against Expulsions (Zentrum gegen Vertreibungen), which is closely linked to the League of Expellees (Bund der Vertriebenen). This chapter is mainly concerned with how these three exhibitions positioned themselves in the historiography and politics of flight and expulsion, narrated the expellees’ history, and reflected and influenced public discussion. The composite term ‘flight and expulsion’ stands for a chain of events that started with the evacuation of the Transylvanian Saxons from Hungary in 1944.2 People began to flee from East Prussia and Silesia when the Red Army crossed the German borders in January 1945. The next phase was marked by the so-called ‘wild’ (that is, unofficial and/or un-coordinated) expulsions whereby tens of thousands of people were marched or driven by train to the Allied occupation zones and left to their fate. Since it was nearly impossible to house and feed such masses 78

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of people – many of whom had arrived without any possessions – the Allies at the Potsdam Conference in August 1945 agreed to put the expulsion process on a more organized footing. Most ‘organized’ expulsions (with time plans and agreed contingencies) took place in 1946. In October 1946, roughly 6 million refugees and expellees were living in the western occupation zones, the later Federal Republic of Germany (FRG).3 Four years later, the figure had risen to 8 million. Four and a half million were counted in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), many of whom subsequently fled to the West.4 In 1966 Alfred M. Zayas estimated that there were 10.6 million refugees and expellees living in the FRG and 3.5 million in the GDR. Just over 2 million ethnic Germans are estimated to have lost their lives or gone missing during flight or expulsion.5 In the GDR, out of consideration for its ‘socialist brother states’, no official memorialization of these events took place.6 In West Germany, the first visual memorializations concerned the territories that had been lost:7 monuments and street signs kept the names of towns and regions in public memory, and kept the option to reclaim them open. Flight and expulsion became a politically constructed lieu de mémoire (Pierre Nora) which eventually played a prominent role in the Cold War. Yet the experiences and sufferings of the refugees and expellees remained conspicuously absent.8 They were given spaces (Heimatstuben) where they could exhibit their memorabilia – like the street names, mostly from ‘home’ – and give vent to their homesickness.9 It was left to novels and autobiographies to deal with flight, expulsion, and arrival in the West and to describe how people were trying to come to terms with what had happened.10 Academic research was undertaken in waves. In the 1950s the Federal Ministry for Expellees, Refugees, and the War-Afflicted (Bundesministerium für Vertriebene, Flüchtlinge und Kriegsgeschädigte) commissioned an extensive Documentation on the Expulsion of the Germans from Eastern Central Europe (Dokumentation der Vertreibung der Deutschen aus Ost-Mitteleuropa).11 At the end of the decade another major documentation dealt with the expellees’ integration into the West.12 During the Cold War, the themes of flight and expulsion were commandeered and instrumentalized by the Right, while historians collectively turned their back on the subject until the 1980s.13 The starting point for many of the new studies was the question of whether the expellees’ integration really was the success story of the young Federal Republic or rather a founding myth and, secondly, how they were integrated into the GDR.14 Approaches from cultural and migration history provided new perspectives on the history of the expellees’ integration, as well as on the history and pre-history of flight and expulsion or the post-history of the areas that the expellees had left.15 Younger novelists with a family history of expulsion now wrote about growing up between tradition and integration, and explored their roots in the West and East.16 A new political climate had facilitated this return to the subject. In the 1970s, the Ostpolitik pursued by Willy Brandt, the Social Democratic Party (SPD) Chancellor, had begun to ease the relationship between West and East. In 1985, in a speech commemorating the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, Federal President Richard von Weizsäcker of the Christian Democratic Party

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(CDU), openly admitted German responsibilities for the war and its repercussions. This began to marginalize the revanchism of the German Right which finally became obsolete when the CDU Kohl government accepted the Oder-Neisse Line as the German border in 1989. After 1998, the new SPD-Green coalition government reduced the funding to the numerous Heimatstuben in favour of establishing larger museums for each ethnic group. Now conservation of tradition and culture was to be supplemented by co-operative activities with museums in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Russia.17 In Eastern Europe cultural memory also changed.18 In 1997, a group of Polish and German historians published a four-volume edition of Polish sources on flight and expulsion in Polish and in German.19 The latest Czech-German project ‘Forgotten Heroes’ deals with those German Social Democrats, Communists, and Jews who, despite being opponents or victims of Nazism, were expelled from Czechoslovakia alongside the other Germans.20 In the 1990s, empathy with the victims of ‘ethnic cleansing’ in the former Yugoslavia revised the perception of German expellees as revanchist and resulted in an acknowledgement of their suffering. However, fears that the Germans were trying to rewrite history, to deny their responsibility for having victimized the whole of Europe, and to reinvent themselves as the real victims of the Second World War re-emerged with a new publication on the aerial bombings of Germany.21 These fears soon came to dominate public debates on the appropriate location and form for remembering flight and expulsions – especially as the sixtieth anniversary of the Second World War approached. The first initiative to come forward was the Centre Against Expulsions, founded in 2000 to document expulsions in Europe. The Centre is to be sited in Berlin.22 It is independent of, but closely related to, the League of Expellees, and its chairwoman Erika Steinbach also heads the League. The Centre has managed to draw a number of prominent supporters from academia, the media, sports, and the major parties, including the Holocaust survivor Giordano Bruno, who was born in East Prussia. But due to its proximity to the League, it has also aroused much opposition, uniting members of the Left in Germany and of the Right in Poland who suspect the Centre of combining the 1960s revanchism of the League with recent attempts to turn the Germans into the real victims of the Second World War and depict the Poles as perpetrators.23 Meanwhile the German SPD-Green government (1998–2005) began to pursue the idea of a European documentation network in co-operation with the Polish government. It was originally called the European Network of Forced Migration and Expulsion (Europäisches Netzwerk Zwangsmigration und Vertreibung), but was quickly renamed Network for Remembrance and Solidarity (Netzwerk Erinnerung und Solidarität) because the Polish government objected to the word ‘expulsion’ on the grounds that there had only been ‘resettlements’ or ‘repatriations’. The first exhibitions and publications were being planned when there was a conservative change of government in both Germany and Poland in 2005. The new German Chancellor, Angela Merkel (CDU), was in favour of the Centre but had to compromise with her coalition partner, the SPD, who had initiated the

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Network.24 They finally agreed on the ‘Visible Sign’, which will not be based on the work or concept of the Centre. By this time, however, the Centre had come forward with its own exhibition, Forced Transits, in 2006. This was the last of the three exhibitions cited at the beginning of the chapter; each will now be analysed in more detail. The first to open, in September 2005, was Rebuilding the West. The title alluded to the post-1989 programme of ‘rebuilding the East’ (in other words, the former GDR) after unification, and one of the purposes of the exhibition was to point out that the present support given to the East was preceded by the enormous transfer benefits taken from the East after 1945 that contributed considerably to industrial recovery and the ‘economic miracle’ in West Germany in the 1950s.25 A large map outside the exhibition building showed the regions where the immigrants from the East originated. The path to the exhibition building was lined with life-size pictures telling the story of flight and expulsion, forcing the visitors to symbolically ‘accompany’ the refugees and expellees to the West. Halfway down the path a railway goods wagon marked the transition from ‘flight’ to ‘expulsion’. Next to it were armbands which the Poles and Czechs forced the Germans to wear as a mark of their nationality. The accompanying text explained that these measures were consciously chosen to remind the Germans of the discrimination and exclusion they had imposed on the Jews and the peoples of occupied Eastern Europe. In this context the goods wagon was also a reminder to the exhibition visitors that German expellees were not the first to be forcefully and inhumanly deported from their homes. Models and photographs of the camps in which the expellees were put after their arrival in Germany re-emphasized these connections, for many camps had been previously used to house forced labourers from abroad during the war. The entrance to the exhibition building marked the ‘arrival’ in the bombed-out cities and rural districts of the West where ‘strangers’ were simply not welcome. From the difficult post-war years the exhibition moved on to deal with the actual ‘rebuilding of the West’, highlighting the expellees’ and refugees’ positive contribution to West Germany’s post-war economy. It concentrated on North Rhine-Westphalia because the industries here laid the foundation for the country’s economic recovery. In 1946 North Rhine-Westphalia had 0.7 million refugees and expellees, accounting for 6.1 per cent of the state’s population. In the sparsely industrialized states of Schleswig-Holstein, Lower Saxony, and Bavaria they made up 32.9 per cent, 24 per cent, and 18.9 per cent respectively in 1946.26 By 1953 North Rhine-Westphalia had over 1.8 million expellees. Most of them had been recruited to fill the gaps in the workforce caused by the war and, at the close of hostilities, by the release of the forced labourers who had been deported to Germany to replace workers drafted into the armed forces. Entrepreneurs were also amongst the expellees attracted to North Rhine-Westphalia, and this gave a boost to local economic structures. Before 1945 many branches of industry had developed in Silesia, Saxony, and Bohemia.27 The destruction of the old manufacturing structures, combined with an increase in demand after the war, enabled the entrepreneurs from the East to start afresh in the West without the risk of local competition. Each of the seven industrial histories featured in the exhibition

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(coalmining, steel, building, glass, textiles, clothing, and mechanical engineering) was supplemented by personal biographies of workers, shop stewards, managers, and entrepreneurs. Their personal exhibits included domestic memorabilia, tools, and construction plans smuggled into the West, as well as various items documenting the hard times after 1945 and their later achievements. The exhibition ended by summing up the impact left by the refugees and expellees in the West and the new relations they have created with their former homes. Flight and expulsion were not the main concern of Rebuilding the West, although these issues were included in the 40 individual biographies presented at the heart of the exhibition. The main emphasis of the exhibition lay on the 60 years that followed. Its message was that refugees and expellees have now built a new existence in the West, that the majority do not want to go back, can differentiate between the individual injustice they suffered and the historical context in which it took place, and have, in many cases, built up new and constructive relationships with the present inhabitants of their former homes. On the whole this was also the message of Flight, Expulsion, Integration which opened in December 2005 and embedded the expellees’ integration in West and East Germany into a twentieth-century history of forced migrations. The exhibition started with Turkey’s expulsion and subsequent genocide of the Armenians during the First World War and the ‘population exchange’ of Greeks and Turks following the 1923 Treaty of Lausanne. Other themes were the Nazi resettlements of Germans living in Eastern Europe and the Soviet deportation of Germans in the Soviet Union to Siberia and its Asian republics following the German invasion in 1941. As part of the pre-history of the expulsions after 1945 the exhibition also dealt with the conflicts between Germans and the majority populations in the new states of Poland and Czechoslovakia after the First World War; and with the Nazi regime in the occupied territories during the Second World War. The flight and expulsion of the Germans after the war was symbolized by a large model and the story of the passenger ship MS Wilhelm Gustloff, sunk in the Baltic by a Soviet submarine in January 1945. With a death toll of over 9000 refugees, most of whom were women and children, the MS Gustloff became a byword for flight at the end of the war and still figures prominently in popular memory. Since Flight, Expulsion, Integration put a strong emphasis on reception history, the exhibition devoted a complete section to the memoralization of this central narrative. The story of the Gustloff and its demise featured in various novels and films most of which roused only a limited public interest. Only Günter Grass’s novella Crabwalk (Im Krebsgang), published more than 40 years after the events, in 2002, was a best-seller. The expellees’ arrival in the West was symbolized by a section of a wooden dwelling from a Bavarian refugee camp of the time. The exhibition then followed the theme of integration policies and integration in East and West Germany and the changes instigated by the integration process: new urban landscapes, changes in the religious mix of local communities, and the role of expellees’ organizations as agents of (internal) integration and (external) conflict. It also included a reconstructed Heimatstube as an example of memorialization in the 1950s and

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1960s, before moving on to deal with present-day conflicts and cross-cultural co-operations. Finally, Flight, Expulsion, Integration touched on the prevailing controversies surrounding the Centre Against Expulsions and ended with a brief survey of flight and expulsion in the world today. In multimedia stations positioned at intervals along the route of the exhibition, eye-witnesses recounted their personal experiences from the time of flight and expulsion to the present day. Most space in Flight, Expulsion, Integration was devoted to the theme of integration. Flight and expulsion in an international and historical context did, however, form the framework in which this integration was embedded, and here the Bonn exhibition left no doubt that these events were preceded by a war started by the Nazi regime in Germany. Before the visitors were told the actual story of flight, expulsion, and integration the exhibition route forced them to go through a darkened tunnel where they were confronted with images of Nazi crimes committed during the German occupation of Eastern Europe. This tunnel clearly distinguished the German case from earlier expulsions presented in the previous section and made clear that the expulsions of ethnic Germans could only be ‘accessed’ via National Socialism. The main theme of the third exhibition, Forced Transits, was flight and expulsion in twentieth-century Europe.28 The exhibition also started with the expulsion and genocide of the Armenians in 1915/16 and the Turkish-Greek population ‘exchange’ after 1923. The next sections were devoted to ‘Jews in Germany after 1933’, ‘Poles, Ukrainians, and the Baltic States’, and ‘Germans at the End of the Second World War’. The exhibition then moved back in time to the Karelians of Finland in 1939/40 and to the expulsion of Italians from Yugoslavia at the end of the Second World War. The final case studies dealt with Cyprus in the 1960s and Yugoslavia in the 1990s. The themes ran along the walls of the main exhibition room and featured texts, photographs, and a small number of exhibits. In the middle of the room, media stations added testimonies from eye-witnesses. The exhibition stated that the main causes of expulsions – and, more recently, of ‘ethnic cleansing’ – were nineteenth-century ideas of ethnically homogeneous nation states, coupled with twentieth-century racism and anti-Semitism. Although it also pointed to German responsibility, this aspect somewhat disappeared in the mass of details. The central message was that expulsions in the twentieth century were basically a European phenomenon: they happened everywhere, everyone was involved to some extent, and victims were left the length and breadth of the continent. Following the main section on international expulsions, five further sections dealt with the particular stages of the flight and expulsion of the Germans and the common experiences and themes relevant to all refugees and expellees: the lost and remembered ‘homeland’ (Heimat), camps (labour camps, refugee camps, and concentration camps), and the denial of basic human rights. One of the exhibits here was the ship’s bell of the MS Wilhelm Gustloff, one of the rare original objects to survive and therefore of highly symbolic importance. It was part of a number of loans from various Polish museums and other public and private institutions. When Forced Transits opened, it was met with protests from the Polish government and as a result of state pressure some of the institutions demanded that their

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exhibits be returned. Others refused to comply with the wishes of the Polish government, amongst them a private organization from Witnica (formerly Vietz).29 The bell itself was returned to Poland two weeks before the close of the exhibition, which ended, like the other two, on a conciliatory note, pleading for dialogue and co-operation. Unlike the other two exhibitions, Forced Transits was at the centre of public debates long before it opened. Yet fears that the Centre Against Expulsions would concentrate solely on the experience of the German expellees, turn the Germans into the ‘real’ victims of the war, and neglect pre-history and international context turned out to be unfounded. To everybody’s surprise Forced Transits was the most internationally orientated exhibition of the three. For this reason it was heavily attacked by certain sections of the League, who demanded that Erika Steinbach step down as President. The Left complained that it lacked a clear approach to the subject and that the huge amount of detail made all expulsions look the same. In his review of Forced Transits for Die Zeit, Jens Jessen put his finger on the general problem with the representation of flight and expulsion. These events were tragic, he wrote with reference to all twentieth-century expulsions, because their individual victims were frequently innocent of the collective crimes for which they were being punished. Nonetheless, expulsions have a pre-history and when Germans look for the reasons why they were expelled, they invariably end up looking in the mirror.30 On the issue of this particular pre-history Forced Transits remained rather vague, and on other issues it was somewhat ambivalent. It included the exclusion of the German Jews (first from public life and then from Germany as a whole – an expulsion which preceded their annihilation), but omitted the Holocaust on the grounds that genocide was not the theme of the exhibition. The case of the Armenians, however, featured both expulsions and genocide. Furthermore, in the German case it overlooked the fundamental distinction between the expulsion of the Jews during the war and the expulsion of the ethnic Germans after it – that the ultimate aim of the expulsion of the ethnic Germans was their geographical eviction and not their systematic extermination. The Bonn exhibition contextualized flight and expulsion and was praised for its political correctness, its comprehensiveness, and for putting the emphasis on remembering.31 That Flight, Expulsion, Integration will form the basis of the ‘Visible Sign’ is therefore a diplomatic solution in more ways than one: the German government has decided not to co-operate officially with the controversial Centre Against Expulsions but rather with the House of History, which already has the museological monopoly on interpreting the history of the Federal Republic. In doing so it has also decided on the nature of the official master narrative, which will be told in such a way as to combine objectivity with empathy. Rebuilding the West, presented by a regional museum of industrial history, was a contribution to economic and regional, rather than political and national history. One of its effects was to encourage the regional broadcasting company to make a three-part documentary film on Refugees and Expellees in the Rhine, Ruhr, and Weser districts (Flüchtlinge und Vertriebene an Rhein, Ruhr und Weser). Both the

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exhibition and the film reinforced the integration of the refugees and expellees into the regional master narrative. All three exhibitions put the expellees and their experiences at the centre of their narrative and acknowledged their suffering whilst rejecting the national mood of self-pity prevalent in 1950s Germany where ‘we were all victims’ and no one could really be held responsible for anything. This stance was mainly directed against the ‘outside world’, but domestically it instrumentalized the refugees and expellees by refusing to acknowledge that they had paid an excessive price for a war which the whole country had lost and for which it was ultimately responsible. By contrast, the most recent debates in Germany do not question historic responsibilities. They address the Germans themselves and their lack of emotional understanding for the sufferings of many of their fellow countrymen.32 Consequently, both Flight, Expulsion, Integration and Rebuilding the West underlined the refugees’ and expellees’ contribution to post-war German history. The biographical approach of all three exhibitions linked cultural memory, based on normative ‘texts’, with the communicative memory of the living generations 33 and proposed a redefinition of the politically constructed lieu de mémoire ‘flight and expulsion’ of the 1950s. This was a place without people and a traumatic location, rather than a place of symbolic representation uniting those involved and those not.34 The new lieu can now be a place with people. One of its inhabitants might be Gerhard Lorenz, an eye-witness in Rebuilding the West.35 Born in Voigtsdorf in Lower Silesia, Lorenz was expelled, along with his family, in 1946, when he was 12 years old. After finishing school he went into the building trade and worked as a mason until 1988. Initially his family was not made particularly welcome in the Westphalian village they had ended up in, but Lorenz got involved in the local community and finally felt integrated after he had built his own house and his children had started school. At home, the family upheld Silesian customs. In 1973, as a result of Chancellor Brandt’s new Ostpolitik, Lorenz and his wife Christa, also from Voigtsdorf, returned to Wojcieszyze, as their old home town is now known, for the first time. Since then, like many other expellees, they have returned at regular intervals and met Polish inhabitants with a similar history, since Silesia (like East Prussia) served as a resettlement area for expellees from (the former) East Poland, a region which was retained by the Soviet Union after the war. Both groups were brought together by discussing their common experiences (and sufferings) and this resulted in a growing mutual understanding and joint projects. In 2003 Gerhard and Christa Lorenz were made honorary citizens of the town from which they were expelled in 1946. Today Gerhard Lorenz is regularly invited to schools in Wojcieszyze to talk about his expulsion. Gerhard and Christa Lorenz represent a category of expellees which has so far been overshadowed by more publicly prominent lobbyists with revanchist tendencies. They come from a generation who were children in 1945 and who, when they reached adulthood, decided to build bridges. Whereas their parents felt they were marooned in a no-man’s-land between ‘here’ and ‘there’, this generation finally feels at home in both places.

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Notes 1. Tageszeitung (taz), 7 February 2008, 11–12. See also http://www.3sat.de/kulturzeit/ themen/119449/index.html (accessed 5 January 2009). 2. For a brief overview see the chapter ‘Flucht und Vertreibung’ on our website, http:// www.vertreibung-und-wirtschaftswunder.de, and the chapters on South-East Europe, Czechoslovakia, and Poland in Stiftung Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (ed.), Flucht, Vertreibung, Integration. Begleitbuch zur Ausstellung im Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland (Bielefeld, 2006). 3. G. Stahlberg, Die Vertriebenen in Nordrhein-Westfalen (Berlin, 1957), p. 9. 4. See G. Klemt, ‘Organisatorische Aspekte der Aufnahme und Unterbringung der Vertriebenen’, in M. Frantzioch, O. Ratza, and G. Reichert (eds), 40 Jahre Arbeit für Deutschland – die Vertriebenen und Flüchtlinge (Frankfurt am Main and Berlin, 1989), pp. 66–85, here p. 75. 5. A. von Plato, ‘Integration und “Modernisierung”’, in D. Kift (ed.), Aufbau West. Neubeginn zwischen Vertreibung und Wirtschaftswunder (Essen, 2005), pp. 26–33, here p. 27. 6. See for example A. von Plato, ‘Umgesiedelte und Vertriebene in Ost und West’, in J. P. Barbian and L. Heid (eds), Zwischen gestern und morgen. Kriegsende und Wiederaufbau (Essen, 1995), pp. 106–23, here pp. 114–18. 7. That even seems to hold true for the early High Cross monuments commemorating the ‘Dead of our/the Eastern homelands’, as Hesse and Purpus point out in this volume: commemorating expellees and/or the expulsions was, they argue, ‘a slow and gradual process’. 8. E. Hahn and H. Hahn, ‘Flucht und Vertreibung’, in E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, 3 vols (Munich, 2001), vol. 1, pp. 335–51, here pp. 344–5. 9. S. Pahs, ‘Spuren’, in Kift (ed.), Aufbau West, pp. 252–69. 10. L. F. Helbig, Der ungeheure Verlust. Flucht und Vertreibung in der deutschsprachigen Belletristik der Nachkriegszeit (Wiesbaden, 1988). 11. Five volumes were published between 1954 and 1961. The sixth volume, intended to reflect on the events and what preceded them, did not materialize at the time. It will soon be published by Matthias Beer and will include a critical introduction of the documentation’s historiography. 12. E. Lemberg and F. Edding (eds), Die Vertriebenen in Westdeutschland. Ihre Eingliederung und ihr Einfluß auf Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft, Politik und Geistesleben, 3 vols (Kiel, 1959). 13. See, for example, D. von der Brelie-Lewien, ‘Zur Rolle der Flüchtlinge und Vertriebenen in der westdeutschen Nachkriegsgeschichte. Ein Forschungsbericht’, in R. Schulze, D. von der Brelie-Lewien, and H. Grebing (eds), Flüchtlinge und Vertriebene in der westdeutschen Nachkriegsgeschichte. Bilanzierung der Forschung und Perspektiven für die künftige Forschungsarbeit (Hildesheim, 1987), pp. 24–45, here p. 35. Only social anthropology (Volkskunde) continued to explore the new immigrants’ impact on West German society, for example in the journal Jahrbuch für Volkskunde der Heimatvertriebenen, founded in 1955. 14. A continuous series of conferences has kept the discussion going. For the latest overview see M. Krauss (ed.), Integrationen. Vertriebene in den deutschen Ländern nach 1945 (Göttingen, 2008). 15. See, for example, P. Ther, Deutsche und polnische Vertriebene. Gesellschaft und Vertriebenenpolitik in der SBZ/DDR und in Polen 1945–1956 (Göttingen, 1998). 16. Amongst them Reinhard Jirgl, Christoph Hein, Stephan Wackwitz, Olaf Müller, Petra Reski, or Tanja Dückers. 17. The museums (and other institutions) are listed on the website of the German Cultural Forum for Eastern Europe (Deutsches Kulturforum östliches Europa), http://www.kulturforum.info/ (accessed 5 January 2009).

Dagmar Kift 87 18. For a brief overview see the chapter ‘Aktuelle Debatten/Schlaglichter aus Osteuropa’ at http://www.vertreibung-und-wirtschaftswunder.de. 19. W. Borodziej and H. Lemberg (eds), Unsere Heimat ist uns ein fremdes Land geworden . . . Die Deutschen östlich von Oder und Neiße 1945–1950. Dokumente aus polnischen Archiven, 4 vols (Marburg, 2000–04). 20. For more information see their website http://www.collegiumbohemicum.cz (accessed 5 January 2009). 21. J. Friedrich, Der Brand. Deutschland im Bombenkrieg 1940–1945 (Munich, 2002). 22. The Centre’s website is http://www.z-g-v.de (accessed 5 January 2009). 23. For details see the chapter ‘Aktuelle Debatten/ Zentrum gegen Vertreibungen’ on http://www.vertreibung-und-wirtschaftswunder.de (accessed 5 January 2009). 24. The network is to be revived as part of the Polish-German agreement of February 2008. 25. ‘The East’ referred to here as the source of transfer benefits after 1945 included both the former GDR and those territories east of it which had belonged to Germany or were inhabited by Germans before 1945. 26. Stahlberg, Die Vertriebenen, p. 9. 27. For the textile industries, for example, see A. Lassotta, ‘Textilindustrie’, in Kift (ed.), Aufbau West, pp. 186–211. 28. Stiftung Zentrum gegen Vertreibungen (ed.), Erzwungene Wege. Flucht und Vertreibung im Europa des 20. Jahrhunderts, exh. cat. (Potsdam, 2006). 29. See for example http://www.taz.de/index.php?id=archivseite&dig=2006/08/15/a0063 and http://www.spiegel.de/politik/deutschland/0,1518,432209,00.html (accessed 5 January 2009) or Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 18 August 2006, pp. 1–2. 30. Die Zeit, 17 August 2006, p. 34. The debate on Forced Transits is documented in www.zeit geschichte-online.de/portals/_rainbow/documents/pdf/presse_erzwungene_wege.pdf (accessed 5 January 2009). 31. Tageszeitung (taz), 3/4 November 2007, p. 11. For a documentation of the whole debate see http://www.zeitgeschichte-online.de/site/40208192/default.aspx (accessed 5 January 2009). 32. For the various aspects of the victim debates see B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany (Basingstoke, 2006). For the latest approach see A. Kossert, Kalte Heimat. Die Geschichte der deutschen Vertriebenen nach 1945 (Munich, 2008). 33. On cultural and communicative memory see A. Assmann, Erinnerungsräume. Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses, 3rd edn (Munich, 2006), p. 13. 34. Hahn and Hahn, ‘Flucht und Vertreibung’, p. 336. 35. On Lorenz see A. Immenkamp, ‘Bauindustrie’, in Kift (ed.), Aufbau West, pp. 126–55, here pp. 153–5.

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Section 2 Remembering Nazi Crimes, Perpetrators, and Victims

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2.1 The Mediators: Memorialization Endeavours of the Regional Offices for Political Education (Landeszentralen für politische Bildung)∗ Dieter K. Buse

Drastic regime change results in de- and re-memorialization. After 1933, 1945, and 1989 in Germany many memorial sites were destroyed and commemorative events terminated. For example, when President Friedrich Ebert died in 1925, portraits, testimonial books, statues, and foundations to honour and mythologize him appeared.1 After 1933, when he became a non-person, all the street signs bearing his name and the public memorabilia disappeared. Yet, after 1945, in Western Germany, schools and streets again bore his name and public foundations worked to revive his memory, characterizing him as a democratic, astute leader.2 Attempts at re-memorializing Ebert proved controversial, especially in Eastern Germany after 1989.3 Such cases illustrate that memorialization, de-memorialization, and re-memorialsation are interrelated and reflect existing political and social systems. The memorialization endeavours of the institutions explored here – Germany’s Regional Offices for Political (or ‘Civic’) Education (Landeszentralen für politische Bildung, hereafter Landeszentralen) – have reflected and influenced German commemorative trends. What individuals and societies commemorate varies greatly. At the state, publicly-funded level, heroes and national ‘greatness’ usually prevail, even in minor places like postage stamps. The alleged achievements of countries, often identified with a ‘heroic’ person, are marked by anniversary celebrations, statues, and plaques, while defeats and misdeeds are silently overlooked.4 For instance, wandering around London one would never know that Britain was once the leading slave-trading country and brutally repressed numerous colonial uprisings; instead monuments commemorate a ‘glorious’ past. Yet, in recent decades a few countries have begun to memorialize their own misdeeds and some historians argue that Germany has come to terms with its racist past better than Japan (war atrocities), Italy (fascism), France (Algeria), or the United States (slavery and Vietnam).5 In my view, the Regional Offices for Political Education, which have hardly been researched, have provided significant support for efforts to acknowledge and commemorate the Nazi era. The offices were created during the 1950s to help Germans understand constitutional democracy, political parties, and civic 91

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participation as basic norms. A national office created in 1952 organized seminars and adult education, and distributed free pamphlets and books. By the late 1950s similar offices existed in each regional state (Land). After unification in 1990 new Landeszentralen were established in the five eastern states, each under the tutelage of a western office. That arrangement resulted in some tensions, because easterners had their own ideas about democratic norms and what should be emphasized in civic education. Despite some divergence in their methods after 1990, the original Landeszentralen had for decades shared a common mission to explain democratic institutions and their functioning, sometimes with simplistic propaganda. Men and women who had advocated parliamentary democracy in pre-Nazi Germany or who had opposed the Third Reich were presented to the public, especially to school teachers, journalists, and students as historical role models. By the early 1960s some offices also offered critical accounts of the Nazi era. But mostly they tried to explain federalism and to foster regional loyalty through historical accounts, arguing that even the new post-war states had long histories and embodied the identities of their locales. Landeskunde studies combining history, geography, customs, and even cuisine advanced regional identities, and justified loyalty to the new political entities. The offices, with fairly large publication and distribution budgets plus academic and administrative staff ranging from half a dozen to several dozen personnel, served to defend the rights of the decentralised regional states, to advocate democratic values, and to re-educate a post-dictatorial society. Their methods included seminars, visits to Berlin (after 1961) to illustrate a non-free and walled-in society, and distribution of free literature on the functioning of democratic states.6 During the offices’ first decades, memorialization focused mostly on highlighting the positive elements in the regional past, though occasionally they helped to publicize memory sites related to the Third Reich, such as the execution site of those seeking to assassinate Hitler, or the Dachau concentration camp. By the mid-1980s, the Landeszentralen systematically began to disseminate studies about the Holocaust and Germans’ roles in Nazi crimes. Some offices, such as the Bavarian, were laggards: this Landeszentrale only admitted to anti-Semitism in its Landeskunde studies, publishing nothing on the destruction of Bavarian Jews until the late-1980s.7 By then many efforts to identify places of memorialization were underway throughout the country, and most Landeszentralen were researching and publicizing local sites. They helped with the establishment and preservation of some sites, organized exhibitions, and fostered public visits through publicity and guidebooks. Between 1990 and 1997 the Landeszentralen were assigned responsibility for ‘fostering’ and ‘co-ordinating’ memorial work by their state parliaments. As understood by one director that means supporting, including financing, ‘historical education by means of seminars, conferences, and the publications of the foundation for memorial sites (Gedenkstätten)’.8 In nearly every state a foundation was created to administer the sites themselves, most of which had emerged out of local citizens’ initiatives. How closely the foundations worked with the Landeszentralen can be seen in the fact that the director of the Bavarian memorial

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foundation, which administers such sites as Dachau, Flossenbürg, and the former Nazi Rally Ground at Nuremberg, has headquarters in the Landeszentrale offices. The Landeszentralen provide financing for pedagogical endeavours, including school trips to the memorial sites and release time for teachers.9 A larger research project might analyse the publication dates, print run, and distribution pattern of books and pamphlets employed by the offices. If internal documentation were available, the policy setting and the debates about which memorial sites to emphasize could be clarified. Precise information on financial and resource allocations, which undoubtedly changed according to the ideological make-up of the political overseers of the offices, could help understand the priority given to memorialization within political education. Since no one has synthesized these offices’ memorialization endeavours, in what follows I offer an outline of institutional activities as opposed to emphasizing journalistic controversies, which rarely reflect long-term tendencies. A Landeszentrale statement recently summarized the earlier indifference and continued controversy about memorializing concentration camps: Even into the 1970s the history of National Socialism as everyday and regional history was a repressed and forgotten theme in public awareness. Anybody who tried to deal thoroughly with the past of their immediate community or region during the Nazi era frequently encountered a wall of silence, often aggressive rejection. Even today in some places resistance and mental barriers must be overcome.10 According to the same source, by providing local and historical context the Landeszentralen promoted remembrance and employed memory sites for education beyond ‘annual remembrance days and ritual celebrations at central memorials’. Now sites dedicated to the memory of Nazi-era camps – concentration, labour, or punishment – dot the area surrounding every city. In Eastern Germany, the post-war Soviet and GDR locations where opponents were incarcerated have been added. German cities have a multiplicity of plaques, inscribed cobble-stones, and museums, making it nearly impossible to avoid encountering the past. Yet, the effort of co-ordinating, publicizing, and utilizing this landscape has received insufficient notice. The debates about the famous sites, such as the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe or the Neue Wache in Berlin have been misleading, as they are highly unrepresentative of day-to-day work. Just as German history has become a narrative of many places and much diversity, so too the system of commemoration needs to be seen in terms of the breadth of endeavours undertaken on a daily basis by regionally dispersed institutions, such as the Landeszentralen. If a ‘nationalized negative awareness’ exists in Germany, it follows that it can only be national if embedded throughout the country.11 This chapter seeks to illustrate the ways in which the offices undertook the memorialization of the Third Reich by analysing the literature distributed, guides created for memorial sites, seminars organized in conjunction with site operators, and publicity efforts to make memorial sites part of regional historical

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understanding. Since a Holocaust historian maintains that ‘history without memory [. . .] is empty; memory without history is blind,’12 the Landeszentralen efforts to keep history in the public memory will be underscored.

Early initiative and present practice: Hesse and Lower Saxony In 1961 Hannah Vogt published Schuld oder Verhängnis. Zwölf Fragen an Deutschlands jüngste Vergangenheit. Vogt, a civil servant who worked with the Hesse Office for Political Education, sought to fill a gap in contemporary historical knowledge. She detailed the external aggression and internal destructiveness of the Nazi regime.13 According to the English edition, the book ‘was an immediate success, 400,000 copies being sold in the first two years. The Minister of Education in Hessen made it prescribed reading in all final classes in the Volksschulen; [. . .] it enjoyed a respectable sale in the commercial market.’14 Vogt herself pointedly concluded: ‘To the injustice committed in our name we must not add the injustice of forgetting [. . .]. By preserving the memory of the victims, we can perform a sacred duty imposed upon us by the guilt we bear toward our Jewish fellow-citizens.’15 An example of how Vogt’s vision continues to be realised can be seen in the efforts of the Lower Saxon Landeszentrale and its successor foundation to memorialize concentration camp sites. At least 15 concentration and labour camps are part of that state’s system of commemoration.16 Among the attempts to engage the public are imaginative approaches such as ‘historical teaching paths’ (Geschichtslehrpfade).17 One of these ‘paths’, created in 2002 just northwest of Bremen, leads to a mass grave site with a commemorative plaque and then to a barracks which served as an administrative headquarters for slave labour deployment and now houses a museum. Finally, the path leads to the world’s largest uncompleted submarine bunker. The bunker ‘Valentin’, 650 feet long, 330 feet wide, and 150 feet high, was constructed of reinforced 15-foot thick concrete walls by Jews and slave labourers from Poland, Russia, and France between 1943 and 1945.18 Over 10,000 persons laboured there, 4000 of whom were worked to death. Using such sites for tours, presentations, exhibitions, and gathering points for seminars and reminiscence by survivors, are among the many ways in which the Landeszentralen have educated the public. When the German military, official owner of the bunker, wanted to sell it the government of Bremen and its Landeszentrale intervened. Instead of closing, the bunker will become an international memory site run by the Lower Saxon Foundation for Memorial Sites in conjunction with the Bremen Landeszentrale.

Partnerships, co-operation, and conferences: Bremen, Lower Saxony, and Saxony-Anhalt The Bremen Landeszentrale and the Lower Saxon Foundation for Memorial Sites organize conferences in co-operation with a partner organization, the foundation Remembering for the Future (Erinnern für die Zukunft e.V.), which is dedicated to maintaining the memory of Bremen’s Jewish community. For instance, in February

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2007 a gathering grappled with the question of how to employ the remnants of sites that bear the traces of war and terror, including some undestroyed sites of cult worship and monuments honouring Nazi heroes. The conference was the third since 2001 and included discussions about the use, as a memorial and pedagogical site (Denkort), of the bunker ‘Valentin’ mentioned above. In this instance the intention was to make a wider public aware of the Nazi era’s memorializing of a Germanic ‘Aryan’ past by völkisch architects. One participant underscored that it was necessary to break the silence about places as well as the silence of victims and perpetrators. The Landeszentrale representative argued that commemoration has been ongoing and insisted that the purpose of current efforts should be to enlighten rather than to propagandize.19 Among the other efforts at (re-) memorialization by the Bremen office has been the identification and publicizing of destroyed Jewish cemeteries. If books are miniature, mobile memorials, these offices have placed a multitude of reflective sites into the hands of students, teachers, and those in adult education classes. They have disseminated studies about Bremen’s Jewish communities. Some have detailed individual fates, such as that of a dispossessed Jewish department store owner; others have presented the problem of dealing with supposed outsiders such as the Jews and foreigners or the slave labourers at the local water works.20 Books cannot substitute for site visits but they can serve to entice visitors, present historical context, and, after visits, jolt memories about what has been seen. The numerous publications illustrate the relationship of a site to its locale, thus serving to fulfil the mandates assigned by the state parliaments for the Landeszentralen to catalogue, contextualize, and coordinate each state’s sites of memory. Many more examples could be offered regarding partnerships and conferences to spread knowledge about regional memorial sites and historical issues. One illustrates a typical pattern: during June 2008 the Landeszentrale for SaxonyAnhalt combined with that state’s Foundation for Memorial Sites and the Social Democratic (SPD) parliamentary caucus to commemorate the seventy-fifth year of the erection of the concentration camp Lichtenburg and the dissolution of the SPD, in 1933. The history of the camp, which at first mostly held Social Democrats and Communists, was presented at a conference where former inmates explained daily camp life. The remains of the camp, which serves as a warning site (Mahnmal), were visited. However, for pedagogical purposes, the conference included the theme of the present threat of right-wing radicalism. Such conferences and co-operation garner publicity for existing memorial sites while fostering political education under the motto ‘democracy means participation.’21 Such sites are not without controversy: Lichtenburg had opened in 1965 primarily as a site to remind GDR citizens of fascist dictatorial methods and some anti-fascists asserted after unification that their efforts should receive more recognition. The memorial site itself was closed in 2004 for lack of finances despite state assurances in 2001 that it would remain open. A local initiative forced reconsideration and the site has become part of the Lower Saxon Foundation for Memorial Sites. It offers educational youth camps in which participants research the trajectory of concentration camp inmates with partial support by the Landeszentrale.22

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Baden-Württemberg and normality: Accepting the problematic past as a regional characteristic Perhaps one state’s effort best exemplifies the current state of memorialization work. As of 2007 Baden-Württemberg had 53 official memorial sites, which its Landeszentrale promotes via the state’s official publication (the Staatsanzeiger) and its website, which registered over a million ‘hits’ in 2006.23 The website also offers an important book summarizing the history of individual sites: Sites of Memory and Remembrance in Baden-Württemberg (Orte des Gedenkens und Erinnerns in BadenWürttemberg). Published in 2007, the volume of 71 essays is distributed free to citizens, especially students, journalists, and educators. It summarizes concisely how local organizations, including volunteers and academics, administer the sites; but providing publicity for the sites and assuring an audience to view and learn from them mostly devolves upon the Landeszentrale. Like the Berlin and Hesse offices, which published smaller, similar guides, the Baden-Württemberg office has, since the mid-1990s, explicitly sought to assure that ‘the remembrance of the victims of National Socialism must not lose itself in generalities. It must document the diverse fates of individuals; name the specific paths and places of suffering. It must uncover the pseudo-legal and criminal mechanisms of dictatorship and barbarism.’24 The guide demands that the origins of catastrophe in pre-1933 society be exposed. This major work, however, simultaneously provides historical balance by pointing to sites of positive commemoration in the region. For instance, it includes the site honouring Matthias Erzberger, a politician assassinated in 1922 for unpopular activities such as accepting the Versailles Treaty and taxing war profiteers. Similarly, the house, now museum, of the liberal federal president Theodor Heuss is presented as commemorating a contributor to establishing post-war democracy. The volume lists various local and foreign opponents of Nazism who have been honoured by memorials. Most sites, however, are places where Jews previously worshipped or from which they were deported, and concentration camps. A crucial development in memorialization endeavours can be seen in another Landeszentrale publication. In the sixth edition of Baden-Württemberg: A Short Political Study of the Region (Baden-Württemberg: Eine kleine politische Landeskunde), published in 1993, a chapter is devoted to memory sites, primarily the many destroyed synagogues and labour camps. That such a theme would be considered a normal part of the defining features of a region is surely a significant development. In earlier editions emphasis was placed on the liberal tradition and the local loyalties of South-Western Germans in a state created as recently as 1952. However, beginning with the 1993 edition, a short chapter entitled ‘Sites of Memory and Remembrance’ (‘Orte des Gedenkens und Erinnerns’) reviews memorials. A map shows the location of the 50 sites and the text illustrates deportation and labour conditions. Brandenburg intends to follow suit with the next edition of its Landeskunde. In sum, the problematic past has been integrated into the regional make-up. Where else in the world does a state provide such in-depth coverage of problematic memory sites? The Landeszentrale’s web site complements the Landeskunde studies by providing easy access to information on over 50 memory sites throughout the state.

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Thus presented, the fragments of the past sometimes appear as lifeless, a-historical places because vanished communities are represented through buildings, especially synagogues. Yet, they make Germans aware of what was in their midst, what has been removed, and what terror was exercised in the removal. That this happens with public monies without much opposition or controversy is noteworthy. Whether a backlash will occur remains uncertain. Or is the recent demand to recognize Germans as victims of carpet bombing and expulsion already a form of backlash? So far the Landeszentralen have avoided that fray. To illustrate the anchoring of memorialization in Baden-Württemberg’s civic education, two annual Landeszentralen reports will now be summarized. In 1996, under special area III, Memory-Site Work (Gedenkstättenarbeit), the office reported that the state parliament had decided to co-ordinate memory-site work through the Landeszentralen. Already in 1995 a special department (Referat) had been created and 20 projects identified. Those included documentation of Polish slave labour in Ulm and of Jewish housing in Kochendorf, signage and creation of a memory path in Eckerwald, books on the Jewish cemeteries in Freudental and Wenkheim, an exhibition on Jewish life at Sulzburg, a visitors’ guide to the labour camp Wiesengrund, researching the names of ‘euthanasia’ victims at Grafeneck, and brochures on the concentration camp at Überlingen and on traces of Jewish life in Hechingen. Short guides, for students and teachers, to 25 concentration and labour camp sites in the state were among the important tasks to be completed by early 1997. By comparison, the 2004 annual report entitled ‘History and Responsibility’ cast its net wider. Among the memory sites and projects identified, it included more ‘positive’ sites and events such as honouring the 20 July 1944 plot to assassinate Hitler. Despite the mini-controversy that ensued at an academic forum organized by the Landeszentrale about how to honour the resistance efforts of the Stauffenberg brothers, eventually a plaque was dedicated to their formative years in Stuttgart. This report cited progress on the plans for websites suggesting how the history of memory sites might be taught in schools. It also outlined plans for extensive guides to the main sites in the region, and detailed how other memory sites were supported. One method was travelling exhibitions with partner groups, such as exhibitions on Georg Elser, who tried to assassinate Hitler in November 1939, and on the Red Orchestra (Rote Kapelle) group of mostly Communist resisters. Another method included the distribution of anthologies of documents; in addition, four new memory sites were opened. Thus, not only does the Landeszentrale keep history in the memory places, it also publicizes and conducts related educational programmes.

Detailed research: De- and re-memorialization in Berlin and Brandenburg The previous examples came mostly from Landeszentralen in Western and Southern Germany. In the East a slightly different pattern emerges. Whereas during 1945 in all of Germany swastikas were chiselled away and streets renamed, in 1990 in the eastern states a renewed process of de-memorialization saw the removal of

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Lenin statues and another renaming of streets. While wiping away the surface of Nazism or the GDR dictatorship and their monuments continued in urban centres, many vestiges remained in smaller ones. The Landeszentralen have publicized the debates about whom and what should be commemorated and have sought to set re-memorialization in historical context. In support of this aim they have published and distributed guides and researched studies on a multitude of eastern sites. The Landeszentralen of Brandenburg and Berlin have played mediating roles, handing out materials and drawing educators’ attention to what should be taught about memorial sites, or how they might be used. Among the multitude of exhibitions, student tours, seminars, and guide books present at the sites themselves, two special volumes published by these Landeszentralen must be noted. These detailed, scholarly works indicate that in their commemorative work the Landeszentralen do not shy away from providing full historical information as well as confronting controversy. Consider the following advertizement for one volume, available on the Brandenburg office web site: Dealing with Monuments. Some Research in Brandenburg [. . .] Political monuments reflect collective memory. Both the language employed on them and our view of the object being remembered are subject to change over time. Especially in the wake of political turning points, this manifests itself in the removal of memorials or, in many more cases, in the re-siting or re-dedication of a memorial, often accompanied by more or less public disputes. These issues are considered in this very thoroughly researched book, which is replete with conflicting places of memory from different times. Included are the memory markers for Prussian-Brandenburg history, the victims of Nazism, graves of slave labourers, Jewish history, re-dedicated and removed monuments as well as new monuments, personalities forgotten or forbidden in the GDR, the uprising of 1953, Reunification, and traces of memory of those persecuted by Soviet secret police and GDR state security.25 The study, by Regina Scheer, contains an extensive listing of minor and major memory sites. She seeks to discover when, by whom, and with what purpose hundreds of sites were created, recreated, and destroyed. Her research should lay to rest claims that Jewish victims were not acknowledged in the GDR, that slave labourers were not commemorated, or that exclusively Communist heroes and resisters were honoured. Hundreds of places were registered during GDR times and many identity markers were and continue to be in danger of disappearing. Before this empirical basis existed, the extent of developments in local memorialization could hardly be appreciated. Thus, for Eastern Germany, one of the important tasks of the Landeszentralen has been to restore to public awareness sites that had already received some local attention during the GDR era.26 Examples from the Scheer book illustrate the breadth of local endeavours as well as processes of de- and re-memorialization. For instance, at Fürstenwalde a 1904 stone block honouring Bismarck with a bronze plaque had been replaced in the GDR era with one honouring Karl Marx. In 1995, that bronze plate disappeared

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but the unnamed stone remained. In 2003 the reference to Karl Marx was restored, though not without controversy.27 The same town saw the erection of another stone block in 1945 honouring Max Behnke, an anti-fascist killed in 1933 who had earlier killed an SA member. After 1990, demands for de-memorialization emerged but nothing happened and it has simply become overgrown. Another minimemorial erected in 1945 to an anti-fascist has been placed in a local museum due to road construction. Historians of the politics of memory will find in Scheer a useful gazetteer who has recovered fading memory work. The Landeszentralen have buttressed memorialization by underwriting such research. Any simplistic approach to Berlin and Brandenburg commemorative work is further undercut by a second massive study distributed by the Berlin and Brandenburg offices, Wege zur Erinnerung, published in 2007.28 Exceptionally well illustrated and thoroughly researched, this work is more than the guide to sites provided by its predecessor, a slim volume published in 1995 and reprinted three times by 1999.29 This large-format 600-page effort is monumental. Organized by the administrative districts of Berlin, all major and minor sites are depicted and described. Though the main focus is Berlin, a hundred pages are devoted to concentration and labour camp sites in Brandenburg. A lengthy selection of literature on the pedagogy of remembrance precedes indexes to sites, persons, and streets with historical significance. The introduction offers a summary of the meaning for personal memory and understanding when confronted by the physical places where momentous events occurred: ‘The essence of a concrete place is its double significance: as crystallization of a specific theme and as a mosaic stone in a comprehensive landscape of memory, which only in its totality reveals the history of National Socialism.’30 Again, the proffered books are guides, but also a means to seeing sites in context. One such concrete place presented in this guide is the Lieberose sub-camp at Jamlitz, which served both the Nazis and the Soviets. As with the hundreds of other sites related to concentration camps and death marches, the site’s location, access routes, pedagogical aids, and the special aspects of its displays are delineated. Then the complex history of how mass graves and killing sites became a commemorative site is recounted.31 The struggles to give meaning to Lieberose since 1971, and the various attempts at documentation, especially once excavations after 1990 exposed the extent of executions under different regimes, are outlined. The most recent version of the site tries to correct some of the silences and biases of the GDR era by means of an open-air documentation centre with teaching paths, administered by the evangelical church. Similar, objective accounts of other camps illustrate that the Landeszentralen acknowledge that memorialization is an ongoing process and that out of the ‘two memory cultures’ in post-war Germany a corrected version is slowly emerging.

Conclusion: Civic morality in a secular world What do all the plaques and commemorative buildings mean? I do not share the scepticism of authors such as Tony Judt who dismiss ‘moral memory palace(s)’

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and ‘lapidary representation’ as signifying ‘that all of that is now behind us’.32 The Landeszentralen certainly do not act as though their civic tasks are finished once a site has been identified and a monument erected; they know it has just begun. In their role as political educators do they offer a morality of citizenship taught by inversion and negative examples? That would be a wrong conclusion because parallel to the historical track which memorializes the problematic past is another going in the same direction but with a positive message, namely one of building a new Europe with identifiable regions and positive historical role models. Hence the offices’ fostering of regional identity via Landeskunde runs parallel to their exposure and commemoration of the problematic past of a whole country through the example of its regions. The concept ‘Monument Mania’ – applied to Britain in the 1850s, and now to the United States – also applies to Germany. One author asserts that these permanent installations substitute for civic thinking.33 In retort one could suggest that without such attempts little civic thinking would be initiated. Reinforced by dissemination of pamphlets and books, by tours and seminars, a historical civic education has been underway in Germany for three decades, almost as an experiment in laying bare the misdeeds of a country. Without knowledge of the historical context of the sites and without publicity about the purpose of the memorials such efforts cannot succeed. Hence the significance in the mediating role of the Landeszentralen: they have drawn attention, created guides, engaged the public, and continued civic education by raising historical awareness. They have not – unlike the ‘national’ monuments – caused much controversy, but they have done yeoman work by assuring that the fault with the past lies not elsewhere, but rather near to home. As one Landeszentrale writer argues: ‘Here, not anywhere and anyhow, but precisely here is where it actually took place.’34 A former director probably overstated the case when he wrote: ‘The reputation which Germany has attained in Europe and the world by an open and thorough dealing with its difficult past is based to a high degree on the work of the Landeszentralen.’35 Yet even if the question of impact is disregarded, the Landeszentralen have offered extensive, well researched, and co-ordinated information. They have fostered a culture of acknowledgement, sought to terminate the forgetting, and encouraged coming to terms with a difficult past in all the country’s regions, not by shrill insistence but by quiet persistence.

Notes ∗

Adolf, Judith, and Lisa Buse, Graeme Mount, and Pierre Simoni improved the text. 1. See W. Mühlhausen, ‘Epilog: Friedrich Ebert in der politischen Erinnerung von Weimar’, in W. Mühlhausen (ed.), Friedrich Ebert 1871–1925 (Bonn, 2006), pp. 981–1002. 2. Ebert appeared in thirteenth place, but first for politicians, among street names: R. Pöppinghege, Wege des Erinnerns. Was Straßennamen über das deutsche Geschichtsbewusstein aussagen (Münster, 2007), pp. 29–31. 3. See D. K. Buse, ‘Many Friedrich Eberts: Critical Thoughts on an Evaluation of an Exhibition’, Internationale Wissenschaftliche Korrespondenz 36 (December, 1999), 519–29.

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4. On ‘organized forgetting’ see D. K. Buse, ‘Twentieth-Century War Crimes: Germany and Beyond’, Debatte 11 (May 2003), 70–92. 5. See C. Cornelißen, L. Klinkhammer, and W. Schwentker (eds), Erinnerungskulturen. Deutschland, Italien und Japan seit 1945 (Frankfurt am Main, 2003) and K. H. Jarausch, After Hitler: Recivilizing Germans, 1945–1995 (Oxford, 2006), p. 279: ‘In international comparison, the extent of German professions of contrition over the Holocaust seems almost exemplary.’ 6. For institutional development and how the Landeszentralen dealt with German history, see D. K. Buse, ‘The “Going” of the Third Reich: Re-civilizing Germans through Political Education’, German Politics and Society 26 (2008), 29–56; for context, G. K. Roberts, ‘Political Education in Germany’, Parliamentary Affairs 55 (2002), 556–68 and especially J. Detjen, Politische Bildung. Geschichte und Gegenwart in Deutschland (Munich, 2007). 7. Ibid., pp. 43–4. 8. Communication from Bernd Lüdkemeier, Director, Landeszentrale für politische Bildung Sachsen-Anhalt, 19 November 2008. 9. Communication from Sebastian Lechner, Director, KZ-Gedenkstätte Ulm, 12 November 2008. 10. See ‘Gedenkstättenarbeit in Niedersachsen’, at http://www.mk.niedersachsen.de/master/ C26720_N6974037_L20_D0_I579.html (accessed 8 January 2009). 11. See V. Knigge, ‘Statt eines Nachworts’, in V. Knigge and N. Frei (eds), Verbrechen Erinnern (Munich, 2002), p. 423. 12. B. Lang, The Future of the Holocaust: Between History and Memory (Ithaca, 1999), p. 9. 13. On Vogt’s study see D. K. Buse, ‘1961: Germans Begin to Confront their Recent Past’, Debatte 16 (August 2008), 189–201. 14. H. Vogt, The Burden of Guilt: A Short History of Germany, 1914–1945, trans. by H. A. Strauss with an introduction by G. Craig (New York, 1964), here xv–xvi. 15. Vogt, Burden of Guilt, p. 234. In 1992 the parliament of Hesse delegated the coordination of education about the Third Reich to the Landeszentrale. In 1993 it created a department responsible for ‘Memory Places for the Victims of National Socialism’. See R. Knigge-Tesche (ed.), Erinnern und Gedenken in Hessen (Wiesbaden, 1999). 16. An overview with links to each of the sites is at http://www.stiftung-ng.de/index.php? menuid=11 (accessed 9 January 2009). Publications of the Lower Saxon office remain accessible at http://www.nibis.de/nli1/rechtsx/nlpb/index.htm (accessed 9 January 2009). 17. The path can be viewed at http://www.geschichtslehrpfad.de/index.html (accessed 9 January 2009). 18. For the bunker’s building, its post-war history, and survivors’ memoirs, see the Literatur link at the website given in the previous note. A French slave labourer’s account, among the commemorative studies distributed by the Bremen office, is R. Portefaix, A. Migdal, and K. Touber (eds), Hortensien in Farge. Überleben im Bunker ‘Valentin’ (Bremen, 1995). 19. See the report (submitted by Sabine Luecken) by the head of the Bremen office, Michael Scherer, at http://hsozkult.geschichte.hu-berlin.de/tagungsberichte/id=1431 (accessed 20 February 2009). 20. The Bremen Landeszentrale web site lists the studies on Bremen Jews commissioned, published, and distributed by the office, such as: G. Rohdenburg, ‘Das war das neue Leben’. Leben und Wirken des jüdischen Kaufhausbesitzers Julius Bamberger und seiner Familie (Bremen, 1999); H. Balz, Die ‘Arisierung’ von jüdischem Haus- und Grundbesitz in Bremen (Bremen, 2004). 21. See http://www.sachsen-anhalt.de/stiftung-gedenkstaetten for a programme and reports. However, J. Detjen, ‘Politische Bildung für bildungsferne Milieus’, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte 32–33 (2007), 12–21, suggests that the less educated are rarely reached. 22. Personal communication, 2 November 2008, from Katrin Bahr, who operated the international summer camps: ‘over the years we have worked closely with the

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23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35.

The Regional Offices for Political Education Landeszentrale . . . which was a great help financially’, when Lichtenburg was threatened with failure. The use of websites to reach young people is complemented by distribution of free materials; the Bavarian office distributed over 600,000 pieces of literature in 2005. K. Pflug et al. (eds), Orte des Gedenkens und Erinnerns in Baden-Württemberg (Stuttgart, 2007), p. 5. See http://www.politische-bildung-brandenburg.de/publikationen/pdf/denkmaeler.pdf (accessed 20 February 2009). C. Koonz, ‘Between Memory and Oblivion: Concentration Camps in German History’, in J. R. Gillis (ed.), Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, 1994), p. 262, claims that for nearly two decades the concentration camps were virtually ignored as places of memory. R. Scheer, Der Umgang mit den Denkmälern (Brandenburg, 2003), p. 21, pp. 60–1. S. Endlich, Wege zur Erinnerung. Gedenkstätten und – orte für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus in Berlin und Brandenburg (Berlin, 2007). S. Endlich and T. Lutz (eds), Gedenken und Lernen an Historischen Orten. Ein Wegweiser zu Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus in Berlin (Berlin, 1999). Endlich, Wege zur Erinnerung, p. 16. Ibid., pp. 554–9. ‘What Have We Learned, if Anything?’ New York Review of Books, 1 May 2008, p. 16. See http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/theory_and_event (accessed 20 February 2009). S. Johnson, ‘Political not Patriotic: Democracy, Civic Space and the American Memorial/Monument Complex’, Theory and Event 5:2 (2002; online) theorizes that ‘eternalizing’ remembrance in concrete form prevents the citizen-viewer from understanding the social situation which produced it. The Landeszentrale approach contradicts such claims, though reaction to memory sites has been more theorized than researched. Pflug et al. (eds), Orte des Gedenkens, p. 18. S. Schiele, ‘Ein halbes Jahrhundert staatliche politische Bildung in Deutschland’, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte (August 2004), 4.

2.2 Memorialization of Perpetrator Sites in Bavaria Markus Urban

Today when speaking about authentic places connected with the National Socialist dictatorship, a clear distinction tends to be made between memorial and perpetrator sites. The former refers to places where the regime’s victims suffered and died; the latter includes locations where crimes were ideologically prepared, plans were developed, or orders were issued. Not all scholars agree with this distinction; it could be objected, for instance, that at a site now commemorating victims, perpetrators were also present, and indeed in many cases we find evidence for both types of classification. Furthermore, Ernst Piper has argued that, technically, a third category should be added, designating places of National Socialist self-representation.1 The former Party Rally Grounds (Reichsparteitagsgelände) in Nuremberg or the Wewelsburg near Paderborn (analysed in this volume by Caroline Pearce) would fit into this third category. The entire discussion, however, is relatively new and few scholars have engaged with it, perhaps because most view the existing distinctions as a pragmatic compromise, however flawed. During the early post-war period, the approach to memorial and perpetrator sites in Germany showed many more similarities than differences. Generally, the early reactions of local authorities and the majority of the population were dominated by a similar set of emotions and strategies, usually including shame, neglect, and attempts to stress German suffering and to remove the visible remnants of National Socialism. This resulted in the building of monuments and putting up of plaques with the intention of blurring the definition of ‘victim’ beyond recognition. The last and probably best-known example of this evasion of history can be found at Berlin’s New Guardhouse (Neue Wache). Following strong personal support by Helmut Kohl, a model of a Käthe Kollwitz sculpture was installed in the Neue Wache and the building rededicated in 1993 ‘to the victims of war and the rule of violence’. Because of this ill-fated tradition of silently including the perpetrators when commemorating ‘victims’, a broad consensus now exists in favour of the separation of memorial and perpetrator sites. For the same reason it is widely accepted that each of the two requires a different, specific approach to their memorialization. This is especially obvious in the state of Bavaria, where for historic reasons the highest concentration of Nazi sites outside Berlin can be found. In this chapter 103

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I want to demonstrate that, compared to many other German regions, perpetrator memory took a significantly longer time to establish itself in Bavaria. I also show that memory of perpetrator sites was largely led from the periphery, while political rivalries between the state level (dominated by the conservative Christian Social Union or CSU) and the local level (where the left-wing Social Democratic Party or SPD was often in power) slowed the pace of development. My analysis of the respective perpetrator sites is set against the background of Bavaria’s unique place in the history of National Socialism. Bavaria was the site of Hitler’s rise to prominence after the First World War. It was here that the judiciary played a shameful role in Hitler’s trial and imprisonment following the Beer Hall Putsch of 1923. After 1933, special honours were accorded to the region, despite the fact that Bavaria had tolerated rather than actively supported Hitler after 1924, and despite the fact that the centre of power shifted to Berlin. These honours included choosing Nuremberg as the location for the Party rallies, granting Munich the honorary titles ‘Capital of the Movement’ and ‘Capital of Art’, and deciding to establish Obersalzberg as Hitler’s second headquarters. A more negative distinction held by Bavaria is that it was the location for the building of two major concentration camps, at Dachau and Flossenbürg.

Covering up the past in Nuremberg up to the 1970s If, as Gavriel Rosenfeld states, in post-war Munich the ‘traditionalists’,2 who promoted a quick and authentic rebuilding of the bombed city, won the upper hand – thereby denying any responsibility for the destruction of the war3 – the same can be said about Nuremberg. Ninety per cent of the old town (Altstadt) was destroyed during the war; after 1945, Nuremberg was largely reconstructed as the medieval gem it had been.4 Of course Nuremberg, under Hitler, had also been the City of the Party Rallies (Stadt der Reichsparteitage). But the huge Party Rally Ground area, covering 11 square kilometres south east of the city, had survived Allied bombing raids almost untouched. Nevertheless, the area was largely covered in rubble because many oversized building projects such as the enormous Congress Hall (Kongresshalle) and Albert Speer’s March Field (Märzfeld) – designed to show off military manoeuvres – had not been finished in time. Only a small lake, an unexpected result of the first excavation, remained of the megalomaniacal German Stadium (Deutsches Stadion), which was to hold 405,000 spectators. The way in which the city dealt with the unfinished Congress Hall, the largest Nazi remnant in Nuremberg, illustrates the earliest attempts to obscure the historic traces. Until the late 1950s, it was officially called the ‘Round Exhibition Hall’. Obviously it was hoped that this clumsy name change would disassociate the building from the tradition of mass events during the Third Reich, helping to neutralize it ideologically. Starting in 1949, large-scale trade fairs, for instance of the German construction industry, found a home here for a limited time.5 This served to integrate the Congress Hall into Nuremberg’s post-war economic upswing. While in this case the attempt to obscure the past happened merely on a linguistic and symbolic level, other buildings on the Party Rally Grounds were partially

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or even completely demolished. The most radical change was made to the Luitpoldhain, a municipal park where the SA and SS, from the 1920s onwards, had regularly staged a commemoration of the dead. Here, as early as 1950, the city removed the massive stone slabs, and some ten years later the stands gave way to a modern concert and convention centre. Today the Luitpoldhain gives the impression of a park, much as it had done before the arrival of the Nazis. The only building to remain on this site was the comparatively small, temple-like memorial to Nuremberg’s fallen soldiers of the First World War. The memorial had been erected under a liberal mayor in 1929 and was what originally drew Hitler’s attention to the site. With the inscription on the memorial slightly changed, all the traces of a now undesirable past were erased. Even less of the unfinished Märzfeld remained than of the Luitpoldhain. In 1957, the decision was made to create Langwasser, an entirely new suburb with high-rise apartment buildings for 35,000 people. As one of the largest building projects in the Federal Republic of Germany at that time, it not only swallowed the former Party Rally participants’ camp, but also made inroads into the Märzfeld area; here, the 11 existing towers were blown up in 1966–67 to create additional space for Langwasser’s growth. In the same year, the prominent Zeppelin Grandstand lost its two rows of deteriorating columns, which would have required an estimated 3 million Deutschmark for renovation. This highly symbolic demolition provoked a controversial discussion and was criticized by the liberal Nürnberger Nachrichten newspaper: ‘Nuremberg is eager to wipe out the memory of its past as City of the Party Rallies. Cracks in the ceiling of the columned gallery of the large stone tribune at the Zeppelinfeld offer a good opportunity to tear down another part of the heritage of the National Socialist past.’6 A short time later, however, a revised version of Bavaria’s Preservation Law put an end to the burgeoning discussion by classifying the buildings as historical monuments. Whether it wanted to or not, the city had become responsible for maintaining the structures.

Documenting the perpetration: Nuremberg and Berchtesgaden, 1980–2008 During the 1960s and 1970s, it seemed as if not just Munich, but all of Bavaria had ‘farmed out’7 the task of commemorating the era of National Socialism to Dachau, where in 1965 the state’s only memorial site to Nazi victims with a permanent exhibition had opened. Developments at Dachau had largely been motivated by the demands of hundreds of thousands of annual visitors from all over the world to the site of the former concentration camp. But Nuremberg’s status as a regional centre on Bavaria’s periphery (culturally and politically, if not strictly geographically) allowed a different approach to that in Munich; in Nuremberg, the early period of covering over traces did not come to a sudden end. In the mid-1960s, Nuremberg’s newly appointed Cultural Director (Kulturreferent) Hermann Glaser initiated the organization of annual conferences, creating a framework for intellectuals to discuss the young Federal Republic’s relationship to its own history.

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With regard to the architectural remnants of the Party Rally Grounds, Glaser, who kept his position for 26 years, preferred a strategy of ‘pragmatic use’ or ‘profanation’. This included a low-key commercial use of the Kongresshalle torso, where rooms could be rented by municipal institutions such as the Philharmonic Orchestra or the local school authority to store furniture. However, ignoring the historical significance of the buildings had its drawbacks: Eckart Dietzfelbinger reports that, due to the lack of signs, American tourists occasionally roamed around the former Rally Grounds wondering where the Roman ruins came from.8 Initially, the urge for a more active approach developed on the local level and intensified around the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, when the city opened a small exhibition called Fascination and Terror (Faszination und Gewalt) inside the Zeppelin Grandstand building. The exhibition was the response of Nuremberg’s City Council – which was traditionally dominated by the SPD – to the demands of local historians, who had begun to offer independent guided tours of the former Party Rally Grounds. Intended to last for one summer only and equipped with a ridiculously low budget of 80,000 Deutschmark, the exhibition helped to demonstrate the apparent need for credible information. In spite of its provisional character, it remained open for many years (although it was closed in the winter because the building lacked any kind of heating). On the rally grounds, the situation improved a little after the City Council erected four information boards in 1989; but this barely kept pace with the increase in public interest. Meanwhile, the local history organization ‘History for Everyone’ (Geschichte für Alle e.V.) offered several guided tours per week for interested locals as well as for school classes and foreign visitors.9 Demands for a professional exhibition increased when the CSU unexpectedly won the local elections in 1996, thereby ending 40 years of consecutive government by the SPD in Nuremberg. This put an end to the traditional political rivalry between the Bavarian ‘periphery’ and its centre, and the initiatives of local politicians were now more likely to gain support from the CSU-led Bavarian state administration. Under the unique set of circumstances in Nuremberg at this point, the same party which at the level of the federal state continuously refused to accept a larger part of the political responsibility for the Nazi past, now managed to reach a local settlement in the aftermath of a surprising electoral landslide. The planned documentation centre required funds from all three public levels (local, state, and federal) of the political system, and the new constellation significantly reduced the risk of conflict and delay in the process. The new conservative majority in Nuremberg’s City Council could utilize earlier plans for a reasonably well-funded permanent exhibition. These plans benefited from the support of the SPD opposition as well as various civic groups, because they were largely based on their own suggestions. Without this foundation work, the new CSU council would neither have been able nor felt obliged to take any quick action. With the project finally on the agenda of the City Council, local patron Bruno Schnell, the publisher of the liberal Nürnberger Nachrichten and other newspapers, announced a donation of 200,000 Deutschmark in order to encourage further private support

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even before a draft outline of the project was finished. Thus a consensus could be reached with contributions from various factions. In 1998, the Austrian architect Günther Domenig won the design competition for a new documentation centre. His ambitious blueprint called for the piercing of the Congress Hall with a glass and steel construction, thus focusing on the Nazi building itself and making it a central part of the exhibition. Although the cost gradually rose to 21.5 million Deutschmark, the Documentation Centre was officially opened by the German head of state Johannes Rau in November 2001. Finally, in the spring of 2006, a bilingual information system of 23 boards was installed throughout the former Party Rally Grounds. It was completed just in time for the Soccer World Cup: Nuremberg served as one of the 12 German host cities and the stadium is located right in the heart of the Nazi grounds. By this time it had become clear that, in terms of commemorative politics in Bavaria, ‘the periphery distinctly leads the centre’.10 At the time of its opening, Nuremberg’s Documentation Centre was already the second institution of its kind in Bavaria. At Berchtesgaden in the Bavarian Alps, the Obersalzberg Documentation Centre (Dokumentation Obersalzberg) had opened its doors two years previously. The situation in this town – a popular tourist destination since the nineteenth century with a population of less than 8000 – differed entirely from that of all other Bavarian Nazi sites. Here, the heavily bombed ruins of Hitler’s Berghof and several adjacent buildings were blown up by order of the Bavarian State government in 1952. Destruction of the buildings took place with the consent of the US military, which continued to use most of the premises as an Armed Forces Recreation Centre for more than 40 years. The largest part of the former Nazi area remained inaccessible to the public for half a century, its future unresolved. The Kehlsteinhaus at 1820 metres, the NSDAP’s present to Hitler on his fiftieth birthday, was returned to the Bavarian authorities in 1951. Plans to detonate it were eventually scrapped, and the state government handed it over to the local section of the Alpine Society, which opened it as a summer tourist attraction. As a result, Hitler’s former ‘tea house’ became the only authentic piece of architecture for a quickly developing ‘Third Reich tourism’ at Berchtesgaden. Sensational multicolour brochures and privately run souvenir stalls catered for more than 100,000 visitors annually, who came to follow in the ‘Führer’s’ footsteps for a variety of personal motivations. Some paid for the opportunity to participate in bus tours for American soldiers, but the majority did not mind that the US military kept most areas off-limits to Germans, including many original buildings such as the former Platterhof Hotel. When the US Army finally returned the property to the Bavarian State in 1996, the need for an appropriate strategy towards the history of the site was so obvious that the government ordered its Munich-based Institute for Contemporary History (Institut für Zeitgeschichte) to develop a concept for a documentation centre. Without granting it any role in the design of the centre, the government thus fulfilled the demands of a citizens’ group which had formed in 1991. The group had long demanded a historically appropriate approach towards this important perpetrator site, thereby opposing local politicians and the silent majority of the

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population, which even after almost 50 years was not willing to accept any responsibility for the way the region had benefited from the close relationship to the Nazi regime. Even so, in this rural, traditionally conservative corner of Upper Bavaria, the now official plan to erect a documentation centre backed by the state government did not meet any significant opposition, and the institution was opened in October 1999. To make the plan more attractive to local politicians, it included a second step which seemed appropriate to revive Berchtesgaden’s former reputation as an upmarket tourist destination: soon after the American withdrawal, the historic Platterhof Hotel was torn down to make room for the new five-star Intercontinental Berchtesgaden Resort. Again, this step was taken without consulting the citizens’ group, which protested in vain against the highly prioritized project – one which the state-owned Bavarian bank was ordered to finance by the regional government.11 In the course of their first decade, the two Bavarian documentation centres have attracted far more visitors than initially expected. The concept of the ‘documentation centre’ appears to be well-established for perpetrator sites. In the case of Nuremberg, the sober, document-based approach ensures that the exhibition Fascination and Terror precludes the generation of too much of the former. Assessing the long-term effectiveness of educational visits to Berchtesgaden and Nuremberg is not an easy task, however. Nuremberg offers a larger variety of media features and therefore is more attractive to younger people. Early evaluation suggests that visitors leave the centres with additional knowledge and a more profound understanding of the Nazi dictatorship. However, it also stresses the well-known fact that in the case of the numerous ‘recruited’ visitors (students, soldiers, and so on), their initial knowledge and interest decisively determine how much they will actually benefit.12

Documenting the ‘capital of the movement’ in Munich In the spring of 2008 it was announced that Nuremberg could begin with the construction of its second high-profile museum related to National Socialism. The second museum will be located in the Palace of Justice (Justizpalast) in Fürther Strasse and will concern itself with the Nuremberg Trials which were held in this building. Almost simultaneously, the Documentation Centre at Berchtesgaden launched the revised fifth edition of its exhibition catalogue, boasting of 1.2 million visitors.13 At the same time, the Süddeutsche Zeitung reported that, in the first round, no appropriate applicant had been chosen for the post of the founding director at Munich’s projected documentation centre.14 A major reason had obviously been the comparably poor remuneration announced when the position was advertized. What seemed like a minor detail caused a delay of at least six months and added to a long series of problems and difficulties, paving the way to Bavaria’s most disputed exhibition over a period of many years. A look at the way in which Munich has both avoided and confronted its Nazi past after the war reveals many parallels to Bavaria’s less central memorial and

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perpetrator sites, but also a significant number of peculiarities. The well-known coping strategies seem to reappear in an even greater quantity; Large has called this Munich’s ‘strategic amnesia’.15 Shortly after 1945, the city managed to reconnect to the positive elements of its nineteenth-century history and to that of the 1920s. Since the architectural ‘traditionalists’ largely managed to impose their plans, Munich was rebuilt after the war more quickly and to a fuller extent than any other German city of comparable size. However, the reconstruction of the many apparently cosmopolitan and mainly neoclassical landmarks almost completely glossed over Munich’s decisive role in the Nazi state, even if these buildings might seem ideologically preferable to the half-timbered clichés of romanticist ‘Germanness’ seen in Nuremberg. Of the buildings erected by the NSDAP to establish Munich as the party’s organizational headquarters, only the two Temples of Honour (Ehrentempel) for the 16 participants killed during the Beer Hall Putsch were removed in 1947. In Munich, the predominant strategy was not removal; instead, the Nazi buildings were integrated into post-war life by rededicating them to a new kind of ‘neutral’ use. The House of German Art (Haus der Deutschen Kunst), opened in 1937, was used for temporary art exhibitions. The former Central Ministry of Bavaria, which housed the office of the Gauleiter, became the Bavarian Ministry of Agriculture; and Hitler’s Führerbau office, where the infamous Munich Treaty was signed in 1938, was turned into a music college. A major perpetrator site, the Gestapo headquarters in the Wittelsbacher Palais, was simply rented out commercially before it was finally torn down in 1964. In most cases, the changed historical narrative inscribed on the sites was meant to obliterate any underlying layers. The new owners – often state authorities – mostly boycotted any attempts to refer to the historic background of the buildings, be this in the form of signs or commemorative plaques. If such information was provided, remote locations were chosen, some of which could not even be accessed by the public. Furthermore, approximately 90 per cent of all such memorials or plaques erected after the war commemorated German victims such as the members of the popular White Rose student resistance group. This underlined the common strategy to emphasize German suffering rather than perpetration. Nothing illustrates Munich’s Sonderweg more effectively than the removal of even more authentic Third Reich architecture around the time of a significant watershed in German commemorative politics. In the 1980s, an increased interest in the National Socialist past developed, culminating in numerous commemorative events which accompanied the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War. The Bürgerbräukeller, where annual commemorative gatherings to mark the 1923 coup were held and which in 1939 had been the scene of an almost successful assassination attempt by Georg Elser, was torn down and replaced by a new conference centre in 1979. Eight years later, Königsplatz, a square which featured no less than 70 buildings newly erected or at least used by the NSDAP, was significantly transformed by the removal of its granite slabs. Grass was planted, giving an almost park-like impression to a square originally designed by King Ludwig I, and later converted by the Nazis into the central location for their mass parades in Munich.16

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However, the conversion of Königsplatz and subsequent plans by the authorities to remove the remaining foundations of the two Temples of Honour also led to the first open political discussion about the architectural remnants of National Socialism in Munich. Finally, a significant number of citizens began to realize that, more than 40 years after the war, the gradual removal of Nazi architecture symbolized a questionable tendency to silently erase unpleasant memories. Thanks not least to the impact of the grassroots history workshops, the idea gained ground that the former ‘Capital of the Movement’ could not, in the long run, do without an appropriate documentation centre. Königsplatz appeared to be the most suitable location for such an institution, in particular the former site of the NSDAP’s Brown House. In 1988 the city council filed a first proposal, which was promptly turned down by the state authorities. This opposition between council and state has bedevilled plans to establish a documentation centre ever since, demonstrating the inability of Bavaria and its capital to come to terms politically with Munich’s history. The subliminal political battle owes its rather unique character to the unusual situation in Bavaria. Governed since 1952 by one party, the conservative CSU, ‘Germany’s most traditional and successful state’17 always remained a refuge of political and religious (Catholic) conservatism alike, even despite the rapid conversion from a largely agricultural into a modern, industrialized region after the war. However, the state’s more important urban centres were often governed by comparably liberal city councils, led by the left-wing SPD. While Nuremberg, during a brief interlude when it was governed by a conservative CSU city council, managed to realize a project for which the foundation had been laid long before, in Munich political tension prevailed. This tension can partially be attributed to the very different roles played by the two parties during the rise of National Socialism in the early 1930s. A seemingly unbridgeable divide existed in dealing with the Nazi past in Munich.18 This found expression in the conflict between two parties, the SPD and the CSU, a conflict which in turn reflected another deep-rooted division within post-war Bavaria: namely that between a rural, highly conservative countryside and the modern, often far more liberal urban communities. Because of this division, there was little middle ground when it came to commemorative politics, resulting in a long trail of delays and missed opportunities. After the failure of 1988, two more examples of Nazi architecture were quietly dismantled: the convention room of the German Museum (1990) and most of the old Riem airport (1994), which had been constructed by Ernst Sagebiel, the architect of Tempelhof airport in Berlin. However, even in Munich the clocks could not be easily turned back. Disturbed by an increasing amount of neo-Nazi and right-wing political activity during the 1980s,19 a growing number of citizens, students, artists, and city officials began to take an interest in a different approach to the city’s past. Temporary exhibition projects in the mid-1990s heralded a changing attitude, and local initiatives began to lobby for a permanent documentation centre, putting pressure on local and state politicians. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, it became very clear

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that Munich’s apparent inability to deal with its past was casting a shadow on its otherwise positive international reputation. Berlin in particular, where a grassroots movement had urged the city to support the Topography of Terror exhibition, and where the building of a central Holocaust memorial was initiated in 1999, had left Munich far behind. In 2002, the Bavarian state authorities finally gave their consent to the realization of the long-planned project. Two institutions closely affiliated with the government were put in charge of the first steps: Bavaria’s Regional Office for Political Education (Landeszentrale für Politische Bildung) invited historians and lobby groups to a public conference to discuss the plan. Historian Volker Dahm of the Munich-based Institute for Contemporary History made an official statement about the requirements for the future centre. Despite an array of valuable suggestions presented by an international panel of high-ranking experts, the conference clearly illustrated why the path towards the centre had been so long and painful. The Institute’s 35-page report was not published in printed form, because state officials insisted that it was currently for internal use only. At the same time, it became known that the Bavarian Ministry of Culture had already declared internally that it wanted to follow the guidelines of the proposal. At the conference, Dahm presented his plan for the documentation centre and was heavily criticized for stating that, due to its decreasing significance during the Third Reich, Munich would not necessarily require a full-scale documentation centre at all. Other criticism focused on his suggestion to create a historic path through Munich, including three separate exhibition rooms at the beginning, middle and the end of the walk. This plan was largely considered impractical as it threatened to overtax the attention span of school classes and many other visitors. Dahm’s emphasis on budgetary questions also accounted for a considerable amount of negative feedback. It was felt that at this point the project should not be defined by budgetary restraint. When the design was finally published in the spring of 2003, it again received a largely negative reception in the media. To avoid another political stalemate, a committee of experts was formed to develop a new plan for how to proceed. Although the majority of its members preferred a full-scale ‘House of the History of National Socialism’ to a documentation centre, they could not assert themselves against Winfried Nerdinger, a politically active professor of architectural history at Munich’s Technical University. Nerdinger argued that any institution would inevitably have to focus on the particular role of Munich. Furthermore, he stressed that the concept of the exhibition should be straightforward and should not feature any original artefacts relating to National Socialism. This point could hardly be ignored by the City Council, which doubtless remembered the scandal in 2002 surrounding the opening of a new section of the City Museum’s permanent exhibition dedicated to National Socialism. The opening of the exhibition was postponed for almost a year after Mayor Christian Ude, during a pre-opening visit, had been shocked by the naive and unprofessional way in which various Nazi devotional objects were presented without proper contextualization. In a city where not only a rather uncritical variety of Third Reich tourism, but also a new wave of neo-Nazism was developing,20

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concerns about the planned exhibition proving attractive for the wrong reasons were all too understandable. Based on Nerdinger’s criteria, the preparations proceeded at a snail’s pace. A new scholarly advisory board, chaired by former Federal minister Theo Waigel (CSU), managed to reach a breakthrough when, in November 2005, the state agreed to use the grounds of the former Brown House for the documentation centre. The city’s Cultural Department began by hiring two employees in the summer of 2007, and a director was scheduled to be appointed in September 2008. Although the Federal Government Commissioner for Culture finally declared that his ministry would support the budget, the official opening of the exhibition still lies years ahead. At the time of its completion, ‘one of the defining features’ will indeed always remain ‘the enormous amount of time required building it’.21 The making of Munich’s documentation centre will probably continue to indicate to the interested observer the special political situation in Bavaria – the only democratic corner of Western Europe where the same political party had been in charge for almost 50 years.22

Notes 1. E. Piper, ‘ “Täterorte” – Rückblick auf ein junges Kapitel der deutschen Erinnerungskultur’, in Kulturreferat der Landeshauptstadt München (ed.), Ein NSDokumentationszentrum für München. Tagungsband (Munich, 2003), p. 193. 2. See Rosenfeld’s classification of post-war memory strategies as ‘traditionalist’, ‘modernist’, and ‘critical preservationist’ in G. Rosenfeld, Munich and Memory: Architecture, Monuments, and the Legacy of the Third Reich (Berkeley, 2000), p. 307. 3. G. Rosenfeld, ‘München leuchtet? Der Versuch einer Außenansicht’, in Kulturreferat der Landeshauptstadt München (ed.), Ein NS-Dokumentationszentrum für München, p. 51. 4. Nuremberg’s medieval character itself was partly a result of National Socialist efforts to ‘cleanse’ the city of modernist aberration. See J. Hagen and R. Ostergren, ‘Spectacle, Architecture and Place at the Nuremberg Party Rallies: Projecting a Nazi Vision of Past, Present and Future’, Cultural Geographies 13 (2006), 157–81. 5. E. Dietzfelbinger and G. Liedtke (eds), Nürnberg – Ort der Massen. Das Reichsparteitagsgelände: Vorgeschichte und schwieriges Erbe (Nuremberg, 2004). 6. Nürnberger Nachrichten, 17 May 1967. 7. G. Rosenfeld, ‘Memory and the Museum’, in G. Rosenfeld and P. Jaskot (eds), Beyond Berlin: Twelve German Cities Confront the Nazi Past (Ann Arbor, 2008), pp. 163–84, here p. 171. 8. Dietzfelbinger and Liedtke (eds), Nürnberg – Ort der Massen, p. 138. 9. S. Macdonald, ‘Mediating Heritage: Tour Guides at the Former Nazi Party Rally Grounds, Nuremberg’, Tourist Studies 6 (2006), 119–38. 10. P. Jaskot, ‘The Reich Party Rally Grounds Revisited’, in Jaskot and Rosenfeld, Beyond Berlin, pp. 143–62, here p. 146. 11. ‘Die Bank und ihr Hotel’, Süddeutsche Zeitung (henceforth SZ), 9 December 2008. 12. N. Zink, Historie und Kommunikation. Eine Evaluationsstudie zur Rezeption des Dokumentationszentrums in Nürnberg (Saarbrücken, 2008). 13. V. Dahm et al. (eds), Die tödliche Utopie. Bilder, Texte, Dokumente, Daten zum Dritten Reich (Munich, 2008), p. 13. 14. ‘Neue Ausschreibung für NS-Dokumentationszentrum’, SZ, 28 June 2008. 15. D. C. Large, Hitlers München. Aufstieg und Fall der Hauptstadt der Bewegung (Munich, 2001), p. 438.

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16. Thus the ‘most Nazified spot in Munich’s urban landscape’ (Rosenfeld) was used for several years for swearing in new party members on 24 February, the anniversary of the declaration of the Party’s first programme at the Hofbräuhaus in 1920 (see Rosenfeld, ‘Memory and the Museum’, p. 165). 17. ‘Old Soldiers March into the Unknown’, The Economist, 9–15 August 2008, p. 29. 18. SPD politicians had been the only ones to resist the coming to power of the National Socialists in 1933. After the war, they blamed conservative politicians, arguing that without their support Hitler would not have been able to establish a dictatorship. 19. The Nuremberg-based Wehrsportgruppe Hoffmann committed various crimes. Following its prohibition in January 1980, a peripheral member of the group placed a bomb at the entrance to Munich’s Oktoberfest, on 26 September 1980, killing 12 people and wounding more than 200. 20. ‘Führer statt König: Rundgänge auf den Spuren Hitlers sind in München gefragt’, SZ, 27 August 2007. In 2003, a neo-Nazi plot to blow up the new Jewish Centre on Jakobsplatz was uncovered. 21. Rosenfeld, ‘Memory and the Museum’, p. 178. 22. The Bavarian state elections in September 2008 brought the most significant political change since 1962: gaining 43.4 per cent of the vote, the CSU lost the absolute majority of parliament seats and had to form a coalition with the Liberals (FDP).

2.3 Pieces of the Past: Souvenirs from Nazi Sites – The Example of Peenemünde Ulrike Dittrich

‘Buy a replica of our box car in our museum store,’1 ran the invitation of the Florida Holocaust Museum in St Petersburg, Florida, until 2005. The museum proudly presents one of the remaining railroad boxcars used by the Nazis for the deportation of Jews, of which only a few are exhibited throughout the United States. Moreover, donors who joined a ‘platinum membership’ scheme received an ‘original’ railroad spike from Treblinka in decorative pink packaging as a reward for their customer loyalty. This extreme example can be complemented by a number of others: Auschwitz at sunset on a postcard, a baseball cap and a t-shirt emblazoned with stars and barbed wire (Fossoli), a stick pin depicting barbed wire and a rose (Ravensbrück), a windcheater with an emblem on its chest showing a leg bound in chains (Buchenwald), The Diary of Anne Frank as a fridge magnet: this is just a small selection of souvenir items, ordinary products of mass consumption, linked to places and events of National Socialist terror and the Holocaust. Souvenir businesses at Holocaust exhibitions and former concentration camp sites might be viewed with scepticism by some readers. However, there is evidently a need for some sort of materialized memory that is generating the production of these souvenir products. Souvenirs of historical Nazi sites can be collected from very diverse places and have been produced for different purposes at different periods of time. They range from individual keepsakes taken away from the camps by survivors, including remains of utensils used during their imprisonment or handmade gifts, to product lines produced under the control of communist governments in the concentration camp memorials of the former GDR. Last but not least, the category must be broad enough to encompass objects on sale at those historical sites of National Socialism that are not directly connected to extermination and the Holocaust. The term Täterorte (perpetrator sites) is used to designate such places as the former rocket research centre in Peenemünde and the site of the ‘Wolf’s Lair’ (Wolfsschanze), Hitler’s military headquarter at the Eastern Front (which – as the location for the failed assassination attempt of 20 July 1944 – doubles as a perpetrator site and a site of resistance). War, the military, and technology are the predominant themes on display at these two sites. In the absence of any basic visitor research into these places as 114

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‘perpetrator sites’, the souvenir objects on offer, and particularly those being sold at the sites, can throw light on the visitors’ motivation to travel to such Täterorte.

Memory and signs However diverse the objects might be, their most significant common feature is that they function as semaphores. They are intentionally made to help people to remember. Given their semiotic structure, the objects can be analysed and compared. They tell us what the maker intended to convey, what kind of memory they depict, and thus how the shapes of objects shape memory. As memorabilia they are part of an active construction of a certain past. The objects gain significance from their place of purchase, the material from which they are made, and the text and/or signs that they bear. According to social-psychologist Alan Radley, memory is not just an individual experience but a social one as well. Applying Maurice Halbwachs’s insights into the social nature of memory to personal possessions, Radley argues ‘that objects are used to establish a link with the past which helps to sustain identity’.2 Tourism at historical places is accompanied by the production of material objects with the implicit intention of constituting such a link to the past, although – depending on the object – the past that is invoked may be a double one. In the case of the Buchenwald windcheater, for instance, the emblem evokes both the era of National Socialism (when men were, at least metaphorically, ‘in chains’) and the time of the visitor’s trip to the site (‘the day we went to Buchenwald’). People have been travelling to Second World War sites since the end of the war and for a range of reasons: some with the intention of keeping the memory of the dead alive, some as survivors making ‘pilgrimages’ to the places of their suffering, and some in the hope of seeing exciting places and experiencing a certain thrill.3 Artefacts such as souvenirs which are purchased during the trip are, in several respects, of major importance to their buyers. The pre-eminent function of a souvenir is to support the memory of its owner and to serve as a semaphore either for the individual or – in the case of any kind of display – to others (family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, or peers). Another fundamental aspect of these mass produced pieces of memory is that they use a reduced repertoire of signs and patterns. In the case of the subject under discussion here, this means that historical events are reproduced by the objects only in a very simplified and partial way. By focusing on certain aspects of historical reality, souvenirs shape the memory of the place they refer to.

Travelling By the end of 1989/90, when the communist regimes of Eastern Europe collapsed, a vast number of sites of former concentration camps and sites of the German war of extermination became accessible to visitors from the West and many started to include such historical places in their itinerary through Eastern Europe or even made the sites their sole destination.

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Travelling to concentration camps and battle fields has long been a focus for professional tour operators, though before the fall of the Iron Curtain the tours were geographically limited to the Western world (such as the Battle of the Bulge sites in Belgium). What makes people want to travel to such places which are marked by annihilation, extreme violence, torture, and suffering? Is it a way of coming to terms with a (dissonant) past, is it done out of historical interest or – beyond all official politics of commemoration – is horror an attraction? As Jörg Skriebeleit notes, in the field of Cultural Studies the phenomenon of tourism to destinations such as cemeteries, battle sites, or former concentration camps is labelled ‘dark tourism’ or ‘dissonant heritage tourism’.4 It is a prospering business, as is demonstrated by the success of the British company Holts Battlefields & History Tours, which has been operating in the field for more than 30 years. The travel catalogue offers themed tours such as ‘Munich. The Rise & Fall of National Socialism’. The participants of this round trip visit the Nazi party rally grounds, the Congress Hall, and the museum in Nuremberg; they see Dachau on one of the afternoons; and they end up at Berchtesgaden, the site of Hitler’s country retreat and command centre, including the famous Eagle’s Nest viewpoint. Another tour is the Holocaust tour. The detailed itinerary includes Warsaw, Treblinka, Majdanek, ‘one day off the Holocaust’, Auschwitz-Birkenau, and Krakow with its very picturesque, almost completely restored Jewish Quarter. In the evenings the travellers enjoy being ‘wined, dined, and entertained’.5 Exploring the culture of remembrance in post-war Germany, Alon Confino ‘use[s] the social and symbolic practice of tourism as a methodological vehicle to illuminate post-war values and beliefs concerning National Socialism’.6 He puts emphasis on the distinction between public memory (both popular memory reflected in the media and official/political memory) and individual memory. He argues that studying tourism ‘as a social and cultural practice of modern popular culture can reveal individual motivations and intimate values’.7 Confino starts from the assumption that individual attitudes towards the National Socialist past in Germany might be expected to be very different from those expressed by political leaders or in the public media. Like the German Stammtisch (a table reserved for regulars at the pub, commonly associated with the expression of right-wing opinions uninhibited by political correctness), travelling is a private activity and thus can reveal attitudes which do not necessarily match public expressions about the National Socialist past. Confino’s reflections are of particular relevance to the historical sites and souvenir items which form the subject of this chapter.

Peenemünde The historical site of the former rocket research centre and army experimentation plant Peenemünde is located on the Island of Usedom in the very north of the former East Germany. Though thinly populated, unemployment is high and tourism is an essential industry from which the federal state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern and its population can profit. Peenemünde is the historical and cultural attraction of the eastern German Baltic Sea coast. Large numbers of coaches stop there and

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discharge crowds of people, many of them older people. Significantly, the souvenir business flourishes at Peenemünde. On offer is a whole range of workaday items: badges, postcards, bags, umbrellas, pens, lighters, watches, plates, matches, key rings, literature, DVDs and videotapes, tiny marble seals, and so on. There are two different souvenir shops competing for customers: a privately run small kiosk near the car park and the official museum shop, which can be accessed from inside the main building, a former power station. As a historical site, Peenemünde is a kind of hybrid. An army experimentation plant from 1936, it represents a period of technical innovation and progress. Due to early achievements in the development of rockets and aerospace engineering, and due to Nazi propaganda surrounding the so-called ‘retaliatory weapon’ V2, Peenemünde has become a German myth. However, the very same period is marked by the exploitation of forced labourers and concentration camp inmates, who were put into nearby camps, in order to keep the German air defence production going. After partial destruction of the grounds by Royal Air Force bombing raids in August 1943, rocket production was evacuated into an underground tunnel system in central Germany. Thousands of inmates of the Buchenwald concentration camp were transferred to Dora, in Thuringia (renamed Mittelbau in 1944), and cruelly exploited. At least 20,000 inmates (at a very cautious estimate) were killed as a result of their deportation to Dora.8 This historical context, however, is barely visible at the Peenemünde site, neither at the open-air site and on the harbour side, nor within the exhibition.9 Though the current exhibition documents very clearly the use and exploitation of forced labour and the crimes committed by the National Socialist regime, as well as the continuing post-war careers of the leading engineers, the dominant focus is the technical background of the site: the rocket experimentation plant as the ‘birthplace of aerospace engineering’. For military reasons, Peenemünde became a prohibited area after the war. It was a Soviet naval and air base from 1945 to 1952 and was then handed over to the Nationale Volksarmee, or NVA, the army of the GDR. When the Wall came down, local residents, mostly former soldiers of the NVA, assembled an exhibition as part of a work creation scheme. The exhibition is characteristic of the site’s attraction to visitors, dealing exclusively with the technical achievements, and immediately attracted 10,000 visitors to the remote place. This success led to plans for the establishment of a space park; only protests from all over the country and subsequent political intervention prevented the project from being realized.10 The current exhibition takes a critical approach to the historical topic. By making the interaction of ethics and technology a topic of discussion, the curators hope to improve the image of the region.11 At the same time, local and regional authorities are aware of the fact that the site is a very particular tourist site, one associated by many with the beginnings of the space age and not with the problematic past of National Socialism. Given the needs of the local economy, the authorities as well as tourist associations put huge efforts into further increasing the number of visitors.

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Figure 6 Model rocket near the entrance to the Visitor Centre, Peenemünde (photo Ulrike Dittrich)

Despite the difficult historical background, today’s visitors, many of them tourist groups of elderly people coming by coach from all parts of Germany, are an important target group. They seem to be less interested in dealing with the moral legacies of a totalitarian and racist regime than in admiring the pioneering role of German rocket production. Accordingly, a model rocket placed near the entrance to the visitor centre is the dominant symbol marking the area (Figure 6). This is reflected in the souvenir items on offer at the kiosk: maritime objects, space explorer play sets, model aircraft, and legendary Second World War submarines, together with DVDs about National Socialist and Wehrmacht personalities. The visitors, it appears, are interested in the bright side of history, and they are on holiday. They buy regional food products such as biscuits, honey, or jam (which are also available in the museum shop), decorative plates in the shape of the picturesque island they are travelling through, and biographies of National Socialist leaders and of the most eminent engineers stationed at Peenemünde (Wernher

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von Braun, for instance). The objects on sale in the museum refer to the institution itself by their text-sign combinations, that is to say by depicting the institutional logos, namely the launch of the legendary rocket and a submarine with the power station in the background; both logos show the name Peenemünde as additional point of reference. Although recent publications about the National Socialist concentration camp system and the exploitation of forced labour are on offer in the bookshop and meet the demands of historical education and documentation, the rocket is the dominant symbol throughout the whole area. The kiosk’s range of products is even broader than that of the museum shop. Apart from the conventional set of items referring to the holiday island, the cute ceramic kittens, seals, and dogs, and the omnipresent rocket objects, there are a number of daggers, stickers, and cloth patches referring to the former state of Prussia. A model grenade and further items of militaria are also on sale, as well as amber jewellery. As a legendary mineral occurring naturally in the Baltic Sea, amber frequently serves as a substitute or symbol for East Prussia in accounts of German refugees or expellees from those former German territories lost after the Second World War, thus reviving images of the times before the expulsion took place.12 Amber is therefore the souvenir par excellence of the so-called Heimwehtourismus (‘homesickness tourism’). To sum up the above, in Peenemünde’s range of souvenirs there is a clear visual emphasis on the following aspects: the A4/V2 rocket developed at the site until the British air raid in August 1943; technical achievements in the fields of aircraft, space, and navigation in general; the regalia of Prussia and the navy of the Reich, evoking a Germany of the time before the war and the subsequent loss of its Eastern territories; and, finally, on war, military objects, and weapons. This range of goods creates a rather skewed view of German history and the history of the site in particular. They tell the story of war and military successes, of a time when the so-called Wunderwaffe (‘miracle weapon’) was still a hope one might count on. Military aspects and military leaders who were powerful personalities within the Nazi regime seem to be of special fascination to the customers of the museum shop and particularly of the kiosk. It is worth noting at this point that even in countries which suffered German occupation, the fascination of the rocket seems to be prevalent at some places. The History and Remembrance Centre La Coupole, at the French site of a complex for the storage and launch of the A4/V2 during the German occupation, also focuses on the technical aspect and puts emphasis on the origins of the conquest of space. This is given material form in miniature rockets on offer in the museum shop. Also, the rocket created for the volumes Destination Moon and Explorers on the Moon (1950–54) of Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin is identical to the German V2 model which is exhibited in Peenemünde.

The Wolf’s Lair A similar phenomenon can be observed at the Wolf’s Lair, Hitler’s military headquarters in East Prussia which is nowadays a part of Poland. Despite extensive

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damage the site remains a notable tourist attraction. There is a monument in commemoration of 20 July 1944 at the site. Tourists, however, seem to be more interested in the war situation that the Wehrmacht had to face on the Eastern Front, an interest which is reflected in the souvenir items offered at the site. The site is run by a Polish-Austrian sweets manufacturer whose ambition is less historical documentation than doing business with the interest in German warfare, the strategic planning of the Army High Command (Oberkommando des Heeres or OKH, which Hitler controlled in person from December 1941 until his suicide), and the numerous surrounding bunkers and Nazi fortresses. Accordingly, one can buy various gas masks, holsters, plastic helmets, toy-guns, ancient looking photographs of Hitler amidst his circle, and a build-your-own model of the Führer’s bunker (Figure 7).13

Figure 7 Build-your-own model of the ‘Führer’s’ bunker at the site of the former Wolf’s Lair in Poland (photo Ulrike Dittrich)

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In his article about ‘Nazi souvenirs’, Micha Brumlik refers to the scandal caused by the publication of the faked Hitler diaries in 198314 and describes the fascination that places and objects related to the real person Hitler exert on people down to the present day.15 Brumlik traces the origins of this fascination back to the National Socialist era itself, when the combination of archaic objects like daggers and short swords which evoke the idea of ‘Germanic heroism’, with objects representing technological innovation and the modern age contributed to the construction of the concept of a so-called Volksgemeinschaft (literally ‘people’s community’, a term established by the National Socialists to facilitate the exclusion of those deemed not to ‘belong’). Collectors’ items like posters and stamps that were issued under the National Socialist regime also helped to disseminate these thoughts, while the nostalgic recourse to the glorious Prussian past was a further device used by National Socialist propaganda. According to Brumlik, the sensational interest in places where Hitler lived or worked results from the ideological closeness of National Socialism to death and the stimulating feeling of having been spared this fate. As far as German travellers to such places are concerned, the feeling of somehow being involved through one’s own family’s past is certainly of great significance, too.

Conclusion Many of the places connected to the Holocaust were situated beyond the Iron Curtain, and only after 1989/90 did travelling to those places become possible or at least much easier for tourists from the Western world and overseas. Under socialist rule such places were under strict ideological control and, as a consequence, the souvenir business was either controlled or non-existent. By 1989/90, when state control was loosened, the architectural remains of National Socialism in particular became a magnet for private tourist businesses. It is remarkable that, of all sites of memory, those that are not directly linked with the Holocaust and extermination should be profiting from increasing visitor numbers. This interest in the perpetrators’ sites is, in my opinion, not only due to a general thrill that the tourist looks for on holiday. It is also a question of what people prefer to identify with. When considering tourist destinations like Peenemünde, Nuremberg, and Hitler’s Wolf’s Lair and its surroundings, one might get the impression that the fate of millions of victims of National Socialist crimes has been lost from view. Instead, visitors are concerned with powerful personalities and extraordinary technical achievements and, as Skriebeleit reports, want to see places ‘where Hitler was’.16 Little wonder that Oliver Hirschbiegel’s 2004 film Downfall (Der Untergang), a historical drama focusing on the final days inside Hitler’s bunker in Berlin, was a box-office hit and is celebrated as an authentic historical document which, in the view of a number of newspaper columnists, should become a mandatory teaching aid in schools. The film succumbs to the fascination of the private Hitler. The Holocaust, which by then had passed its murderous peak, plays no role in the plot. Sites such as Peenemünde and the Wolf’s Lair are adopted by the public in a similar way. The Wolf’s Lair and its surroundings were the site not only of Hitler’s headquarters, but

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also of many military encounters in which Wehrmacht soldiers fought and were wounded or died. To many German families those experiences are much closer than those of the Jewish victims, as is reflected by the controversial debate provoked by the exhibition Crimes of the Wehrmacht. The topos of the decent German soldier, who came home after being misled by the Führer, is one possible explanation for this apparent indifference in post-war family narratives.17 Lost Victories (Verlorene Siege), a bestseller published by one of Hitler’s most prominent generals, Erich von Manstein, in the 1950s, nourished and strengthened the myth of the ‘unsoiled’ Wehrmacht for decades.18 In this context, Confino’s observation of a ‘nexus between tourism and war [experience]’19 gains importance. He argues that besides the beginnings of mass tourism with Mediterranean destinations in the post-war Federal Republic, for ‘the generation of the war soldiers [. . .] travelling [. . .] became a way of capturing recollections from the good old days of the Third Reich’.20 Similarly, a number of visitors to places such as Nuremberg, Peenemünde, and the Wolf’s Lair might be on the search for a more affirmative history, one that describes the ‘Third Reich’ as a historical period they can identify with and which they prefer to remember – assisted by a souvenir.

Notes 1. www.flholocaustmuseum.org/fhmcontent.cfmpageßname=becomeßaßmember (accessed 2005, website deleted at a later date). 2. See A. Radley, ‘Artefacts, Memory and a Sense of the Past’, in D. Middleton and D. Edwards (eds), Collective Remembering (London, Newbury Park, and New Delhi, 1990), p. 47. 3. On the pilgrimages, see for instance A. Prenninger, ‘Symbole und Rituale der Befreiungsfeiern in der KZ-Gedenkstätte Mauthausen’, in U. Dittrich and S. Jacobeit (eds), KZSouvenirs. Erinnerungsobjekte der Alltagskultur im Gedenken an die nationalsozialistischen Verbrechen (Potsdam, 2005), pp. 40–53. On Gedenkstättentourismus see J. Skriebeleit, who has established basic approaches to the subject: ‘Gruß aus Flossenbürg’, in Dittrich and Jacobeit (eds), KZ-Souvenirs, pp. 28–39. 4. See Skriebeleit, ‘Gruß aus Flossenbürg’. 5. Holts Tours, Battlefields & History 2006, Programme 2006, p. 26. 6. A. Confino, Germany as a Culture of Remembrance (Chapel Hill, 2006), p. 235. 7. Ibid., p. 242. 8. See also the official website of the Mittelbau-Dora Memorial: www.buchenwald.de/index _cten.html (accessed 8 January 2009). 9. Jens-Christian Wagner, director of the Mittelbau-Dora Memorial, has repeatedly pointed out that the dichotomous image of an unsoiled Peenemünde versus the hell of Mittelbau-Dora is prevalent in the public imagination. See J.-C. Wagner, ‘Opfer des Raketenwahns. Zwangsarbeit in Peenemünde und Mittelbau-Dora’, in J. Erichsen and B. Hoppe (eds), Peenemünde. Mythos und Geschichte der Rakete 1923–1989 (Berlin, 2004). 10. There is a kind of theme park exhibiting a submarine of the Soviet navy as an open-air museum on the harbour side. 11. See D. Zache, ‘Tourismus in Ruinen. Peenemündes Museum als Ausgangspunkt einer Entwicklung’, in Projektgruppe Gedenkstättenarbeit in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (ed.), Gedenkstätten und Tourismus – nicht nur ein Konferenzbericht (Schwerin, 1997), pp. 38–43. 12. The significance of amber is quite persistent and is reflected in art works dealing with the subject of expulsion. A recent example is the rather cynical theatre production of

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14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

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Schorsch Kamerun, Schön ist gewesen (Ist gekommen Iwan . . .) centering upon a family with origins in Königsberg (Kaliningrad), which was staged at the Volksbühne Berlin in 2005/06. In the play, recollections of the homesick Stiehls are repeatedly represented by the mineral as the subject of dialogues or dreams. This is also available on the internet. See R. Schuler, ‘Goldgräber-Stimmung am Ort des gescheiterten Hitler-Attentats’, Märkische Allgemeine Zeitung, 26/27 June 2004, 3, http:// www.maerkischeallgemeine.de/cms/beitrag/10318051/1344083/Goldgraeber_Stimmung _am_Ort_des_gescheiterten_Hitler_Attentats.html (accessed 1 July 2008). Because of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the scandal they had caused, the story of the faked Hitler diaries were again the subject of a number of media products in 2008. M. Brumlik, ‘Vorgreifende Erinnerung an Tod und Ewigkeit. Der Nazi-Souvenir’, in Museum für Angewandte Kunst Frankfurt (ed.), Der Souvenir (Frankfurt am Main, 2006), pp. 276–83. Skriebeleit, ‘Gruß aus Flossenbürg’, p. 32. See H. Heer, Vom Verschwinden der Täter (Berlin, 2004). See O. von Wrochem, Erich von Manstein. Vernichtungskrieg und Geschichtspolitik (Paderborn, 2006). The topos was promoted by literary works as well, even in works by the professed pacifist and Social Democratic Party member Johannes Mario Simmel (1924– 2009), one of the most widely read German novelists (see for instance his novel Es muss nicht immer Kaviar sein (It Can’t Always be Caviar)). Simmel also commented repeatedly and critically on the ongoing careers of important Nazi figures after 1945. In Confino, Germany as a Culture of Remembrance, p. 247. Ibid., p. 248.

2.4 Remembering Euthanasia: Grafeneck in the Past, Present, and Future Susanne C. Knittel

Just 70 kilometres from Stuttgart, set on a hill in the Swabian uplands, the Baroque Grafeneck Castle (Schloss Grafeneck) was for several hundred years a summer hunting residence of the Dukes of Württemberg until it was acquired in 1929 by the Lutheran Samaritan Foundation (Samariterstift) and became a home for the disabled. In 1939, the National Socialist government seized the castle and turned it into the first of six institutions for the euthanasia killing programme, committed to the extermination of people with supposedly hereditary illnesses, in the interest of so-called ‘racial hygiene’. The first to be equipped with a gas chamber and crematorium, Grafeneck became the point of departure for the systematic destruction of human life that ultimately led to the Holocaust. During the few months of its operation (18 January–13 December 1940), 10,654 people were gassed and cremated there. After it was closed down in the winter of 1940, the castle was used for the evacuation of children from cities at risk of being bombed (an operation known as the Kinderlandverschickung). In 1947 it was returned to the Samariterstift.1 Today, Grafeneck serves both as a home and workplace for 100 mentally ill and disabled people and as a memorial site, receiving more than 20,000 visitors a year. Defining itself as a place of life, where remembering the past goes hand in hand with taking responsibility and initiative for the future, Grafeneck is, as a memorial site and a community, engaged in a constant dialogue between present and past. The Grafeneck Memorial Association (Verein Gedenkstätte Grafeneck) administers the memorial and the documentation centre in close co-operation with the Samariterstift. The catalogue accompanying the documentary exhibition emphasizes the site’s multiple functions: as a site of individual mourning it provides information for family members of victims; as a site of memory it commemorates and documents the fate of the more than 10,600 victims; and as a centre for research and education it provides an archive, a library, a permanent exhibition, tours, and seminars, which focus on fostering historical and political awareness.2 At any memorial site, the memorial ‘language’ employed is influenced by the site’s specific history; but given that Grafeneck was a home for the disabled before it was a memorial, and that it continues to be one, it has to confront a moral question that other sites are not obliged to face, namely: is it justifiable to house at this 124

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site members of a social group that was singled out and exterminated mere decades ago, while at the same time maintaining the site as a memorial to this very atrocity? To solve this dilemma, Grafeneck must try to integrate its past into its active present. An analysis of the many paradoxes of this site must thus incorporate not only Grafeneck’s post-war history but also an appreciation of its present-day existence as a home for the disabled. Although there is a large body of scholarship dealing with memorials to the victims of the Nazi regime, there is very little scholarly discourse on euthanasia memorial sites and there is, to my knowledge, no discussion of the specific problems that Grafeneck poses.3 In the following chapter, I examine Grafeneck through a double lens, reading the memorial and the care facility together, in order to show not only how Grafeneck connects to, participates in, and challenges contemporary discussions about the memorialization of the victims of Nazi crimes, but also how it affects the way the local community and the visitors think about disability. Drawing comparisons with other sites of the memory of Nazi euthanasia such as Hadamar, Hartheim, Ravensburg, and Berlin, I analyse how Grafeneck places itself within local, regional, and national commemorative cycles and networks as part of a larger landscape of memory.

Grafeneck’s past The idea of excluding or even killing people deemed ‘unfit’ for society lay at the centre of National Socialist health, social, and race politics, and it can be traced to earlier social Darwinist discussions of ‘racial hygiene’. A number of scholars have examined the ideology of ‘cleansing’ the nation by destroying ‘degenerate’ life, tracing its progression through the different stages of the ‘Aktion T4’ programme, from coercive sterilization to the so-called children’s euthanasia in 1939, followed by the centralized mass killings in 1940–41, and finally the decentralized euthanasia killings by injection or starvation that went on until 1945.4 According to the latest studies, approximately 300,000 disabled and mentally ill people were murdered.5 All of these studies emphasize the linear process that leads from the concept of ‘life not worthy of living’ to the Holocaust. For example, most of the personnel of the euthanasia killing centres were transferred to the extermination camps in the east, among them the infamous Christian Wirth from Stuttgart, who supervised the gassings at Grafeneck and later became commandant in Belzec and general inspector of the Aktion Reinhard camps.6 But the connections between Grafeneck and Auschwitz extend far beyond the technological and procedural similarities. Giorgio Agamben emphasizes the fact that the Nazi euthanasia programme was not a mere preface to the Holocaust but rather its first chapter: it is impossible to detach the Nuremberg race laws from the laws concerning eugenics – both the victims of the concentration camps and of the euthanasia killing centres constitute what Agamben terms ‘bare life’; i.e. life that ceases to have any juridical value and thus becomes the site of the exertion of sovereign power. The politicization of eugenics, that is, the regime’s arrogation of the right to make a sovereign decision on whether a life is worthy or unworthy of living, together

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with a genetic definition of ‘race’, led to a politics of exclusion and elimination whereby anyone could potentially be deemed undesirable.7 Despite its inextricable links to the Holocaust, the memory of Nazi euthanasia still occupies a marginal place in contemporary public and scholarly discussions of the memory of Nazi atrocities. This is even more surprising given that, after 1941, some of the euthanasia killing centres were also used to murder thousands of Jewish prisoners and POWs from nearby concentration camps. This fact has, more often than not, been completely ignored. There are legal and cultural reasons for the silence surrounding the issue of euthanasia: firstly, while most of the medical perpetrators were punished leniently or acquitted and continued to enjoy high social status, their victims were until recently excluded from any form of juridical or social acknowledgement or financial compensation.8 Secondly, a thorough historiographical documentation was delayed until the 1990s, when local historians at the different euthanasia memorial sites began documenting the history of their own institutions. The results of this regional scholarship have nonetheless been slow to stimulate a broader public awareness of the topic.9 Thirdly, the unresolved memory of Nazi euthanasia has a tendency to complicate or obstruct contemporary debates in Germany about mercy killing or assisted suicide, genetic engineering, and mental illness, and vice versa. Moreover, a major cultural issue that prevents a coming to terms with the memory of euthanasia is certainly society’s difficult relationship to disability in general and mental illness in particular. The tendency to evaluate a human life according to its socio-economic ‘usefulness’, the insistence on defining mental illness as some sort of deviation from or as a threat to pre-existing norms contributes to a continuing marginalization of disabled people and an insecurity regarding interactions with them.

Grafeneck today The picturesque hills surrounding the Baroque structure of the castle lend Grafeneck a peaceful air, but the idyllic scene does not offer a ready-made narrative of redemption. The past is always present in this idyll, and uncannily so. In the hall of the administrative building hangs a large black and white canvas depicting the tree-lined road that leads past the residents’ houses to the memorial chapel. The artist Normann Seibold named it Zeitzeugen (literally ‘witnesses to the times’, the word used for those who lived through a past era): the old trees are witnesses to the place’s history, even though nature and time have covered its traces. Seibold, who has a degree from the arts academy in Karlsruhe, is a resident of Grafeneck. His studio in the castle contains over 2500 of his own paintings. Like him, all of Grafeneck’s residents know what happened here in the past. However, balancing the simultaneity of past and present has not always been easy at Grafeneck: a glance at its unique history since 1945 illustrates the complicated and highly self-conscious process of commemoration at a site that is nevertheless primarily a care facility. At Grafeneck, memorialization of the past is complemented by a confrontation with the present-day residents. The memorial and documentation centre are not

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separate from the residents’ living quarters. Encounters between visitors and residents are inevitable: the residents approach visitors in order to chat or join a tour group. There is no clear border between the sites of the past and those of the present: the visitors have to negotiate not only what they learn about the atrocities of the past but also their possible insecurity or discomfort in the face of disability, the fact that they are made aware of the fragility of their own health and well-being, and the fact that they are, in a sense, intruding on the residents’ home and everyday life. Grafeneck differs in this respect from other euthanasia memorial sites such as Hadamar or Hartheim. Since the castle (which housed the Nazi administration in 1940) is the only remaining original structure on the site, visitors have to imagine how it might have looked in 1940. They can take a guided tour of the entire site or visit the exhibition, but they can also explore the grounds on their own, with no prescribed route to follow. In contrast, most other euthanasia memorial sites are set distinctly apart from the daily routine of the psychiatric clinics there, as at Hadamar, or serve exclusively as memorials, as at Hartheim, where the visitors’ experience is structured around the preserved architectural remains of the killing complex. While each of these sites features exhibitions that introduce the visitors to past and current issues of disability, the encounter remains a mediated one and visitors can determine how much they want to engage with the topic.

The memory of Grafeneck: From avoidance to action Thomas Stöckle, the director of the memorial at Grafeneck, describes its history as an ongoing struggle for memory that reaches outward from the site to the region.10 After the unsatisfactory conclusion of two war-crime trials in Freiburg and Tübingen in 1949, which led to the conviction of only a few of the perpetrators, public discussion of the crimes at Grafeneck Castle came to a halt before it had even really begun. Commemoration began on the initiative of the Samariterstift: in 1962 they erected as the first element of the memorial complex a large stone cross next to the two graves that hold the 250 urns found at the site. As Dietrich Sachs, the former director of the care facility at Grafeneck, explains, there was a constant tension between what the Samariterstift thought best for the residents and what was to be an appropriate form of commemoration for the victims. In 1965, the building that had housed the gas chamber was torn down to make room for livestock and farming equipment. At the time, the demolition met with unanimous public approval, whereas today such a move would of course provoke intense debate.11 In 2005 a cornerstone was erected at the site of the former gas chamber, together with a small sign that reads: ‘Here once stood the building in which 10,654 people were gassed to death in 1940.’12 This inscription emphasizes the humanity of the victims, refusing to stigmatize them as different. Enigmatic in its brevity, the sign indirectly asks visitors to seek further information at the documentation centre. In the topography of the site, the cornerstone marks the heart of Grafeneck as a site of trauma, but it is not the heart of the memorial. In contrast to Hadamar or Hartheim, commemoration at Grafeneck is not based on the preservation of

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authentic structures, nor is it structured exclusively around a tailor-made memorial experience – rather, it is a dynamic process linked to the people who live and work there. In addition, the site hosts annual memorial services, the first of which took place in October 1979, the fortieth anniversary of the Nazi expropriation of the castle, and was organized by a group of Lutheran priests, members of the local Lutheran youth organizations, and Grafeneck employees. More than 1000 people took part in a memorial walk from the surrounding towns and villages to attend the service. Two memorial plaques were erected in its wake: one was placed on one of the urn graves with the inscription ‘In memory of the victims of inhumanity – Grafeneck 1940’ (‘Zum Gedenken an die Opfer der Unmenschlichkeit’). The other was a historical description of the events and was placed at the entrance to the cemetery. While the inscriptions remained abstract, they marked the beginning of a slow process of public acknowledgment. The breakthrough in the conceptualization of the memorial came in 1989 when, under the motto ‘Commemoration Needs a Place’ (‘Das Gedenken braucht einen Ort’), a memorial chapel was erected – an eerie, spider-like steel structure with a pentagonal roof looming over a large granite rock, almost an altar, backed by a wall with a rent stone slab at its centre. A low stone wall frames the different components of the memorial complex and visitors walking along it are lead to a pedestal with a glass top through which they can see the memorial book. Visitors can pull out a drawer in the pedestal and leaf through the book and read the names of the victims. The stone wall was erected by a group of international students over the course of a summer seminar entitled ‘Value of Life’ (‘Wert des Lebens’). The new chapel was accompanied by a small documentary exhibition in the castle. While commemoration at Grafeneck began in traditional Christian forms – of the six former euthanasia killing centres that are now memorial sites it is the only Christian institution – the memorial complex today unites both Christian and Jewish, and religious and secular forms of mourning and remembrance. The entrance to the memorial complex, for instance, is marked by a stone threshold bearing the names of the institutions whose patients became victims of the Nazi euthanasia programme at Grafeneck. The growing interest of victims’ families and the general public as well as recently established contacts with archives and memorial sites all over Germany have set in motion an ongoing process of historical Aufarbeitung (review and reappraisal). Of the 10,654 victims of Grafeneck more than 8000 have been identified, but it may be impossible to identify all of them. The Alphabet Garden, created by the Jewish-American artist Diane Samuels in 1998, speaks to the impossibility of a definitive conclusion to this process. It consists of 26 stone cubes, each engraved with a letter of the Roman alphabet and partly sunk into the earth in a field adjacent to the chapel, and a large stone with the inscription, ‘Bitte, nimm meine Buchstaben und forme daraus Gebete’ (‘Please take my letters and fashion them into prayers’). Inspired by a Jewish tale about a man who prays reciting the letters of the alphabet asking God to form prayers from the letters, the garden engages the visitors in a meditative process of looking up the names in the

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memorial book, and then walking around in order to find the letters to spell out those names and/or all the possible names of unknown victims. This memorial links not only the more than 100 Jewish victims of Grafeneck with the Christian, but also the known and the unknown. Depending on the season, the letters may be hidden amongst grass or flowers, leaves or snow, but the artist explicitly does not want the garden to be tended. Visitors express mixed opinions on this concept of an ‘ungroomed’ memorial. Some complain about its untidiness, others overlook it completely, but many are inspired by it: they interpret the garden as a sort of cemetery and place candles or flowers on certain letters. In a sense, concerns about the state of the garden reflect broader concerns about the status of things (and, by implication, individuals) that do not conform to particular preconceptions and norms. The conscious decision not to keep everything ordered and regimented can likewise be seen as a statement of the acceptance of human difference that Grafeneck stands for. While the Alphabet Garden introduces Jewish forms of commemoration and anti-monumental discourse into the memorial complex, the 2003 local art project ‘10,654 – art for grafeneck – where word and writing reach their limits’ (‘kunst für grafeneck – wo wort und schrift ans ende kommen’) also includes non-religious artistic and creative forms, in media such as visual art, music, and performance. Featuring local artists, residents of Grafeneck, and student groups, these art works, just like the Alphabet Garden, participate in a more general trend towards the impermanent and interactive, towards a type of memorial that James Young has termed the ‘counter-monument’. Made of materials that will change or vanish completely over time, these works provoke rather than reconcile and raise questions instead of providing answers. Perhaps the best example is the performance piece created by local cantor Stefan Lust. Taking passages from letters, documents, and trial testimonies found in the Grafeneck archive, he created a collage of text and music that meditates on the bureaucratic aspect of mass murder and, in a stylized manner, re-enacts the war crime trial. The performance does not offer consolation, nor does it prescribe a means of commemoration: rather, it prompts a reflection on the role of art in finding the difficult balance between embodiment of memory and its estrangement.13 Where Stefan Lust’s performance brought the bureaucratic documents of systematic murder to life, another memorial associated with Grafeneck restores to the urban landscape the actual physical means of the victims’ deportation: the Grey Bus Memorial (Denkmal der grauen Busse). Designed in 2005 by the artists Horst Hoheisel and Andreas Knitz for a competition staged by the city of Ravensburg and the Zentrum für Psychiatrie Weißenau (Weißenau Psychiatric Centre) to commemorate the deportation of more than 550 of its patients to Grafeneck, it consists of two life-size concrete replicas of the grey buses used to deport mentally disabled people to the Nazi euthanasia killing centres. The first bus, positioned at the threshold of the old gate of the Weißenau clinic that leads into town, emphasizes the public aspect of the memory of euthanasia: forever frozen in the moment of departure, it points to the fact that an entire community and an entire region silently witnessed the exclusion and deportation of so many of its members.

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Figure 8 The Grey Bus Memorial during its stay in front of the Berlin Philharmonic on Tiergartenstrasse, from January 2008 to January 2009 (photo Susanne Knittel)

The second bus is a moving memorial that, before reaching its final destination at Grafeneck, will be transported to places all over Germany that are connected to the memory of euthanasia. At the time of writing the bus had just been placed in front of the Berlin Philharmonic on the Tiergartenstraße, the street that housed the administration of the euthanasia programme (Figure 8). The Grey Bus Memorial presents an unavoidable obstacle in the midst of people’s daily routine. Plaques at the bus-stop explain the context.14 The memorial not only transforms the perpetrators’ means of deportation into a vehicle that transports the memory of their victims but it is also an uncanny manifestation of a repressed memory: around 1940, the grey buses were a frequent sight on the roads and people knew what they signified.15 The concept of the twin buses, one stationary, one moving, not only links regional and national sites of the memory of Nazi euthanasia, but it also involves the different communities in its progress since they have to raise the money to bring the memorial to their town.

Grafeneck in the future The latest addition to the memorial complex in Grafeneck is the documentation centre, established in 2005 as a place of research and education. While the memorial complex focuses on the mourning and commemoration of the victims and thus gives minimal historical information, the permanent exhibition at the documentation centre supplies the historical context of the euthanasia crimes and also documents the history of Grafeneck’s memory. Original documents from the archive and quotations from eyewitness accounts illustrate the processes that led to the industrial mass murder of people whose life was deemed expendable by the Nazis. Naming the perpetrators and tracing their careers during the Third Reich as

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well as their post-war punishment are crucial components of the exhibition that also thematizes post-war silence and repression. Grafeneck thus unites the functions of a Denkmal and a Mahnmal: it commemorates the victims, asks visitors to think about their own stance towards disability, and it confronts them with the crimes of the perpetrators, unequivocally stating: ‘never again’. This ‘never again’ is best illustrated by the integrative work of the Samariterstift. As a site of encounter for disabled and non-disabled people, Grafeneck reaches out to the region: a Schlosscafé and a concert series attract visitors, including artists, from the surrounding areas; volunteers organize excursions and sports events with local teams. Most importantly, there are integrative facilities throughout the region that employ Grafeneck’s residents. As part of a larger network, the site takes part in educating future generations about the origins of the ‘final solution’ and about tolerance and social commitment. Instead of one of those petrified sites of trauma, which, according to Aleida Assmann, are permanently suspended between authenticity and reconstruction,16 Grafeneck is a dynamic, living memorial that challenges preconceptions of how commemoration should take place. Unlike more monolithic monuments which represent the artistic vision of one architect or designer (such as Hartheim, which was completely redesigned by Herbert Friedl), Grafeneck has more of a patchwork quality, composed as it is of diverse elements by numerous contributors. One could criticize the memorial’s lack of a unifying narrative, but on the other hand it genuinely reflects the surrounding area’s engagement with the memorial. Besides, an active institution such as Grafeneck could not withstand the disruption caused by a thoroughgoing artistic overhaul. Most importantly, visitors to Grafeneck will find that the site’s lively present interrupts the kind of solemn contemplation of the past they might have sought there. Through their encounters with the everyday life of the residents, visitors are forced to negotiate the discomfort many people still feel in the presence of people with disabilities, not least when their parents and grandparents might have been tacit witnesses to the atrocities committed there in the past; Grafeneck also offers a different, more immediate sense of the ‘past in the present’ than other memorial sites. The presence of the residents prompts questions about what it means to live in a place that is a constant reminder of its own cruel history. Grafeneck’s remote location was seen by the Samariterstift as a positive contributing factor to the well-being of its residents, and by the Nazis as ideal for keeping their activities hidden from the general population. Today it means that despite efforts at integration, it is easy for inhabitants of the surrounding area to ignore or avoid Grafeneck – be it the site itself, its memory, or its present-day function in the community. It would be easy to criticize Grafeneck as a memorial for precisely this remoteness. Is it not part of a memorial’s duty to be prominent, visible, unavoidable? On the one hand, it must be remembered that Grafeneck is not only a memorial and the remote, idyllic setting was and is in the residents’ best interests. On the other hand, Grafeneck must stay where it is, secluded or not, but the Grey Bus Memorial offers a mobile counterpart that also plays with the permeability of the boundaries between past and present. Placed on a city street or a

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town square, it brings about a disruption of people’s familiar surroundings. And when this vehicle of memory starts moving it will cause a disturbance of a different kind: the large, heavy transport blocks the roads and highways and causes traffic jams while it slowly makes its way to its new destination. Along the way, the Grey Bus Memorial effectively reverses the polarities of the memorial experience at Grafeneck and thus the two complement each other perfectly. An imposing concrete hulk intrudes on ordinary citizens’ daily lives in a way that is hard to ignore: the past has become manifest in the present and is very much in the way. By contrast, if and when those ordinary citizens should choose to visit Grafeneck, they themselves are the intruders in search of the past and finding instead a potentially troubling present.

Notes 1. T. Stöckle, Grafeneck 1940. Die Euthanasie-Verbrechen in Südwestdeutschland (Tübingen, 2002). 2. T. Stöckle, Gedenkstätte Grafeneck Dokumentationszentrum Ausstellungsband, exh. cat. (Grafeneck, 2007), p. 68. 3. Works such as James Young’s The Texture of Memory (New Haven, 1993), Andreas Huyssen’s Present Pasts (Stanford, 2003), or Jennifer A. Jordan’s Structures of Memory (Stanford, 2006) do not discuss euthanasia memorials. Stefanie Endlich does offer a comparative discussion of euthanasia memorials, but limits herself to a description of the physical structures. See S. Endlich, ‘ “Das Gedenken braucht einen Ort.” Formen des Gedenkens an den authentischen Orten’, in K. Hübener (ed.), Brandenburgische Heil- und Pflegeanstalten in der NS-Zeit (Berlin, 2002), pp. 341–88; ‘Das Denkmal der grauen Busse im Kontext der Erinnerungskultur’ in A. Schmauder and F. Schwarzbauer (eds), Erinnern und Gedenken. Das Mahnmal Weißenau und die Erinnerungskultur in Ravensburg (Konstanz, 2007). 4. H. Friedlander, The Origins of Nazi Genocide: From Euthanasia to the Final Solution (Chapel Hill and London, 1995); G. Aly, Endlösung. Völkerverschiebung und der Mord an den europäischen Juden (Frankfurt am Main, 1995); R. J. Lifton, The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide (New York, 1986); and E. Klee, ‘Euthanasie’ im NS-Staat. Die ‘Vernichtung lebensunwerten Lebens’ (Frankfurt am Main, 1985). 5. M. Hamm (ed.), Lebensunwert. Zerstörte Leben. Zwangssterilisation und ‘Euthanasie’ (Frankfurt am Main, 2005). 6. Stöckle, Grafeneck 1940, p. 174. 7. G. Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (Stanford, 1998). 8. Because they were not considered victims of racial, religious, or political persecution, the victims of ‘euthanasia’ were not included in the 1953 Compensation Act (Entschädigungsgesetz). Only in 1990, after repeated petitions from the Bund der ‘Euthanasie’Geschädigten und Zwangssterilisierten, was a monthly allowance granted. The ‘Gesetz zur Verhütung erbkranken Nachwuchses’ has yet to be annulled. See M. Heß, ‘Zur Geschichte der Entschädigung von “Euthanasie”-Opfern. Gedenken und Handeln’, in A. Frewer and C. Eickhoff (eds), ‘Euthanasie’ und die aktuelle Sterbelhilfe-Debatte (Frankfurt am Main, 2000), pp. 370–82. 9. Disability has only recently become of interest to cultural historians. In her survey Disability in Twentieth-Century German Culture, Carol Poore reveals how central the notion of disability is to modern German culture. Focusing on representations of disability in film and literature from the Weimar Republic to the present, she acknowledges the central importance of mental disability, especially in the context of Nazi euthanasia. Her focus is, however, almost exclusively on representations of physical disability and she

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13. 14.

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does not include memorials. C. Poore, Disability in Twentieth-Century German Culture (Ann Arbor, 2007). Stöckle, Grafeneck 1940, pp. 56ff. The author of a 1966 newspaper article comments that finally, after 23 years, the building has vanished. ‘Nachts kamen die grauen Omnibusse’, Stuttgarter Nachrichten, 12 November 1966, 55. The 2005 sign replaced an earlier sign, erected in 2003, with the somewhat vague and ominous inscription ‘Here stood the House of Death “10654” ’, that also noted the exact geographical parameters of the building. There is no recording of this performance, since it is only meant to exist in the moment of its performance. It has not been performed since. The Grey Bus also communicates with another memorial at the location, Richard Serra’s Berlin Junction, a steel sculpture placed on the site in 1987 and later re-dedicated by the city of Berlin to the memory of the victims of Nazi euthanasia. In its almost too abstract form, this memorial has often been misinterpreted as ‘Kunst am Bau’, a sculpture belonging to the Philharmonic, and the memorial plaque on the ground at its side is easily overlooked. The Stiftung Topographie des Terrors is currently considering redesigning the site, but it is perhaps a testament to the insecurity surrounding the memorialization of Nazi euthanasia that a satisfactory solution has yet to be found here. Klee and Kurt Nowak recount various examples and anecdotal evidence to demonstrate that as early as February 1940, one month after the beginning of the killings in Grafeneck, the population in the surrounding area was beginning to suspect what was happening. See Klee, ‘Euthanasie’ in NS-Staat; K. Nowak, ‘Widerstand, Zustimmung, Hinnahme. Das Verhalten der Bevölkerung zur “Euthanasie” ’, in N. Frei (ed.), Medizin und Gesundheitspolitik in der NS-Zeit (Munich, 1991), pp. 235–51; and P. Eitel, Ravensburg im Dritten Reich. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Stadt (Ravensburg, 1998). A. Assmann, Der lange Schatten der Vergangenheit. Erinnerungskultur und Geschichtspolitik (Munich, 2006).

2.5 Remembering Prisoners of War as Victims of National Socialist Persecution and Murder in Post-War Germany Jens Nagel

Introduction By the end of the Second World War, the victorious troops of the anti-Hitler coalition had liberated concentration camps in Poland and Germany which are now known worldwide as the sites of unprecedented atrocities. In addition, troops liberated more than one hundred prisoner of war camps – so-called Stalags and Oflags – including thousands of work detachments (Arbeitskommandos) all over Germany and the former occupied territories.1 In doing so, the Allied soldiers witnessed the treatment and living conditions of the prisoners of war from various enemy countries and discovered that these situations varied greatly. In the case of the Soviet prisoners of war – and to a lesser extent that of the Italian prisoners of war – these conditions were nearly as dire as those found in concentration camps and had caused extraordinary mortality rates.2 As a result, Allied soldiers entering the prisoner of war camps reported shocking experiences similar to those of the soldiers liberating the concentration camps. Approximately 3.3 million out of 5.7 million Soviet prisoners of war in German captivity died between 1941 and 1945.3 Around 600,000 Italian soldiers were taken prisoner by the German army after Italy’s unconditional surrender on 8 September 1943. Forty-five thousand of these soldiers did not survive German captivity.4 Due to the enormous mortality rate, war crimes committed against Soviet prisoners of war became part of the overall allied judicial prosecution of the German major war criminals held at Nuremberg in 1946.5 In the case of those defendants who were either sentenced to death or imprisonment, their conviction by the tribunal established their guilt for the inhuman treatment and systematic murders of Soviet prisoners of war. Although the leadership of the German armed forces (Wehrmacht) has always tried to present itself as untainted by the German crimes committed during the Second World War, the verdict handed down at the Nuremberg trial stated clearly that the Wehrmacht had been heavily involved in war crimes. The case of the Soviet prisoners of war, who were solely under Wehrmacht administration, proved the willing participation of the German military leadership in an unprecedentedly brutal transgression of international law.6 134

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The tragedy and associated deaths of the Soviet and Italian prisoners of war in German custody was not a regional or temporary event, but one on a larger, European scale. Even though the number of Italian victims was much smaller, the camps in which the Italian prisoners of war were held were, in general, as terrible as those in which Soviet soldiers were interned. They are remembered by surviving prisoners and relatives as death camps (campo di morte).7 This chapter deals with two important questions: how did the two German states remember these victims of Nazi persecution and murder before 1990, and what is the standing of these two victim groups in unified Germany’s remembrance culture today? To profile and contrast the developments in the institutional memories of the divided Germany, two exemplary case studies will be outlined. Despite the different political systems of East and West Germany, the developments in respect of the remembrance of the Soviet and Italian prisoners of war were very similar in both states during the Cold War. The question of whether or not these two victim groups have become a substantial part of the German remembrance culture in today’s unified Germany will be answered at the end of this chapter. To date, the process of memorializing the war crimes committed against prisoners of war in post-war Germany has not been systematically researched. Many studies about prisoner of war camps deal with the development of the local remembrance culture, but a study on a national scale is still a desideratum. This chapter represents a first attempt to focus on this topic, thereby paving the way for further research.

Remembering prisoners of war in the German Democratic Republic (GDR) Zeithain, lying approximately 60 kilometres north of Dresden on the river Elbe, was the location of one of the so-called Russian Camps (Russenlager), Stalag 304 (IV H).8 It was the only camp exclusively for Soviet prisoners of war in Saxony and central Germany, with its important brown coal and chemical industrial complexes. Between 1941 and 1945, a total of four military cemeteries were established on the territory of the military training ground Zeithain. Here, around 25,000– 30,000 Soviet prisoners of war were buried, predominantly in mass graves, and there existed an additional cemetery for Italian, Polish, and Serbian prisoners of war.9 When the Red Army reached Zeithain on 23 April 1945 and liberated the POW camp, the four Soviet cemeteries, with the exception of a few hundred individual graves from the summer of 1941, were not recognisable as such. The mass graves were not marked. In one case the cemetery was even being put to agricultural use by local farmers with the approval of the local German military command. While three of these four cemeteries were no longer being used by the time of the liberation, burials continued in one cemetery until the camp was finally abandoned in autumn 1945. Many former Soviet POWs and forced labourers remained in the camp after liberation; around 450 of these died while awaiting repatriation. By this time the camp was being used as a hospital and was part of the

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network of filtration camps of the Soviet People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs at Zeithain.10 All existing individual graves were provisionally marked under orders from the local commandant’s office of the Soviet Military Administration in Germany (Sowjetische Militäradministration in Deutschland or SMAD) in 1945. Each grave was marked with a wooden panel denoting the personal details of the dead, and each panel adorned with a red Soviet Star (Figure 9). The four mass graves of Soviet POWs were finally remodelled and furnished with a central memorial in 1948/49, but only after the SMAD appointed a board of enquiry, on 1 August 1946, to investigate the cause of death of the Soviet prisoners of war killed in Zeithain.11 While three of the four cemeteries were closed off, the memorial complex ‘Grove of Honour’ (Ehrenhain Zeithain) was built at the location of the fourth cemetery, the former so-called Zeithain Russian Cemetery (Russenfriedhof Zeithain) in 1948/49. It was the only cemetery to be excluded by the Red Army from what became the Zeithain military training ground after 1945.12 Thus, while the other three cemeteries remained nominally a part of the complex, they were not accessible to the public because the training ground was declared a prohibited military zone. Through its new design, the Ehrenhain Zeithain lost much of the character of a cemetery. In the course of the landscaping work, all the existing individual marked graves were levelled and, despite the knowledge of their exact locations, the mass graves remained unmarked. While the Soviet POWs buried in the mass graves had already been abandoned to anonymity, those buried in the single graves now shared their fate. Today, the only evidence of the deaths can be found in

Figure 9 Named single graves, 1945. They later became the Ehrenhain Zeithain. (Source: Bildarchiv, Gedenktstätte Ehrenhain Zeithain, No. 1786; photo reproduced here courtesy of the Gedenkstätte.)

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a memorial plaque placed in front of the imposing obelisk, with the inscription ‘Glory and honour for the fighters against Fascism’. The names of the murdered Red Army soldiers are still missing, as is any reference to the fact that the dead were prisoners of war.13 This applies to all four cemeteries in Zeithain.14 All this happened despite the fact that, in 1945, the United States passed on to the Soviets the majority of Wehrmacht documents relating to the deaths of Soviet prisoners of war.15 That these documents were available, and that the classification of those buried in the cemetery was possible, was even documented in a DEFA16 weekly newsreel about the work of the so-called Chorun board of enquiry at Zeithain in 1946. This newsreel showed identity cards with information about the burial locations of the deceased in Zeithain. This deliberate anonymization of the dead in Zeithain and elsewhere in the Soviet hemisphere highlights Stalin’s persecution of and discriminatory policy towards former prisoners of war and forced labourers. The stigmatization of the alleged traitors continued well after their deaths. They were honoured only as anonymous heroes of the fight against fascism, particularly in huge closed military cemeteries for Soviet prisoners of war.17 Remembrance of the Soviet POWs in Zeithain first became at least partly possible at the beginning of the 1980s. Due to an initiative of the local branch of the German-Soviet Friendship Society (Deutsch-Sowjetische Freundschaft, or DSF), a German-Soviet school research project on the communist resistance organization at the camp started in 1977.18 This eventually resulted in the establishment of the Zeithain Memorial Site (Gedenkstätte Ehrenhain Zeithain), with a permanent exhibition in 1985. However, in accordance with GDR antifascist traditions, the exhibition dealt exclusively with resistance, while the fate of individual Soviet prisoners and the individual remembrance of all the victims were accorded little or no importance. The comparatively successful resistance in Zeithain in the second half of the war was exploited by the ruling East German regime to legitimize its leadership, as was the communist resistance at Buchenwald or Sachsenhausen. For the Italian POWs in Zeithain and elsewhere in the GDR, the situation was even worse; like other nationalities, they were completely ignored. Their graves were either destroyed, made anonymous, or neglected.19 The post-war development of the cemeteries in Zeithain and other towns can only be interpreted as a conscious decision against the individual remembrance and honouring of the Soviet prisoners of war as victims of Nazi persecution and murder.20 The example of Zeithain emphatically demonstrates how little importance war graves and memorials possessed within the former Soviet sphere of influence and the GDR, particularly at the historical sites of the mass starvation of Soviet prisoners of war. After 1945, only Red Army soldiers killed in action were seen as heroes in the fight against fascism. Their names were not forgotten: on the contrary, they served as examples in socialist propaganda used for teaching about the defence of socialism beyond Stalin’s death. With the exception of a few members of the communist resistance, Soviet prisoners of war remained a taboo in the GDR remembrance culture until its collapse. The establishment of the Zeithain Memorial Site was a singular regional development, and an exception to the rule.

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Remembering prisoners of war in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) Taboos and marginalization were, however, not limited to the former Soviet hemisphere in Europe. At the end of the Second World War, hundreds of cenotaphs for deceased Soviet POWs and forced labourers were built in the three western Allied occupation zones. Representatives of the three Soviet military missions in these occupation zones organized the construction of these cenotaphs in coordination with the relevant western Allied military governments. The majority of these involved small plots in church or other communal cemeteries. Larger memorials were erected at the Soviet military cemeteries for prisoners of war in Bergen-Belsen, Hemer, Bocholt, Oerbke, Sandbostel, Stukenbrock, and Wietzendorf. These memorials did not differ from those in the Soviet occupation zone in terms of their basic architectural design and the far-reaching anonymization of the victims. In the course of the 1950s and 1960s, the escalating East-West conflict and the lack of information regarding the fate of German POWs and soldiers killed in the Soviet Union led to the Soviet memorials being regarded largely as provocative and ‘blots on the landscape’ by the newly founded Federal Republic of Germany. They were not accepted as memorials for victims of National Socialist war crimes. As a result, attempts were made to reinterpret or even destroy the memorials in many places. One symptomatic example of the way in which West Germany dealt with Soviet memorials and war graves can be found in the village of Sandbostel, located not far from Bremervörde between Hamburg and Bremen in the federal state of Lower Saxony. Established in the course of the German attack on Poland in 1939, Stalag X B Sandbostel was a prisoner of war camp of the first generation.21 In contrast to the so-called ‘Russians’ camps’ like Zeithain, the living conditions more or less complied with the international rules for the protection of prisoners of war outlined in the Geneva conventions, at least until the Soviet and, later, Italian prisoners of war arrived. Along with huge numbers from other countries, tens of thousands of Soviet prisoners of war passed through this camp. For thousands, Sandbostel became their final destination. After liberation, under the supervision of the Soviet military mission and with the approval of the British military government, a huge, eight to ten metre high memorial was erected in Sandbostel. The monument was adorned with the Soviet state insignia and crowned by five gun barrels. Neither the names of the deceased Red Army soldiers nor any indication that they had been prisoners of war were added. Instead only the number of victims, 46,000, was mentioned.22 Within the local population, this figure was doubted from the start, and the memorial was seen as a ‘stone of contention’ (the equivalent, in German, of a ‘bone of contention’, and a popular pun in cases where memorials are disputed). Out of fear of the ‘Russians’, there was no immediate reaction from the population and the local government after construction was completed. But by the end of the 1940s, the Soviet military mission felt forced to complain to the British

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military government about the cemetery’s state of maintenance. The Sandbostel village administration was responsible for the cemetery, but rather unconvincingly claimed it was ‘overwhelmed’ by the task of maintaining it. Consequently, Lower Saxony’s state government arranged for the maintenance of the neglected cemetery to be carried out by the West German organization responsible for war graves, the People’s League for the Maintenance of German War Graves (Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge or Volksbund). The ‘maintenance’ provided by the Volksbund, starting in 1949, consisted in a complete change of the cemetery’s design. The 53 mass graves were condensed into 26, which were also much smaller in size compared to the original graves. At the same time, the Bremervörde town council, in co-operation with the Volksbund, set up an investigation to determine the ‘true’ number of victims in order to reduce the incriminatingly high number. The result was an initiative for the mounting of an information plaque at the cemetery’s entrance, which claimed to provide the ‘official calculated number of victims’ – 8765. However, this never happened, as the state government of Lower Saxony intervened and ordered the demolition and replacement of the offending memorial in 1956. The demolition of the so-called ‘Russian monument’ was well received, with a high level of approval in the local community. In the subsequent new design a ‘universal monument’ was developed, comprising three columns with the inscription ‘Your sacrifice – Our duty – Peace.’ This ‘universal’ memorial was dedicated to all Nazi victims; apart from the remaining mass graves, there was no longer any reminder

Figure 10 The ‘universal monument’ at the Sandbostel cemetery today. (Source: W. Borgsen and K. Volland, Stalag X B Sandbostel (Bremen, 1991), p. 253; photo reproduced here courtesy of Werner Borgsen.)

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of the Soviet prisoners of war (Figure 10). The historical layout and dimensions of the 26 mass graves – now reduced to 14 – was not adopted in the master plan for the new design of the cemetery. It is uncertain whether the mass graves visible today cover the whole historical area of the cemetery for Soviet POWs.23 The development at Sandbostel was typical of the way Soviet cemeteries and related memorials were dealt with in West Germany. The overwhelming majority of local administrations did not feel any clear sense of duty for the continuing care and conservation of these war graves and memorials. Their symbolism and inscriptions were viewed as a provocation and even as an impertinence on the part of the Soviets during the Cold War. A consequence of this attitude was destruction, but more often neglect and reinterpretation through reconstruction. The prevailing attitude within the West German administration at different levels clearly corresponded to the sentiments within the majority of the population. The fate of the Soviet POWs, and the question of blame, remained a taboo subject. It was not until 1990 that a permanent exhibition was opened for the public about the Soviet POWs in the newly built documentation centre at Bergen-Belsen. Finally in 1995, the first partly government-sponsored memorial site in the former West Germany dealing solely with the history of a ‘Russian camp’ was inaugurated at Schloß Holte-Stukenbrock. A similar situation applied in the case of the Italian prisoners of war, who were labelled as ‘military internees’. The Cold War had turned West Germany and Italy into NATO allies. With this in mind, neither government had an interest in discussing the fate of military internees. Post-war Italy based its Second World War remembrance solely on the 20-month resistance (resistenza) against the German occupation. The fact that Italian military internees had opted consciously to stay in German captivity although they had been offered immediate release on the condition that they continue to fight alongside the German forces was not viewed as resistance. In fact, because of their decision, they became victims of a criminal policy, which was largely vengeful in character. This did not become a subject of discussion in Italy, nor in West Germany. The Federal Republic’s compensation payments to Italy and elsewhere were agreed at a government level, without the victims being honoured individually. Instead, Bella Italia became a synonym for West German aspirations towards Mediterranean light-heartedness during the ‘economic miracle’, when many Germans spent their holidays in Italy. The Italian restaurants and ice cream parlours that took over many German street corners due to the massive influx of Italian labourers – among them former Italian POWs – brought a little of this attitude to life to Germany. Public acknowledgement of or discussions about the German war crimes committed in Italy and the Italians imprisoned in Germany did not happen.

Remembering prisoners of war since unification Until the 1990s, when a broad public became aware of Nazi crimes committed by the Wehrmacht in Germany, prisoners of war in Germany were not seen as victims, but as inevitable by-products of armed conflicts. The Cold War, and the

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unresolved issue of the fate of many German POWs in the Soviet Union, caused an almost complete elimination of their Soviet counterparts from German memory until well into the 1980s. Thanks to the painstaking but strongly resisted work of local initiatives, which was carried out mostly by volunteers, the integration of Soviet prisoners into the West German commemoration culture for the victims of Nazi persecution and murder started during the late 1980s.24 Following German unification in 1990, the increased visibility of victim groups and the greater significance attached to remembering former sites of Nazi brutality led, amongst other things, to a greater public awareness of the subject of Soviet POWs in Germany. Nevertheless, commemoration is still institutionally concentrated on a very few memorial sites,25 and while public awareness may be greater, there is still no real understanding of the enormity of the crimes committed and of the terrible fate of the 3.3 million Soviet POWs who fell victim to one of the most concentrated mass killings in human history. Interest in and discussion of Italian prisoners began even later. The debate over individual compensation for victims of National Socialist persecution and exploitation only intensified in the late 1990s. When the surviving former Italian POWs requested compensation payments from the German government for their slave labour, for the first time their struggles gained wider public attention in Germany. Public interest increased particularly in connection with several law suits filed by former Italian military internees in German courts. They were filed because the German government saw no legal justification for any compensation payments for forced labour. Although the internees were technically released from war captivity in August 1944 and constrained to work for German industry,26 according to an expert opinion they still retained their status as prisoners of war. Thus, they were not entitled to compensation.27 This judicial interpretation has become the official position of the German government ever since and has even been approved by the German Federal Supreme Court. Alongside the debates regarding compensation, research into, and exhibitions depicting, forced labour in the Third Reich have also focused attention on the fate of the Italian military internees. Although the scale of the crimes and the number of victims is nowhere near as great as in the case of the Soviet prisoners – who were victims, amongst other things, of mass starvation – experts acknowledge that the Italian POWs rank high among the victims of National Socialist persecution and murder. Like the Soviets, the Italian POWs are still widely marginalized in German remembrance culture today. It has to be said that, due to the equally minor importance of both victim groups in the remembrance cultures of their home countries, international pressure for an increased international recognition, particularly in Germany, has always been lacking. Despite official full rehabilitation in 1994, thanks to a presidential decree issued by Boris Yeltsin, the Soviet prisoners of war are still seen as second-class veterans in the now independent states of the former Soviet Union, particularly in Russia. Attitudes to the military internees in Italy are similar; here, they were and still are frequently associated with fascism. In Italy, memory of the war focuses only on the resistenza, especially in north and central Italy. The prevailing

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view is that the victims of Nazism included forced labourers, concentration camp prisoners, partisans, and murdered hostages, but not Italian prisoners of war. The fact that the fate of the Soviet and Italian POWs was barely acknowledged in their home countries led not only to a lack of remembrance, but also to a lack of historical research. Significantly, the standard works on both Soviet and Italian POWs have been published by German historians. Christian Streit’s 1976 dissertation No Comrades: The Wehrmacht and the Soviet Prisoners of War 1941–1945 is still considered internationally to be the standard study of Soviet prisoners of war. Additional benchmark works on the topic include Soviet Prisoners in Hitler’s War of Destruction by Alfred Streim, which was published in 1982, and Reinhard Otto’s book of 1998, The Wehrmacht and the Gestapo and Soviet Prisoners of War in the German Reich 1941/42.28 German authorship on the topic of Italian prisoners of war is also common. Gerhard Schreiber’s study The Italian Military Prisoners in the German Sphere of Influence 1943–1945: Betrayed – Defied – Forgotten is considered the foremost academic work both in Germany and in Italy. An important addition to the literature investigating the living and working conditions of the Italian military internees was published in 2002 by Gabriele Hammermann under the title Forced Labour for the Allies.29 Although the basic research into both victim groups was carried out in Germany and even acknowledged in their countries of origin as standard studies, this has not stimulated further academic historical research into the subject in Germany. Since the work of Streit and Streim, what research there has been into the Soviet prisoners of war has frequently taken the form of regional studies and has been based on individual initiatives. Almost all this research developed in the context of local memorial site work or temporary exhibition projects. Even the research into forced labour introduced in the course of the compensation debates of the 1990s did not fundamentally change the situation. Both the Soviet and Italian prisoners of war were treated as one of the many groups in the army of forced labourers in the Third Reich, and referred to as such in the relevant publications. There are no research projects devoted exclusively to them. This can be put down to the fact that both groups were victims of crimes by the German Wehrmacht. The lengthy and intensive public disputes surrounding the first Crimes of the Wehrmacht exhibition (the so-called Wehrmachtsausstellung) between March 1995 and July 1999, and to a lesser extent the second from November 2001 to March 2004, were the result of the fact that German society had for decades not faced up to this aspect of the Second World War. In fact, the involvement of the Wehrmacht in war crimes committed in the German name was a taboo subject, especially in West Germany. The Wehrmacht was seen to be not responsible or, at worst, was considered to have been taken advantage of by the Nazi Party and the SS. This taboo prevented any real acknowledgement of the fate of Soviet and Italian POWs. The two exhibitions undermined this myth of an innocent Wehrmacht and research projects into the crimes of the Wehrmacht following on from the exhibitions will hopefully assess the various, as yet unexplored questions that remain regarding the Soviet and Italian POWs. After all, the fate of both groups was the direct and exclusive responsibility of the Wehrmacht.

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Prisoners of war have somehow remained forgotten victims of Nazi persecution and destruction. In the Soviet case, prisoners were also victims of Stalinist persecution.30 But in the recently published draft guidelines for the future support of memorial sites by the Federal government (Gedenkstättenkonzeption des Bundes),31 little mention is made either of prisoners of war or of the war crimes of the Wehrmacht – and this draft has since been approved by the cabinet. Therefore, the sufferings of the Soviet and Italian POWs and the Wehrmacht’s role in inflicting these will probably only remain part of German memory culture if the initiative taken by non-governmental organizations in supporting the few memorial sites dealing with these topics can be maintained and expanded.32

Notes 1. Stalag was an abbreviation of Kriegsgefangenen-Mannschaftsstammlager (a camp for ordinary soldiers and non-commissioned officers), Oflag of KriegsgefangenenOffiziersstammlager (a camp for officers). For an overview of the German prisoner of war administration in the Second World War, see R. Overmans, ‘Die Kriegsgefangenenpolitik des Deutschen Reiches’, in Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt (ed.), Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg, 10 vols, vol. 9/2: Die deutsche Kriegsgesellschaft 1939 bis 1945. Ausbeutung, Deutung, Ausgrenzung (Munich, 2005), pp. 729–875. 2. See C. Streit, Keine Kameraden. Die Wehrmacht und die sowjetischen Kriegsgefangenen 1941– 1945, rev. edn (Bonn, 1991); R. Otto, Wehrmacht und Gestapo und sowjetische Kriegsgefangene im deutschen Reichsgebiet 1941/42 (Munich, 1998); and G. Schreiber, Die italienischen Militärinternierten im deutschen Machtbereich 1943 bis 1945. Verraten – Verachtet – Vergessen (Munich, 1990). 3. These figures are taken from Streit, Keine Kameraden, p. 10 and p. 14. 4. These figures are taken from Schreiber, Die italienischen Militärinternierten, p. 11 and p. 18. Only a minority of the Italian armed forces of approximately 3.7 million soldiers was taken prisoner by German armed forces. 5. Because they had been prisoners of war of their former ally, the inhuman treatment and murder endured by the so-called Italian military internees did not feature in the post-war Allied judicial prosecution of German war crimes. 6. See the judgement of the International Military Tribunal of 1 October 1946, in Internationaler Militärgerichtshof (ed.), Der Nürnberger Prozess gegen die Hauptkriegsverbrecher vom 14. November 1945–1. Oktober 1946, 24 vols (Nuremberg, 1947), vol. 1–2, pp. 255–60. 7. In remembrance of his deceased fellow Italian military internees at Zeithain, father L. Ajroldi published his diary under the title Diario. Zeithain, campo di morte (Pavia, 1962). 8. See J. Osterloh, Ein ganz normales Lager. Das Kriegsgefangenen-Mannschaftsstammlager 304 (IV H) Zeithain bei Riesa/S. 1941 bis 1945, 2nd edn (Leipzig, 1996). 9. 848 Italian, 44 Polish, and 12 Serbian soldiers had been buried in single graves in this cemetery. The Italians had arrived in Zeithain in October 1943. The Polish prisoners of war arrived in October 1944 after the surrender of the Polish Home Army (Armia Krajowa), which had tried to liberate Warsaw from the German occupation in August and September 1944. Serbs counted only for a small portion of the prisoners at Zeithain in 1943/44. 10. Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del. For information on the NKVD camps at Zeithain, see A. Budko et al., ‘Medizinhistorische Aspekte des Lagers Zeithain’, in Stiftung Sächsische Gedenkstätten (ed.), Zeithain. Gedenkbuch sowjetischer Kriegsgefangener (Dresden, 2005), vol. 1, pp. 122–33. 11. See Osterloh, Ein ganz normales Lager, pp. 161–71.

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12. The excluded territory was distributed as farmland to German refugees from the former German provinces east of the rivers Oder and Neiße. 13. Any changes to Soviet memorials and war graves in Germany have to be approved by the Russian Federation in accordance with the regulations of the German-Russian agreement on the care and conservation of war graves, signed on 16 December 1992. 14. Due to an absence of official Russian interest and pressure, no action has been taken within the German administration to assign responsibility for putting names onto the monument, although the memorial Zeithain now possesses the names of almost 21,000 of the dead. 15. See K.-D. Müller, ‘Geschichte hat ein Gesicht. Gemeinsame Anstrengung Deutschlands und Russlands zur Klärung des Schicksals ihrer Kriegsgefangenen’, in Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge (ed.), Gedenkbuch verstorbener sowjetischer Kriegsgefangener. Friedhof Hammelburg, Bayern (Kassel, 2002), pp. 10–12. 16. Deutsche Film AG was the GDR state film monopoly. 17. By contrast, one can find many post-war cenotaphs or small memorials with the names of deceased Soviet prisoners of war at non-military, communal cemeteries in German cities, towns, and villages. For various reasons, the graves at these smaller locations, which already had local significance during wartime, very often provide names on headstones or simple plaques. 18. Co-operating schools include the school of the Red Army’s Zeithain garrison and the Polytechnische Oberschule at Wülknitz. Pupils and teachers were able to contact many former members of the resistance organization or relatives, which resulted in a large collection of personal reports. 19. For instance, the Jacobsthal Italian Military Cemetery (Italienischer Soldatenfriedhof Jacobsthal) at Zeithain was completely destroyed in 1990. 20. Other examples are the cemeteries of the former Stalag III B at Fürstenberg/Eisenhüttenstadt and the former Stalag XI A at Altengrabow. While exhumations took place and the remains of the prisoners of war were reburied in huge Soviet memorial complexes, no mention was made of the dead, either as individuals or as members of a particular victim group at the POW camps. 21. The camp was of high importance for the POW administration of the German territories along the North Sea shore. This type of camp was smaller than the later ‘Russian camps’; their barracks and other buildings were of much better construction quality. See W. Borgsen and K. Volland, Stalag X B Sandbostel. Zur Geschichte eines Kriegsgefangenenund KZ-Auffanglagers in Norddeutschland 1939–1945 (Bremen, 1991). 22. Thanks to a co-operative project of Russian, Byelorussian, and German institutions, which has evaluated the Soviet prisoner of war documents originating from the Wehrmacht, the figure has been shown to have been grossly inflated. For further information about the project, see Stiftung Sächsische Gedenkstätten (ed.), Für die Lebenden. Der Toten gedenken (Dresden, 2003). 23. Borgsen and Volland, Stalag X B Sandbostel, pp. 240–53. 24. Examples include the currently existing memorial sites at Schloß Holte-Stukenbrock/ Senne, Sandbostel, and Hemer. 25. In particular at memorial sites like Bergen-Belsen, Hemer, Sandbostel, Schloß HolteStukenbrock, Trutzhain, and Zeithain. 26. This procedure was comparable with the procedures applied to the Polish prisoners of war of 1939, who were also forced to become civil labourers. It was mostly officers and part of the non-commissioned officers’ corps who remained prisoners of war. 27. The report was written by the German expert in international law, Prof. Dr Tomuschat of the Free University of Berlin. 28. See Streit, Keine Kameraden, A. Streim, Die Behandlung sowjetischer Kriegsgefangener im ‘Fall Barbarossa’. Eine Dokumentation (Heidelberg, 1981) and Otto, Wehrmacht und Gestapo.

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29. See Schreiber, Die italienischen Militärinternierten, and G. Hammermann, Zwangsarbeit für den Verbündeten. Die Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen der italienischen Militärinternierten in Deutschland 1943–1945 (Tübingen, 2002). 30. See U. Goeken-Haidl, Der Weg zurück. Die Repatriierung sowjetischer Zwangsarbeiter und Kriegsgefangener während und nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg (Essen, 2006). 31. See ‘Stellungnahme von Prof. Dr. Volkhard Knigge zur Fortschreibung der Gedenkstättenkonzeption’, at http://www.bundestag.de/ausschuesse/a22/anhoerungen/Gedenkstaettenkonzept-nicht__ffentlich/Stellungnahmen/Knigge.pdf (accessed 27 January 2009). 32. Examples of these non-governmental organizations are: Dokumentations- und Gedenkstätte Sandbostel e.V., Förderverein Dokumentationsstätte Stalag 326 Senne e.V., Förderverein Gedenkstätte Ehrenhain Zeithain e.V. and Arbeitskreis Stalag VI A Hemer.

2.6 (In)Visible Trauma: Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset’s Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime Thomas O. Haakenson Approved by the German Parliament in December of 2003 but not dedicated until 27 March 2008, Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset’s Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime (Denkmal für die im Nationalsozialismus verfolgten Homosexuellen) in Berlin’s Tiergarten represents both the problems and the promise of memorialization in Germany since 1945 (Figure 11). Consisting of a large, grey block, approximately 12 feet tall and six feet wide and costing just under 1 million dollars, the otherwise apparently impenetrable structure contains a window allowing visitors to look inside. What visitors see, however, may surprise them: a 90-second film, in black and white, showing two men walking toward each other, kissing, and sharing a whispered, intimate secret. The film is looped, repeatedly playing out the encounter. Visitors may find the location depicted in the film familiar. The setting appears to be near the memorial itself. The monument thus presents the visible and knowable, while also alluding to the secretive and hidden. It is this play with visible and invisible, a play that is itself part of the larger question of the contemporary acceptance of homosexuality, that is key to understanding Elmgreen and Dragset’s intervention. The twentieth-century German-Jewish intellectual Walter Benjamin eloquently describes the difficulty of dealing with the past in the present. Discussing a painting by the artist Paul Klee, Angelus Novus, Benjamin suggests that while Klee’s ‘Angel of History’ would like to return to the past and ‘make whole what has been smashed’, he cannot. The angel, it seems, is compelled ever forward by time and ‘what we call progress’.1 Benjamin’s aphoristic assessment of Klee’s work suggests the need to see the past as continuous with today. The destructive violence that creates the wreckage of history is still with us. Benjamin encourages us to be like the angel, to see the connections between past wreckage and present beliefs in the hopes of realizing a better future. Homosexual victims of persecution are a unique group, one that Benjamin did not address directly. And while Erik N. Jensen rightly suggests we should be careful to avoid ‘a crass game of competitive victimhood’, there is more at issue when dealing with homosexuality and the Holocaust than historical claims vis-à-vis other groups.2 As such, I would add to Jensen’s cautionary note that a historical account of efforts to memorialize gay victims of Nazi persecution can provide 146

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Figure 11 Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime in the Tiergarten, Berlin (photo reproduced here courtesy of Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset)

historians of gay persecution with more than psychological comfort, cultural capital, or, as Kenji Yoshino argues, information relevant in securing equal rights claims.3 Such memorialization can provide insights into contemporary understandings of sexuality, and encourage current and future social acceptance. To that end, the following chapter examines how Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial offers an aesthetic framework both for bearing witness to the Nazi persecution of homosexuals and for recognizing that the beliefs and ideas employed in service of such homophobia continue today. As Esther Leslie suggests in her discussion of Walter Benjamin, the viewer’s engagement with an artwork, an engagement Benjamin associates with an artwork’s aura, ‘is not a materialist description of an objective attribute, but rather a relational position, an attribute of perception, produced or denied by the interaction solicited between viewer and art object’.4 I argue that Elmgreen and Dragset’s Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the

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National Socialist Regime seeks to create just such an aesthetic experience, an aesthetic experience that illuminates both historical events and contemporary concerns, all the while allowing for a conflicted viewer response.

The threat of homosexuality Laws against supposedly unnatural sexual acts existed in various incarnations in the German territories before the creation of the nation state in 1871. Many of these laws addressed specifically ‘coitus-like’ behaviour between men but also included sexual relations between men and animals. Sex between women frequently went unaddressed in these laws.5 The adoption of a single statute – known as Paragraph 175 – as part of the German Penal Code formalized discrimination against (male) homosexuals in Germany. The National Socialists revised Paragraph 175 almost immediately after Hitler’s seizure of power in 1933, and Paragraph 175 remained part of German law in various forms until 1994. According to Dagmar Herzog, however, the Nazis’ concern was a ‘potential’ homosexuality that threatened to undermine the nation’s need to reproduce a supposed physical and racial ‘elite’, and not ‘the’ homosexual per se.6 According to various accounts, approximately 54,000 homosexuals were arrested by the Nazis and anywhere between 7000 and 15,000 were murdered.7 The exact number continues to be a subject of debate.8 Günter Grau’s edited volume on homosexuality during the Nazi period reproduces archival documents and administrative guidelines examining these issues. These materials show that the Nazis targeted homosexuals.9 They demonstrate an apparent contradiction as well: the Nazi view that heterosexuality was ‘normal’ yet potentially all individuals could succumb to homosexual urges. How could urges so widespread be deemed ‘abnormal’? In his historical study of fascism and sexuality, George Mosse explains the apparent contradiction: Nazis such as Heinrich Himmler thought of homosexuality as an ‘infectious disease’ that ‘could at any moment spread throughout Germany’.10 There was no room in the Nazi vision for those supposedly weaker, lesser humans who would succumb to homosexual temptations. As such, the Nazis actively sought out and eliminated individuals who engaged too frequently in homosexual acts, were deemed ‘unfit’ because of their (real or assumed) orientation, or identified themselves as exclusively homosexual and were thus unable or unwilling to give themselves fully to heterosexual, reproductive sex.11 In short, the Nazi campaign sought to ‘protect’ those most ‘at risk’ of succumbing to homosexual urges. After the Second World War, initial sexual liberalism was followed by a period of conservatism in East and West. The backlash against conservative sexual limits in the 1960s, part of what Herzog describes as an ‘antipostfascist movement’ in West Germany, had significant differences from discussions of homosexuality in East Germany.12 Herzog suggests that the development of the birth control pill, the increasing trade in pornography, and direct political mobilization were all key factors in changing attitudes in West Germany. Most important, however, was the increasing public willingness to reflect on and discuss the Holocaust.13 As

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part of the discussion in the public spheres, prominent figures used the Holocaust as a vehicle to connect the social repression evident in Nazi policies with the continued discriminatory treatment of homosexuals.14 The cultural shift was not universal, however. In East Germany, the Socialist Unity Party (SED) oversaw the publication of all materials used for the purposes of education about sex and sexuality. Many in the East did not consider the Nazis the symbols of sexual conservativism.15 Rather, the primary target in discussions about sexual repression in post-war East Germany was often institutionalized religion.16 The ‘Christian negativity toward sex’, as Herzog notes, made it difficult for otherwise conservative members of East German society to argue for restrictive policies in sexual matters. Being anti-sex might also be interpreted as being pro-religion. Adding to the relative openness in the East was a heterosexual masculinity that demanded a greater amount of gender equality than was, in comparison, expected in the West. For many in East Germany, communist women, as active members of the labour force and of society, deserved (relative) equality with their male counterparts. While East Germany had repealed the Nazi amendments to Paragraph 175 as early as the 1950s, public debates in West Germany led to a gradual liberalization of the restrictions of Paragraph 175 in 1969 and again in 1973. These two historically significant ‘adjustments’ to Paragraph 175 – the 1969 change decriminalized homosexuality among men aged 21 or older, while the 1973 change effectively legalized homosexuality for men 18 years of age or older – nevertheless did not eradicate the fundamental inequality confronting homosexuals in Germany. Even the final repeal of Paragraph 175 in 1994 in a unified Germany and the establishment of the ‘Life-Partnership Law’ (Lebenspartnerschaftsgesetz) in 2001 did not fully equalize homosexual and heterosexual relationships. Given this situation, Herzog’s suggestion that, ‘in the wake of the collapse of communist East Germany in 1989 and German reunification in 1990, Nazism lost its power as a reference point for discussions of sexuality’ is questionable.17 Indeed, with reunification came increasingly vociferous demands for a national memorial to gay victims of the Holocaust to build, among other things, public support for full civil rights for homosexuals.18 The models for a national monument to gay victims of Nazi persecution had a number of predecessors, including memorials in former East Germany and former West Germany. The pink triangle is perhaps the most famous. The use of the symbol in the 1960s and increasingly in the 1970s was a conscious effort to connect the continued repression of homosexuality with the traumas of the Holocaust. Spurred in part by the publication in 1972 of Heinz Heger’s The Men with the Pink Triangle (Die Männer mit dem rosa Winkel), individuals began using the symbol to build social awareness and to call for legal rights for homosexuals.19 Some groups engaged in ‘guerilla memorials’, which involved surreptitiously placing wreaths at various concentration camps in honour of gay victims of Nazism. A gay organization in Austria was allowed to place a memorial bearing a pink triangle and the inscription ‘Beaten to Death – Silenced to Death’ (‘Totgeschlagen – Totgeschwiegen’) at the site of the former Mauthausen concentration camp in

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1984. Such official memorials proliferated in the West as a result of President Richard von Weizsäcker’s acknowledgement in 1985 in a speech at the Bundestag that homosexuals were indeed victims of Nazi persecution. Memorial sites at the former camps of Dachau (1985) and Sachsenhausen (1992), among others, followed the Mauthausen example and erected memorials to gay victims of Nazi persecution. In 2000, a full exhibition at the Sachsenhausen memorial site to gay victims of the Holocaust, accompanied by a two-volume catalogue, revealed the increasing momentum for official, national recognition in a unified Germany of the plight faced by homosexuals under National Socialism.20

‘A simple kiss could land you in trouble’ Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial seeks to address, in post-Wende Germany, the conflicted nature of previous efforts to memorialize homosexual victims of Nazi persecution. Authors such as Jonathan Ned Katz claim that the pink triangle was ‘reappropriated’ by gay men and lesbians to refute the ‘myth of the gay Nazi’. Others suggest that the pink triangle creates a ‘crass game of competitive victimhood’ and is not an appropriate symbol in the case of lesbian victims.21 In perhaps one of its most extreme manifestations, support for the gay rights movement combined with concern about historical erasure leads authors such as Stuart Marshall to declare, ‘no real parallel can be drawn between the extermination of Jews in the Final Solution to the extermination of homosexuals.’22 The selection of Elmgreen and Dragset’s design speaks directly to these debates. In 1996, the memorial’s planning group changed its name from ‘Initiative for a Memorial to Gay Men’ (Initiative Schwulendenkmal) to ‘Initiative HomoMonument’ (Initiative HomoMonument).23 The change hints at a conflict over recognition itself: whether lesbians were targets of Nazi persecutions because of their sexuality and the related issue as to whether lesbians should be represented explicitly in a memorial to homosexual victims.24 The debate led Joachim Müller, an early supporter of the monument, to resign from the committee, claiming that ‘political correctness’ had forced the organization to include women in the memorial, thereby perpetuating ‘the ideologically grounded myth of a National Socialist persecution of lesbians’.25 However, the move toward inclusion of women served an additional function. Erik N. Jensen suggests that the Berlin memorial’s location speaks of a concerted effort to elicit ‘political support from beyond the gay community’.26 While the historical accuracy of the belief underlying Müller’s claim – that there were no lesbians persecuted by the Nazis because of their sexuality – appears to have some support, it nevertheless fails to recognize the memorial’s wide-ranging audience and the memorial’s dual functions: to educate all visitors about the past and to address continued discrimination.27 To accomplish this dual function, Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial shares an obvious architectural similarity with another important public memorial: the nearby Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas) designed by Peter Eisenman. Eisenman’s field of 2711 concrete stelae (cubic slabs) visually dominates the landscape when compared to Elmgreen

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and Dragset’s singular, tomb-like construction. Eisenman’s stelae are approximately 8 feet long and 3 feet wide, and have a height that varies from 8 inches to about 16 feet. In contrast to Eisenman’s memorial, however, Elmgreen and Dragset use only one slab, approximately 12 feet tall and 6 feet wide, of the same material and in the same colour as Eisenman’s stelae. Furthermore, the designers enlarged the slab so that, as the Tate Modern indicates, it has ‘the character of a pavilion’.28 And much like a pavilion, visitors are drawn inside Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial, if only visually. The Tiergarten location, the proximity to the Eisenman’s memorial, and the pavilion-like opening compelling viewers to peer inside the structure allow Elmgreen and Dragset’s monument to address a dual purpose: the need to render visible a forgotten and ignored historical fact and to draw provocative parallels with the apparently less visible marginalization of homosexuals in the present. Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial adds a distinct twist, revealing that their work is no mere (visual) game of ‘competitive victimhood’. To address the continued existence of violent homophobia as part of a monument to homophobia’s past victims, Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial includes a brief film as a contemporary element in the otherwise static, unchanging structure. Danish filmmaker Thomas Vinterberg directed the monument’s first film in co-operation with cinematographer Robby Müller. According to the Tate Modern, ‘every second year for a period of ten years the film clip will be exchanged with other artists’ filmic interpretations of a homosexual intimate encounter’.29 Titled The Kiss (National Memorial for the Homosexual Victims of the Nazi Regime), Vinterberg’s brief film was shot on 35 millimetre black and white film at the actual location of the memorial before it was erected. The film loop is suggestive (Figure 12). The setting for the film – the area near the monument itself – presents a visual initiation for those not ‘in the know’. Viewers unaware of the monument’s intended purpose – to which only a small and easily unnoticed plaque alerts them – are confronted with the beginnings of a same-sex sexual encounter that defies expectation, given the memorial’s location. The Tiergarten is a public park. The area surrounding the monument includes government offices, embassies, and a major shopping center. Yet as the film suggests, same-sex sexual encounters happen in the nearby bushes and along the bike paths. To encourage viewers to make the connection, the film offers other clues. The men approach each other from opposite sides of the frame. After a passionate kiss, one man whispers into the other man’s ear. The loop thus begs for alertness and awareness, encouraging visitors to further explore the intended message of the surprising monument, and to recognize how simultaneously invisible yet omnipresent homosexuality itself can be. The visitor’s individual viewing of the film is contrasted with the memorial’s public structure. With its windowless walls and unmarked edifice, Elmgreen and Dragset’s structure is dwarfed directly to the north by the Brandenburger Tor and to the south by the bright lights and spectacular displays of the Potsdamer Platz shopping district. Given the memorial’s location and its relative subtlety, it is quite possible that passers-by may not notice it at all. The memorial thus presents a public display that is consciously marginalized by its surroundings. In using a

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Figure 12 Still image from the film loop that currently appears in the Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime (photo reproduced here courtesy of Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset)

design and a location that require alert viewers to interact physically with the memorial, the monument makes obvious the invisible in the present and it uses the present to educate about the past. This potentially disorienting situation – a monument that uses a visible present that is simultaneously invisible to many, all in service of educating us about the Nazi past – is reminiscent of what Esther Leslie, in her discussion of Walter Benjamin, describes as the aesthetic experience of an ‘aura’. Based on her reading of Benjamin, Leslie suggests that an ‘aura’ is ‘a relational position, an attribute of perception, produced or denied by the interaction solicited between viewer and art object’.30 While those ‘in the know’ may seek out Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial, tourists intent on visiting a check-list of ‘key sites’ near the Tiergarten or others out for a casual stroll can quite easily remain oblivious to the structure’s – and certainly its filmic content’s – very existence. Those who stumble across the monument serendipitously and peer into its inconspicuous window encounter a display that offers a visible reminder of the status of continued invisibility of homosexuality today: hidden yet present, visible yet coded. A tiny plaque near Elmgreen and Dragset’s monument ominously warns the viewer in terms that are simplistic yet succinct: ‘a simple kiss could land you in trouble’. The inscription appears to trivialize the horrors that the monument itself seeks to represent. Yet, upon further reflection, the viewer realizes that a

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same-sex kiss, whether it suggests romantic love or brotherly camaraderie, might be perceived as homosexual behaviour. It is often the assumption of homosexuality rather than a victim’s own sexual desires that serves as the catalyst for a homophobic attack.31 Elmgreen and Dragset’s monument thus addresses its dual function: to provide incentive for further historical education and to illuminate the confounded place that same-sex relationships play even today.

‘Do you want a memorial for such people?’ Walter Benjamin suggests in his oft-cited essay ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technical Reproducibility’ that the release of collective repression occurs in the form of a collectively generated response to media such as film – which by their very nature are usually viewed en masse and create a ‘simultaneous collective experience’ – in a certain, uncritical fashion.32 Miriam Hansen clarifies that the dilemma raised for Benjamin when thinking about the individual viewer was whether technical media ‘were giving rise to new forms of imagination, expression, and collectivity, or whether they were merely perfecting techniques of total subjection and domination’.33 The theory of vision that informs Benjamin’s essay introduces explicitly the historical mutability of human optical perception. Benjamin examines this mutability in an effort to develop a holistic theory of contemporary subjective experience, to appropriate the optical from the realm of the immediate and to argue for the present – and future – critical potential of the individual viewing subject. Benjamin uses architecture to help explain the individual viewer’s critical potential: Buildings are appropriated in a two-fold manner: by use and by perception – or, rather, by touch and sight. Such appropriation cannot be understood in terms of the attentive concentration of a tourist before a famous building. On the tactile side there is no counterpart to contemplation on the optical side. Tactile appropriation is accomplished not so much by attention as by habit [. . .]. For the tasks which face the human apparatus of perception at the turning points of history cannot be solved by optical means, that is, by contemplation, alone. They are mastered gradually by habit, under the guidance of tactile appropriation.34 Benjamin’s emphasis on the spatial (what he calls ‘tactile’) conditions of optical experience allows for a synaesthetic confusion of optical and ‘tactile’ information. The emphasis on aesthetic sensuousness is the foundation of what Esther Leslie describes as Benjamin’s ‘anthropological materialism’.35 Film’s ‘tactile’ quality, in the Benjaminian sense, is the location of its viewing – normally a movie theatre or a living room. Citing Benjamin’s insights, Laura Marks describes the synaesthetic use of optical and tactile perceptions interchangeably as a ‘haptic visuality’ to emphasize the way ‘film signifies through its materiality, through a contact between perceiver and object represented’.36 In locating a film in the physical space of the Tiergarten and in the unexpected viewing context inside a

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stone monument, Elmgreen and Dragset utilize the strategy of sensory synaesthesia, of cognitive disorientation achieved through optical and tactile interaction, to reveal a window into the (Nazi) past that is also an uncomfortable mirror reflecting the (unified German) present. Our acculturation of space is used to challenge our visual assumptions: we are confronted with the seemingly private nature of the material we view as part of Elmgreen and Dragset’s monument – an intimate, same-sex encounter – yet we realize that the event, and ones similar to it, occur in a spatial location most viewers would associate with more public activities. The immediate reaction might be a visceral uncomfortableness. Viewers may be shocked to find out that there are such covert same-sex encounters occurring in the Tiergarten. Upon further reflection, however, another message is clear. The viewer’s ignorance is part of a cultural unwillingness to legitimize fully and to acknowledge non-prejudiciously same-sex relationships. The Tiergarten, a space many visitors frequent as a site for non-sexual recreation, is transformed into the ‘sight’ of homosexual recognition. Thus, Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial emphasizes the spatial dimensions of optical experience. The memorial uses viewers’ spatial acculturation to engender both historical recognition for one of Nazism’s most-forgotten group of victims and awareness of the continued pervasiveness of homophobia.37 The all-too-easy return today to the label ‘such people’ – former Dachau mayor Hans Zauner’s dismissive label equating homosexuality and criminality – means that the contemporary struggles for equality might not have progressed as far as some would like to think.38 That very possibility makes Elmgreen and Dragset’s memorial all the more important – and the controversies surrounding it all the more vital as catalysts for continued education and contemporary re-evaluation.

Notes 1. W. Benjamin, ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’, Illuminations (New York, 2007), pp. 253–64, here pp. 257–58. 2. E. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle and Political Consciousness: Gays, Lesbians, and the Memory of Nazi Persecution’, in D. Herzog (ed.), Sexuality and German Fascism (New York, 2005), pp. 319–49, here p. 345. 3. K. Yoshino, cited in Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 346. 4. E. Leslie, Walter Benjamin: Overpowering Conformism (London, 1991), p. 145. 5. On the inability to theorize sex between women as part of the legal provisions against homosexuality in Germany, see the collection of essays in the exhibition catalogue edited by M. Bollé, Eldorado: Homosexuelle Frauen und Männer in Berlin 1850– 1950. Geschichte, Alltag und Kultur (Berlin, 1992). In particular, see C. von Lengerke, ‘ “Homosexuelle Frauen”: Tribaden, Freundinnen, Urninden’, in Bollé, pp. 125–48. For the manifestation of this inability to conceive of female homosexuality as part of the Nazis’ racial politics, see C. Shoppmann, ‘The Position of Lesbian Women in the Nazi Period’, in G. Grau (ed.) and P. Camiller (trans.), Hidden Holocaust: Gay and Lesbian Persecution in Germany 1933–1945 (Chicago, 1995), pp. 8–15, here p. 9, and Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, pp. 333–6, esp. note 72. For an argument that subtly contradicts Shoppmann’s and Jensen’s claims see G. L. Mosse, Nationalism and Sexuality: Respectability and Abnormal Sexuality in Modern Europe (Overland Park, KS, 1997), pp. 104–07.

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6. D. Herzog, Sex After Fascism: Memory and Morality in Twentieth-Century Germany (Princeton, 2005), p. 89. 7. R. Wockner, ‘Berlin Gay Holocaust Memorial Vandalized’, QX, 30 August 2008, at (accessed 29 October 2008). BBC News, ‘Berlin Remembers Persecuted Gays’, 27 May 2008, at (accessed 25 November 2008). Wockner indicates the number is 7000 while, in comparison, BBC News suggests the number is closer to 15,000. 8. For an excellent bibliography of sources dealing with the history and persecution of homosexuality in German see the United States Holocaust Museum website at (accessed 2 January 2009). 9. See Grau (ed.), Hidden Holocaust. 10. G. Mosse, Nationalism and Sexuality: Respectability and Abnormal Sexuality in Modern Europe (New York, 1985), here p. 165. 11. S. Marshall, ‘The Contemporary Political Use of Gay History: The Third Reich’, in Bad Object-Choices (eds), How Do I Look?: Queer Film and Video (Seattle, 1991), pp. 65–89, here p. 78. 12. Herzog, Sex After Fascism, p. 139. 13. Ibid., pp. 128–9. 14. Ibid., p. 135. 15. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 324, note 24. 16. Herzog, Sex After Fascism, pp. 186–7. 17. Ibid., p. 246. 18. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, pp. 324–8, esp. note 24. 19. H. Heger, Die Männer mit dem rosa Winkel (Gifkendorf, 1989). 20. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 336. 21. Ibid., p. 324 and pp. 333–6; J. N. Katz, ‘Signs of the Times: The Making of Liberation Logos’, The Advocate, 10 October 1989, p. 49. 22. Marshall, ‘The Contemporary Political Use’, p. 77. 23. In German, Homosexuelle (‘Homosexuals’) and Schwule (‘Gays’) can be used to refer to both women and men. However, Schwule is often coupled with Lesben (‘Lesbians’). The coupling implies that the plural noun Schwule refers only to gay men, and that gay women are not – or should not be – included under the term Schwule. As such, when Schwule und Lesben is used, it is (correctly) translated as ‘gay men and lesbians’. In addition, the term schwul occurs as an adjective (‘gay’), and is often used for both men and women. The new name of the committee coincides with a desire to discuss the possible inclusion of women in the memorial, hence Müller’s resignation. 24. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, pp. 334–5. Jensen briefly examines the debates over the use of pink triangles and black triangles by lesbians. See also notes 71 and 72. 25. J. Müller, quoted in Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 338. 26. Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 337. 27. Ibid., pp. 333–6; Shoppmann, ‘The Political Use of Lesbian Women’, pp. 9–10. Jensen outlines the debates concerning the exclusion of lesbians in the research on the Nazi persecution of homosexuals. Shoppmann notes that for the Nazis, ‘any self-determining female sexuality, including lesbian forms, was unthinkable with a centuries-old patriarchal tradition that identified passivity as a female characteristic’ (p. 9). 28. Tate Modern, ‘Elmgreen & Dragset National Memorial for the Homosexual Victims of the Nazi Regime’, 27 May 2008. See (accessed 9 January 2009). 29. Ibid. 30. Leslie, Walter Benjamin, p. 145. 31. Robert MacFadden reports, for example, on the beating to death of a man in New York City, Jose Sucuzhanay, who was walking late at night and arm-in-arm with his brother.

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32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

Memorial to Persecuted Homosexuals Sucuzhanay’s attackers assumed that he and his brother were actually a gay couple. See R. D. MacFadden, ‘Attack on Ecuadorean Brothers Investigated as Hate Crime’, The New York Times, 8 December 2009, at (accessed 9 January 2009). W. Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, in Benjamin, Illuminations, pp. 217–52, here p. 235. M. Hansen, ‘Of Mice and Ducks: Benjamin and Adorno on Disney’, The South Atlantic Quarterly 92:1 (Winter 1993), 28. Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art’, p. 240. Leslie, Walter Benjamin, pp. 150–1. L. Marks, The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses (Durham and London, 2000), p. xi. There have been at least two attacks on the memorial itself, one of which occurred during the writing of this essay. The first attack was reported on 18 August 2008, and the second on 16 December 2008. See Wockner, ‘Berlin Gay Holocaust Memorial Vandalized’. Zauner, quoted in Jensen, ‘The Pink Triangle’, p. 331.

2.7 Memorializing the White Rose Resistance Group in Post-War Germany Katie Rickard

The Munich-based White Rose resistance group is widely remembered in contemporary Germany. Comprising six core members – students Willi Graf, Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorell, brother and sister Hans and Sophie Scholl, and their philosophy lecturer Kurt Huber – the group produced and distributed six anti-fascist leaflets between 1942 and 1943 encouraging the German population to oppose Nazism. Hans and Sophie Scholl were caught distributing leaflets at Munich University on 18 February 1943. The remaining group members were subsequently identified and arrested. All six were tried by the Nazi People’s Court and executed between 22 February and 12 October 1943. Public commemoration of the White Rose began before the end of the Second World War, after information about the group’s actions, as well as copies of the sixth anti-fascist leaflet, were smuggled out of Germany. German exile Alfred Neumann was one of the first writers to recreate the story of the White Rose, in his novel entitled Six of Them (Es waren ihrer Sechs).1 His book was based on an article about the group featured in the American Time magazine on 14 June 1943. Neumann’s allegorical interpretation of the Munich group situates their resistance as part of the archetypal struggle of good against evil. The novel engages with notions of a ‘Stunde Null’ or ‘Zero Hour’, a term that became analogous with postwar recovery and stability in Germany, by emphasizing the moral, spiritual, and political renewal made possible by the students’ self-sacrifice and their signal to others. Memorialization of the White Rose in its broadest sense has continued ever since and encompasses: speeches and ceremonies; historical, biographical, autobiographical, and fictional writing; films, plays, opera, and songs; museum exhibitions; and the establishment of foundations and archives. Marc Rothemund’s 2005 Oscar-nominated film Sophie Scholl: The Final Days (Sophie Scholl – Die letzten Tage) is one of the most recent and well-known cultural representations of the White Rose. The film placed the historical figure of Sophie Scholl within the international arena. Monuments and memorials commemorating the group’s resistance in a more traditional way can be found at the main sites of the group’s actions, especially in and around Munich’s university quarter.2 Two squares, named Kurt-Huber-Platz and Geschwister-Scholl-Platz, mark the entrance to Munich University. A bronze relief by Lothar Dietz depicting the group, as well 157

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Figure 13 Memorial to the White Rose set into paving stones in front of the main entrance to Munich University (photo Katie Rickard)

as the Hamburg student Hans Leipelt, who was arrested and executed for distributing the group’s leaflets following their deaths, was unveiled in the University’s main entrance hall in 1958.3 This plaque was joined by a bronze bust of Sophie Scholl created by Nikolai Tregor which was dedicated on 1 October 2007. In the meantime, Robert Schmitt-Matt’s memorial, which takes the form of a series of collages made up of facsimiles of pages from the leaflets, extracts from the sentences passed by the Nazi People’s Court against the White Rose, and photographs and short biographies of individual group members, were set into cobbled paving stones in front of the University’s main entrance in Geschwister-Scholl-Platz in 1988 (Figure 13).4 The graves of Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorell, and Hans and Sophie Scholl can still be found in Munich’s Perlacher Friedhof cemetery. The graves serve as a site of commemoration: candles and white roses are often left behind by those who come to pay their respects. The diversity and longevity of post-war remembrance of the White Rose in both former East and West Germany highlights how the group has come to occupy a special position in German public memories of the Nazi past. According to former Federal President Johannes Rau, the group rewrote German history with their opposition to the Third Reich.5 In line with theories of cultural memory put forward by German cultural historians Jan and Aleida Assmann, who argue that cultural memory preserves collective knowledge of the past and, through its official communication, objectivization, and institutionalization, influences collective social behaviour, the cultivation of images, texts, and rituals to publicly commemorate the White Rose has often served to stabilize and convey German society’s self-image and has created meaning and identity in the present through reference to the past.6 As historian Christiane Moll has argued, the White

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Rose has often been interpreted as a pure and moral form of opposition in the historiography of resistance to the Third Reich. It has therefore been inevitable that the legacy of the group’s resistance was, and still is, instrumental for various individuals, political agencies, and movements.7 The moral and quasi-religious character of early public remembrance in the period between 1943 and the immediate post-war years, during which time individual group members were portrayed as heroes who could help atone for the deeds of the rest of the nation,8 was displaced by a more politicized approach to remembrance in the 1960s.9 In the early 1980s wider conflicts and debates between conservative and leftliberal historians and politicians regarding the role of history, memory, and national identity in Germany, which culminated in the Historians’ Debate (Historikerstreit) of the mid-1980s, also affected remembrance of the White Rose. Divided memories of the group are evident when comparing Michael Verhoeven’s film The White Rose (Die Weisse Rose, 1982) and Percy Adlon’s film Five Last Days (Fünf Letzte Tage, 1982): Adlon’s film draws upon redemptive, quasireligious imagery and notions of conscious self-sacrifice, heroism, and atonement in describing the students’ actions, similar to the cultural memories of the group that emerged and were appropriated in the immediate post-war period. In contrast, Verhoeven’s film is influenced rather by critical, left-liberal political and intellectual discourse. His film attempts to critique and politicize remembrance, inspiring the audience to assess how honestly and effectively the National Socialist past had actually been dealt with in Germany since 1945, specifically by the structures and systems designed to ensure democracy after Hitler. Since German unification, remembrance of the Munich student resistance has reflected a new ‘inclusiveness’ in historical and political debates about the National Socialist past, identified by Bill Niven.10 Recent, official acts of remembrance have been used as opportunities to help foster a shared sense of values and destiny useful in the process of post-Wende national, or collective, identity formation. In consideration of the most recent phase of memorialization, this chapter will describe and analyse the key commemorative events organized in remembrance of the White Rose which took place at the beginning of 2003, the sixtieth anniversary year of the group’s capture and executions. It will highlight some of the ongoing difficulties and challenges in remembering the White Rose in contemporary Germany and will suggest that these challenges are symptomatic of some of the broader debates about how the Nazi past can, and should be, remembered in Germany today. On Saturday 22 February 2003, a marble sculpture of Sophie Scholl by sculptor Wolfgang Eckert, accompanied by a plaque dedicated to all Second World War German resistance fighters, was unveiled and installed in the Walhalla Hall of Fame and Honour, in Regensburg, Bavaria (Figure 14). Walhalla is a marble, neo-classical style building which overlooks the River Danube. Commissioned by King Ludwig I of Bavaria in 1821, it was designed and constructed between 1830 and 1842 by architect Leo von Klenze. King Ludwig’s inspiration for the building came from the Parthenon in Athens. His aim was to create a collection of marble sculptures and plaques commemorating outstanding figures in German history. He hoped to build a monument that would testify to the greatness of the Germanic people

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Figure 14 Marble sculpture of Sophie Scholl (centre of photograph on plinth) by Wolfgang Eckert (photo Katie Rickard)

and become a symbolic national site of memory at a time of continuing weakness and abasement in Germany following Napoleon’s recent subjugation of Europe, his conquest of Prussia, and suppression of the German royal houses. Germany’s greatness was to be embodied by the grandeur of Walhalla’s architecture: inside the temple, marble friezes and statues depict scenes from German history and legend. Walhalla now belongs to the Bavarian state and contains 128 sculptures and 65 commemorative plaques. According to official protocol, it is the state’s duty to ensure that at least one new sculpture is added to the collection every five to seven years. The accession of new sculptures or plaques is decided on by the Bavarian Council of Ministers via a simple majority vote. However, petitions for new installations are not initiated at state level, but rather must originate from private groups or individuals. New nominations are only considered if the proposed sculpture is of a person who has been dead for at least 20 years. The costs of producing and installing any new sculpture must be met by the sponsor and not the state government itself. The Bavarian Academy of Sciences and Humanities decides who is most worthy of inclusion and the official rules stipulate that, in particular since 1945, preference is given to those who have made an outstanding contribution to science, the arts, or charitable causes and who possess a unique social function. The installation of Eckert’s sculpture in Walhalla confirmed Sophie Scholl’s status as a figure of national (and Bavarian) pride and honour. Sophie Scholl was only the fifth woman to be accepted into the hall of fame,11 suggesting that her inclusion was influenced by a positive, feminist agenda.12 This notion is substantiated by statements made in support of the campaign to put Sophie Scholl in Walhalla by Hildegard Kronawitter, a Bavarian Social Democrat (SPD) politician and president of an organization representing womens’ interests in Munich. In

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letters exchanged with Hans Zehetmaier, the Bavarian State Minister of Sciences, Research and the Arts at the time, Kronawitter stated that many women were waiting for a tangible sign that the underrepresentation of women in Walhalla was being addressed.13 As will be discussed below, Sophie Scholl’s presence at Walhalla also indicates a ‘demasculization’ or ‘femininization’ of public remembrance of the White Rose, evidenced by a shift in the focus of commemoration from Hans Scholl to Sophie Scholl. Various regional and national representatives attended the unveiling ceremony, including Edmund Stoiber, a conservative Christian Social Union (CSU) politician and Minister President of Bavaria at the time; Stoiber was the keynote speaker. The installation of the sculpture was supported by left-liberals such as the former Federal President Johannes Rau (SPD), Hildegard Kronawitter (SPD), and the Free Democrat (FDP) politician Hildegaard Hamm-Brücher. Some of the surviving friends and family of the group, notably Franz Josef Müller, head of the White Rose Foundation in Munich, attended the ceremony. On one hand, the selection of Sophie Scholl as designated representative of the White Rose in Walhalla reflects her increasing centrality in public remembrance and commemoration of the group. The interest and iconography that have come to surround Sophie Scholl can, in part, be explained by her unique status as the only female member of the core six, and the only female associate of the group to be captured and executed. The rediscovery of archive documents about the group’s actions, previously presumed lost, in Berlin and Moscow following the end of the Cold War, included the transcripts of the Gestapo’s interrogations of Sophie Scholl. Many, including Rothemund, whose 2005 film is based on the Gestapo records, argue that they have facilitated a better understanding of Sophie Scholl and her motives for resistance. New archive evidence, as well as access granted to Sophie’s personal correspondence with her boyfriend Fritz Hartnagel,14 has inspired further investigation of her character, personality, and role within the White Rose, which in turn has inspired new cultural representations. On the other hand, the centrality of Sophie Scholl in institutionalized and symbolic commemorations of the White Rose remains contested and highly problematic. Firstly, in contrast to arguments put forward by Rothemund, Moll, who has led the analysis of the rediscovered archive evidence, maintains that the increased iconography surrounding Sophie Scholl has not merely resulted from new archive evidence. The commemorative focus on Sophie Scholl rather reflects a continuation, albeit in reconfigured form, of the early myths of the White Rose concentrated on the figure of Hans Scholl. Hegemonic discourses informing representations of Hans Scholl in the immediate post-war period up until the 1980s were indicative of conservative attempts to come to terms with the Nazi past. Portrayed as an attractive, charismatic, and dynamic idealist who had initiated and led the Munich student resistance, Hans Scholl was credited with having been single-handedly responsible for writing the first anti-fascist leaflet.15 He provided a strong, male figure that many ordinary Germans could identify and console themselves with; a member of the Hitler Youth and a serving German soldier who had actively opposed the Nazi regime. In the post-unification

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period the cult of personality created around Sophie Scholl, and promoted above all by left-liberal politicians such as Johannes Rau, Hildegard Hamm-Brücher, and Hildegard Kronawitter in their support of the Walhalla project, is perhaps indicative of attempts by the Left to come to terms with the memory of the National Socialist past. Sophie Scholl is easy to mythologize not least because she personifies the pacifism, moral-political values, youthful idealism, civil-mindedness, and prodemocratic stance considered desirable in the Berlin Republic. Encouraging public identification with other members of the White Rose, and their chosen methods of resistance, has, in contrast, been more problematic. For example, Verhoeven’s 1982 film shows male members of the group carrying guns to protect themselves whilst painting antifascist graffiti in Munich at night. Verhoeven suggests that Hans Scholl slept with his army-issue gun under his pillow and emphasizes how the male members of the White Rose established links with other oppositional groups and individuals who agreed to supply them with weapons for their resistance activities. These interpretations, which undermined accepted and established remembrance discourses regarding the group’s passive resistance, remain unpopular and may partly explain the new focus on Sophie Scholl, even though her lack of association with weaponry is in part socially constructed, since she was, as a woman, excluded from military service. Furthermore, although it is now widely acknowledged that Alexander Schmorell was the co-founder of the Munich student resistance group, and co-author of the first series of leaflets together with Hans Scholl,16 he has been relatively overlooked in the West German historiography of the White Rose, largely due to his Russian family background and communist sympathies, which were particularly undesirable during the Cold War.17 Similarly, Ursula von Kardorff has argued that anti-communist sentiments in the West led to a relative marginalization of Hans Leipelt and the Hamburg White Rose in remembrance discourse in the post-war era.18 Following on from the difficulties associated with representing Alexander Schmorell and the Hamburg group in West Germany, the recent, institutionalized, commemorative focus on Sophie Scholl and the White Rose in unified Germany reflects what many feel is a depoliticization of the memory of anti-fascist resistance traditions, in so far as it has led to a displacement of resistance groups predominantly commemorated in former East Germany. As John Gillis argues, although the results of commemorative activities may appear consensual on the one hand, due to the fact that commemoration is by definition social and political and involves the co-ordination of individual and group memories, they are in fact ‘the product of processes of intense struggle, and in some instances, annihilation’, particularly when official political, ceremonial discourses attempt to justify, gloss over, or obscure discriminatory practices and thus maintain the status quo.19 As outlined above, the marble sculpture of Sophie Scholl in Walhalla is accompanied by a commemorative plaque dedicated to all Germans who resisted Nazism. Although this inclusive approach to memorialization is one part of the process, witnessed since German unification, of centring responsibility for the National

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Socialist past ‘within one nation’,20 the very fact that a complex, multiple narrative of resistance has been subsumed under the solitary figure of Sophie Scholl in such a symbolic, national memorial space as Walhalla highlights how the process of inclusion is simultaneously prone to over-simplification and exclusion. Other resistance groups and individuals whose opposition is more challenging to understand and identify with, and more difficult to reconcile with the values and identities desirable in modern Germany, for instance more violent forms of resistance and left-wing opposition, have become part of a more simplified grand narrative. Historian Hans Mommsen has drawn attention to the fact that there still exists considerable reluctance to recognize Soviet collaborationist and left-wing opposition groups like the Red Orchestra (Rote Kapelle), the National Committee for a Free Germany (Nationalkomitee Freies Deutschland), and the League of German Officers (Bund Deutscher Offiziere) as a legitimate opposition to Hitler.21 Wolfgang Herles also draws attention to the suppression of East German memory paradigms through the ongoing proliferation of everyday and symbolic national commemorations of the White Rose, specifically in discussion of the national television poll of ‘Germany’s Greatest’ by the ZDF television network in November 2003. Hans and Sophie Scholl were voted into fourth place in the competition, behind the winner Konrad Adenauer, and runners-up Martin Luther and Karl Marx. Herles argues that the ZDF poll vividly demonstrates the disparities that still exist between East and West German memory politics, whereby no comparable, anti-totalitarian resistance groups commemorated in East Germany were offered up for the public to vote for to complement the Scholls.22 Institutionalized memorialization of Sophie Scholl as the designated representative of the White Rose in places like Walhalla has also been opposed by surviving family members. On 22 February 2003, the tageszeitung newspaper reported how, according to Elisabeth Hartnagel-Scholl (one of Hans and Sophie Scholl’s surviving sisters), Sophie Scholl would have thrown her hands up in horror at the proposed Walhalla accolade because she would not have wanted to have been treated any differently to her friends in the White Rose.23 Anneliese Knoop-Graf, Willi Graf’s surviving younger sister, also remains sceptical about the suitability and consequences of the installation of the sculpture and plaque at Walhalla. She did not see the sculpture before its completion and did not attend the unveiling ceremony.24 Familial concerns have been echoed within political echelons. In 1998, following politician Renate Schmidt’s (SPD) and Hildegard Hamm-Brücher’s initial proposal to install a sculpture of Sophie Scholl in the Walhalla temple, Hans Zehetmaier (CSU) repeatedly voiced his misgivings about the planned memorial. He argued that it would be unfair to single out Sophie Scholl over and above her male contemporaries in the White Rose.25 It was therefore originally only agreed that a plaque would be installed in memory of the group as a whole. Other critics have lamented the incongruity of the traditions and values associated with Walhalla and those associated with the White Rose. According to an article published in the Süddeutsche Zeitung newspaper, sculptor Wolfgang

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Eckert, who meticulously researched his subject, had serious misgivings about representing Sophie in such a formal, classical, and nationalistic memorial space.26 In addition, many fear that memories of the White Rose and other resistance groups could potentially be displaced or emasculated through official commemorations which seek to apply singular meanings to the complex past. Picking up on Eckert’s reservations, for example, the Süddeutsche argued that the Walhalla temple exuded the atmosphere of a ‘gigantic cold-storage depot’.27 Journalist Claudia Lanfranconi emphasized how the rigid, restrictive, aesthetic concepts behind the monument itself robbed the memorial site and Sophie Scholl entirely of meaning.28 Indeed, having seen the sculpture myself on the day it was unveiled, it is difficult to reconcile such a formal representation of Sophie Scholl with, for example, the by now well-known and well-recognized photographs of her, carefully selected by those who knew her or have written about her, to give a window on her character, personality, and spirit. Interestingly, the negative effects and the stifling nature, or cold aesthetics, of the Sophie Scholl sculpture were indirectly anticipated in Michael Verhoeven’s film The Nasty Girl (Das schreckliche Mädchen, 1990). The heroine of the film, Sonja, who is initially portrayed as a sweet, much loved, inquisitive school girl, is later despised as she becomes obsessed with revealing the truth about her provincial home town’s Nazi past. After trying unsuccessfully to curb her awkward research activities, the town authorities change their tactics and decide to honour her example by placing a sculpture of her in the town hall. Sonja is therefore honoured and celebrated as a hero, yet she ultimately realizes that this enshrinement is in fact a means of suppression. In the closing scenes of the film, time stands still as she violently reacts to this repression. Film critic David Levin has described this scene as the ‘most pronounced articulation of what amounts to a further progression of resistances: in this case the resistance to the resistance against resistance, [. . .] for in putting her statue in the town hall, the town fathers would finally guarantee her continuous presence as a mute adornment. We could [. . .] think of this process of celebration depicted here as an instance, not merely of repressive tolerance, but of repressive celebration’.29 Opponents of the Walhalla memorial evoke James Young’s warnings regarding how the status of monuments in the twentieth century is ‘double-edged’ and ‘fraught with an essential tension’ whereby ‘monuments continue to be commissioned and designed by governments and public agencies eager to assign a singular meaning to complicated events and people’, whilst artists ‘increasingly plant in them the seeds of self-doubt and impermanence’, therefore making them into sites of ‘contested and competing meanings, more likely the site of cultural conflict rather than of shared national values and ideals’.30 In addition, as this chapter has shown, although the dominance of Sophie Scholl in recent commemorations of the White Rose highlights increased public interest in, and understanding of, her role within the group, her centrality remains contested and problematic not least because, as a female resistance figure she is, perhaps, easier for those involved in commemoration to mythologize and sentimentalize. As Gillis has argued, women have only very gradually been admitted

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to national memory and while ‘women and minorities often serve as symbols of a “lost” past, nostalgically perceived and romantically constructed, [. . .] their actual lives are most readily forgotten’.31 In consideration of the continued underlying tensions within and challenges to remembering the White Rose in contemporary Germany, it is likely that the future memorialization of the group will remain contentious enough to provide a focus for further public debates about the National Socialist past, about social, democratic, and political values, and about national identity within united Germany. Adapting a conclusion reached by Young in his essay about the plans to build a Holocaust memorial in Berlin – finally opened, as the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, on 10 May 2005 – it is perhaps precisely because of the fraught processes involved in deciding what constitutes an ‘appropriate’ form of memory of the White Rose that the public memory of the group remains important for unified Germany. Overcoming his initial scepticism about being the only foreigner and the only Jew to be invited by the Holocaust memorial’s organizers to speak at the last colloquium in April 1997 about the memorial iconography of other nations’ Holocaust memorials, Young highlighted the positive effects of the (at that time, failing) competition to build a national Holocaust memorial in Berlin.32 After complaints about the ‘abject failure’ of the competition by other speakers, and the spectacle of the organizers’ ‘tortured memorial deliberations’, Young maintains that, when his turn came to speak, he discarded his carefully prepared lecture and attempted to reassure the audience by stressing that ‘decorum is never part of the memorial-building process, not even for a Holocaust memorial’. For Berlin’s Holocaust memorial, and to a lesser extent the memorials dedicated to the White Rose, it is the memorial debates themselves, rather than the quest for centralized monuments and memorials like the bust of Sophie Scholl in the Walhalla temple, that ensure the ongoing significance of remembering the White Rose and the National Socialist past in contemporary Germany.

Notes 1. A. Neumann, Es waren ihrer sechs (Stockholm, 1944). 2. A more detailed analysis of some of the key monuments dedicated to the White Rose can be found in C. Benzenberg, Denkmäler für die Widerstandsgruppe ‘Weiße Rose’ in München und Hamburg (unpublished dissertation, Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, 1993). A copy of Benzenberg’s dissertation can be downloaded from http://www.weisse-rosestiftung.de/images/pdf/Benzenberg-Denkmaeler.pdf (accessed 6 July 2008). 3. Dietz’s bronze plaque corroborates public perceptions of the Munich students as Christian heroes and martyrs dominant in the 1950s. The plaque depicts individual group members dressed in long gowns seemingly descending from above (heaven). 4. Schmitt-Matt renewed his memorial on 20 November 2006. 5. J. Rau, Gedächtnisvorlesung von Bundespräsident Johannes Rau aus Anlass des sechzigsten Jahrestags der Hinrichtung der Mitglieder der ‘Weißen Rose’ am 30. Januar 2003 in der LudwigMaximilians-Universität München. Available (online) at http://www.bundespraesident.de/ Die-deutschen-Bundespraesident/Johannes-Rau/Reden-,11070.91449/Gedaechtnisvorle sung-von-Bunde.htm?global.back=/Die-deutschen-Bundespraesident/Johannes-Rau/-% 2c11070%2c0/Reden.htm%3flink%3dbpr_liste%26link.sTitel%3dscholl%26link.sDateV %3d20.1.2003%26link.sDateB%3d27.3.2003 (accessed 6 July 2008).

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6. J. Assmann, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’, trans. by J. Czaplicka, in New German Critique 65 (1995), 125–33. 7. C. Moll, ‘Acts of Resistance: The White Rose in the Light of New Archival Evidence’, in M. Geyer and J. W. Boyer (eds), Resistance Against the Third Reich, 1933–1990 (Chicago and London, 1994), pp. 173–200, here p. 174. 8. See, among others, A. Neumann and R. Guardini, Die Waage des Daseins. Rede zum Gedächtnis von Sophie und Hans Scholl, Christoph Probst, Alexander Schmorell, Willi Graf und Prof. Dr. Huber, gehalten am 4. November 1945 (Tübingen, 1946). 9. See above all C. Petry, Studenten aufs Schafott. Die Weiße Rose und ihr Scheitern (Munich, 1968). 10. B. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London and New York, 2002), pp. 1–9. 11. Although King Ludwig stipulated that women should not be excluded from Walhalla, only four other sculptures depict women. These are: Catherine the Great; Austrian queen Maria Theresia; Duchess Amalia von Hessen-Kassel; and Karolina Gerhardinger (also known as the nun Maria Theresia von Jesu). 12. A shift in the perception of women’s roles under National Socialism has emerged relatively recently as part of broader debates concerning the role of ordinary Germans in the context of Nazi atrocities. See, for example, M. Burleigh (ed.), Confronting the Nazi Past: New Debates on Modern German History (London, 1996), p. 21. 13. H. Kronawitter, ‘Nach Brahms muss Sophie Scholl in die Walhalla’. Article available at http://library.fes.de/pd/www.spd.bayern.landtag.de/2000/469.htm (accessed 5 January 2004). 14. See also H. Vinke, Fritz Hartnagel: der Freund von Sophie Scholl (Zurich, 2005) and H. Vinke, Hoffentlich schreibst du recht bald. Sophie Scholl und Fritz Hartnagel-eine Freundschaft 1937– 1943 (Ravensburg, 2005). 15. See, for example, R. Huch, ‘Die Aktion der Münchner Studenten gegen Hitler’, in R. Huch, Gedichte, Dramen, Reden, Aufsätze und andere Schriften: Gesammelte Werke (Cologne, 1971), vol. 5, pp. 971–1011, here p. 981. 16. See, for example, Petry, Studenten aufs Schafott, p. 50, and the expanded and revised edition of Inge Scholl’s Die Weiße Rose (Frankfurt am Main, 1982), p. 24. 17. C. Moll, ‘Die Weiße Rose’, in P. Steinbach and J. Tuchel (eds), Widerstand gegen den Nationalsozialismus (Berlin, 1994), pp. 443–67 and C. Moll, ‘Alexander Schmorell im Spiegel unveröffentlichter Briefe’, in R. Lill (ed.), Hochverrat? Neue Forschungen zur ‘Weißen Rose’ (Konstanz, 1999), pp. 129–60. 18. U. von Kardorff, ‘Weil sie mit den Kommunisten sympathisierten?’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 18 October 1968. 19. J. R. Gillis, ‘Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship’, in J. R. Gillis (ed.), Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, NJ, 1994), p. 5. 20. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 2. 21. H. Mommsen, ‘The German Resistance against Hitler and the Restoration of Politics’, in Geyer and Boyer, Resistance against the Third Reich, pp. 151–66, here p. 152. 22. W. Herles, Wir sind kein Volk. Eine Polemik (Munich, 2004), p 170. One might contend, however, that Sophie and Hans Scholl constitute two of the very few resistance figures commemorated in both East and West Germany. Enshrining Scholl in Walhalla therefore speaks to an East and West German tradition, while simultaneously framing Scholl within a more Christian and thus ‘West German’ commemorative context, particularly given that the political nature of the Scholls’ resistance was stressed more in the GDR. 23. J. Schallenberg, ‘Ein neues Gesicht für Walhalla’, Die Tageszeitung, 22 February 2003, p. 7. 24. Anecdotal evidence provided by Anneliese Knoop-Graf during an interview on 21 March 2003. 25. Schallenberg, ‘Ein neues Gesicht für Walhalla’, p. 7.

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26. C. Lanfranconi, ‘Im Pantheon der Marmorlocken. Die kalte Ästhetik des Erinnerns: Heute wird Sophie Scholls Büste in der Walhalla aufgestellt’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 22/23 February 2003, p. 14. 27. Ibid. 28. Ibid. 29. D. Levin, ‘Are We Victims Yet? Resistance and Community’, The White Rose, The Last Five Days, and ‘The Nasty Girl’, The Germanic Review 73:1 (1998), 86–100, here 98. 30. See J. E. Young, ‘Memory, Counter-Memory, and the End of the Monument’, at www.gsd.harvard.edu/research/publications/hdm/back/9young.pdf (accessed 28 July 2009). Essay adapted from James E. Young, At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary Art and Architecture (New Haven and London, 2000).. 31. Gillis, ‘Memory and Identity’, p. 10. 32. J. E. Young, ‘Germany’s Holocaust Memorial Problem – and Mine’, in Young, At Memory’s Edge, pp. 184–223.

2.8 The Role of German Perpetrator Sites in Teaching and Confronting the Nazi Past Caroline Pearce

Recounting his experiences as the stenographer of Amon Göth, the notorious concentration camp commandant at Plaszów in Poland, the former prisoner Mietek Pemper recalled how Göth would go out onto his balcony and shoot randomly at prisoners before returning to his office to dictate a letter.1 It is difficult to find a rational explanation for the actions of Nazi perpetrators such as Göth. Consideration of these actions additionally poses uncomfortable questions about the nature of humanity and individual responsibility, particularly in view of the fact that the majority of perpetrators were not ‘born killers’ but conformed to a standard psychological profile.2 This chapter discusses the representation of Nazi perpetrators in German memorial sites and the pedagogical value of confronting this aspect of the Third Reich. It focuses on three examples: the House of the Wannsee Conference Memorial and Educational Site (Gedenk- und Bildungsstätte Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz) and the Topography of Terror (Topographie des Terrors), both in Berlin; and the Wewelsburg District Museum near Paderborn.3 All three can be classed as ‘perpetrator sites’ through their former association with the administration or ideology of the Nazi state. Their exhibitions focus correspondingly on the Nazis and their regime of terror. Yet these sites also have the function of remembering the victims of National Socialism. This duality could be seen as deflecting attention away from the perpetrators but it is viewed here as essential in emphasizing both the context of Nazi crimes and the reality of their consequences.

Development and pedagogical challenges of perpetrator sites The first memorial sites in post-war Germany were established to commemorate victims, among these the victims of the Nazi regime; whilst crimes were documented, there was understandably reluctance to present the story of the perpetrators. However, recent years have seen an increased focus on perpetrators. This is due firstly to new research facilitated by the opening of East European archives since unification.4 Accordingly, there has been a shift away from the stylized view of perpetrators as ‘beasts’ to a more differentiated perspective that encompasses civilians or industrialists as much as it does concentration camp guards or the 168

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SS Einsatzgruppen. Secondly, the role of memorial sites themselves has changed. Their principle function is still to remember the victims, but with increased distance from the Second World War they are also viewed as ‘places of learning’. The past two decades have seen extensive research into pedagogical approaches at memorial sites.5 Rather than merely transmitting historical facts, the aim is to promote ‘learning through discovery’,6 dialogue, and independent reflection on the past. These approaches are linked with political education, for example in encouraging discussion of human rights. Such pedagogical methods are still concerned primarily with communicating the victim perspective. But perpetrator sites can play an important role in explaining how the genocide was planned and implemented. This chapter sets out to investigate the value of such a perpetrator-centred approach. For Wolf Kaiser, pedagogical director at the House of the Wannsee Conference, the first educational aim of perpetrator sites is to promote historical understanding.7 In addition to describing Nazi crimes, the sites examined here thus illustrate the career and background of the perpetrators as one way of explaining their motivation. In addition, Kaiser considers perpetrator sites to have a role in teaching about human values and behaviour, in accordance with the political education remit of memorial site pedagogy. Learning about perpetrators can help identify processes that lead to rapid societal change, alter concepts of normality, and permit discrimination and violence.8 The above aims present a range of challenges, not least in explaining how people became perpetrators. Many Nazi crimes were undoubtedly the work of sadistic and pathological individuals, but, as noted by Wulff Brebeck, Director of the Wewelsburg District Museum, the difficulty lies in conveying the fact that the perpetrators were in the main ‘normal’ citizens.9 For Harald Welzer, the key is to consider not only the crimes but also their context. He argues that perceptions of morality and normality under the Third Reich had altered to such an extent that perpetrators felt themselves to be acting in the best interests of the state. Accordingly, most did not consider themselves criminals, even after the war.10 The risk in this approach is that crimes are explained away as a product of their time; that ‘normalizing’ the perpetrators also normalizes their crimes. The three sites analysed here avoid this pitfall by including the victim perspective in order to strike home the reality of Nazi criminality. For Thomas Lutz, Director of the Topography of Terror, it is crucial that the history of the perpetrators does not overshadow that of the victims.11 Admittedly, this poses an additional challenge. The goal of perpetrator sites is to enable visitors to understand the motives of the perpetrators, yet the overriding reaction may be one of empathy for the victims. After all, the self-reflection encouraged by memorial site pedagogy is far more uncomfortable if undertaken from the perspective of the perpetrators. The visual representation of the perpetrators undoubtedly influences the impact of these sites. Kirsten John-Stucke, Deputy Director at Wewelsburg Museum, points to the importance of not ‘staging’ objects and photographs in a way that manipulates the visitor’s judgement.12 However, this is difficult to avoid. At all three sites, Nazi perpetrators are generally depicted in uniformed poses. Whilst this rightly

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avoids sensationalizing their crimes, it also reproduces self-staged images of the Nazis, whose photographs testify to their wish to be shown in positions of power and give no indication of their later defeat. To their credit, these sites present the whole spectrum of perpetrators and particularly the unspectacular ‘desk-based perpetrators’ (Schreibtischtäter). Arguably, however, they cannot suppress the fascination that is an inevitable reaction to Nazi atrocities. Moreover, as Brebeck explains, for most visitors the ‘everyday’ criminality of the Nazi administration pales into insignificance compared to the brutality of the concentration camps. As a result, visitors tend to distance themselves from the ‘inhuman’ atrocities committed in the camps and to consider the perpetrators outside the camps to be somehow less involved in Nazi criminality.13 This combination of fascination and distancing poses an obstacle to historical understanding. Brebeck illustrates the tendency with reference to the Wewelsburg exhibition, which used to contain a 70 centimetre high photograph of Himmler. Many visitors took the photograph to be ascribing all Nazi crimes to Himmler and thus ignored broader questions of guilt. At the same time its evocation of power and criminality also fascinated those with a ‘weak sense of self’.14

The House of the Wannsee Conference As its name indicates, the House of the Wannsee Conference Memorial and Educational Site has a dual focus in both remembering the victims and teaching about Nazi crimes. It is housed in the beautiful lakeside villa that hosted the Wannsee Conference on 20 January 1942, at which high-ranking Nazi bureaucrats co-ordinated responsibilities for the Holocaust (documented in the so-called Wannsee Protocol). The memorial site was established in 1992 following decades in which the significance of the villa had been largely ignored.15 A new permanent exhibition opened in January 2006, presenting the results of recent research. The exhibition starts by providing information on racism and anti-Semitism in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; integration and anti-Semitism in the Weimar Republic; and Jewish persecution from 1933 to 1939. Subsequent sections cover the Second World War and Holocaust in Southern and Eastern Europe; the stages leading to mass murder; and the role of various institutions in the genocide. A central section on the Wannsee Conference displays the Protocol together with correspondence and biographies of participants. The exhibition goes on to describe deportations, ghettos, forced labour, and the concentration and extermination camps. Interestingly, this memorial site was conceived as the first central German institution to remember the victims of the Holocaust, with the remit of promoting ‘remembrance of the victims of the National Socialist policy of genocide, information on National Socialist crimes, and education in democracy and the defence of human rights’.16 The focus of the exhibition is thus necessarily on victims as well as perpetrators and this focus has been reinforced by the new exhibition. The entrance displays maps of the Jewish population prior to 1933 and the biographies of four Jewish families, which form a thread through the exhibition, and

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the exhibition concludes with a series of quotations on the wall from Holocaust survivors and members of the post-war generations. The absence of post-war quotations from the perpetrators indicates a challenge faced by these sites: since, in most cases, the perpetrators did not regret, recognize, or admit to their crimes, it is difficult to draw lessons based on the perpetrator perspective alone. This is not to say that this memorial site avoids confrontation with the history of the perpetrators. On the contrary, it points clearly to the diversity, interplay, and occasional conflict of perpetrators and motives under National Socialism. While reference is made to criminals within concentration camps and the military, for example to Harald Turner, head of the military administration in occupied Serbia, who had 100 Jewish prisoners shot for every German soldier to die at the hands of partisans, a broader range of perpetration is presented with a focus on bureaucratic criminality, as epitomized by the Wannsee Conference. Moreover, evidence is provided of widespread public collusion in Nazi crimes. For example, a 1942 letter to the Potsdam finance office complaining that people were helping themselves to the best articles prior to auctions of Jewish property shows both knowledge of and disregard for the situation of the Jews. The economic side of perpetration also becomes clear, for example through details of forced labour co-ordinated by the SS Main Office for Economic Administration, and company invoices for crematoria equipment. A photograph of a works outing from a euthanasia institution juxtaposed with a photograph of smoke coming from the crematorium represents the extent to which moral values had been reversed to create a new ‘normality’ under National Socialism. The new exhibition provides much greater detail on the background to the Third Reich to help visitors piece together the reasons why society changed as it did. At the same time, by posing alternatives for action it avoids depicting all perpetrators as simply ‘products of their time’. Hence, the exhibition documents how local initiatives in the occupied territories secured the success of the deportation process, but also documents rare incidences of resistance, including the story of Lieutenant Alfred Battel, who tried to stop the evacuation of the Przemysl ghetto in 1942 and managed to save between 80 and 100 Jews. Of the sites dealt with here, Wannsee has the most extensive and pioneering pedagogical programme, based on the principle that ‘[c]onfrontation with National Socialism cannot be restricted to the acquisition of historical knowledge. It is a pedagogical task [. . .].’17 The site has had an average of 63,225 visitors a year since 1992. In 2007, 53 per cent were from Germany and 47 per cent from abroad, and around half came as part of a group.18 The aim of the pedagogical programme is to teach about the perpetrators, provide a historical context and describe the fate of the victims.19 The methods correspond to the principles of memorial site pedagogy by centring on independent inquiry. School classes, for example, might select one theme from the exhibition, research it in small groups and then present it to their classmates. To retain focus on the perpetrators, participants address issues such as why so many individuals were willing to co-operate with the Nazi regime, how structures developed that allowed them to commit crimes without feeling responsible, and whether the Holocaust was facilitated

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by a specifically German tradition of planning and bureaucracy.20 Unlike most memorial sites, the House of the Wannsee Conference offers seminars designed for professional groups such as the Bundeswehr, lawyers, or medics, who learn about the response of their own profession to the Third Reich. Bundeswehr soldiers, for example, consider the scope for action of Wehrmacht soldiers, while nurses examine the Nazis’ euthanasia programme.21 One pedagogical challenge of the site for younger groups in particular is the extremely detailed exhibition, which uses few audio-visual materials, contains no objects and may run counter to expectations in deliberately avoiding ‘shocking’ photographs of Nazi crimes. Despite extensive documentary evidence of administrative perpetration it is difficult to visualize the bureaucrats responsible. Whilst visitors can read documents and biographies relating to the Wannsee Conference, no photograph exists of the meeting itself. Letters and reports give a certain insight into the mindset of the perpetrators but they do not necessarily provide clear answers about their motivation. A purely biographical approach also has limited pedagogical impact in only giving speculative information. For Kaiser, the most effective approach is therefore to analyse one perpetrator group or action to establish how individuals behaved in different situations.22

The Topography of Terror The Topography of Terror is located on an area called the Prinz-Albrecht-Gelände in central Berlin. It was here that the administrative power centre of the Nazi regime was situated, housing the headquarters of the Reich Security Main Office, SS, and Gestapo, as well as a Gestapo prison. The buildings were badly damaged towards the end of the war and their significance soon forgotten, especially with the building of the Berlin Wall, which ran through the site. Interest was revived in the 1980s when the foundations of the buildings were uncovered during a dig. An exhibition set among these foundations opened in 1987 as the result of a citizens’ initiative. It has been open-air since 1997 but a new documentation centre is due to open in 2010.23 The current exhibition details the history of the buildings and then describes the institutions of Nazi terror, the persecution of Jews, political prisoners and other groups, and the impact of the war on Germany and Europe. The final section charts the post-war history of the site. The aim of the Topography of Terror Foundation, established in 1992, is to ‘transmit historical knowledge about National Socialism and its crimes and to encourage active confrontation with this history, including its consequences since 1945’.24 This confirms both the pedagogical remit of the site and its focus on perpetrators. One of the strengths of the exhibition is in explaining how institutions such as the Gestapo and SS evolved from instruments for securing power to co-ordinators of mass terror and persecution. Of the sites considered here, the Topography of Terror presents the most graphic evidence of perpetration. For example, one section starts with a large photograph of Wehrmacht soldiers taking pictures of the hanging of partisans in 1941–42, and there are photographs of civilians mocking Jews and of mass shootings in the Soviet Union. To an extent

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these images detract from the contextual information provided at the beginning by presenting the ‘known’ or expected face of perpetration. Despite its status as a ‘perpetrator site’, the Topography of Terror also provides information about the victims of National Socialism. Lutz considers this to be crucial in underpinning the site’s dual function as a place of both remembrance and learning. In informing visitors about the ideology and behaviour of the perpetrators, Lutz argues, the Topography of Terror provides crucial insights into how people became victims of the Nazi regime.25 Importantly, the site describes political as well as racial persecution, which links the exhibition to the former function of the site and also corrects the tendency to view Nazi perpetration solely in terms of the Holocaust. A series of photographs showing political prisoners in court is effective not only in showing Nazi perpetration within its institutionalized context but also in presenting a facet of victimhood that is less familiar to most visitors. The depiction of political prisoners in a courtroom setting appears to counter the ‘passive’ image commonly associated with victims, although of course in practice these victims were denied any justice. The Topography of Terror currently attracts around 500,000 visitors per year,26 its profile having undoubtedly been raised by the opening of the nearby Holocaust Memorial and the increase in tourism in the capital. Around 1000 tours are organized annually for visitors from Germany and abroad. One pedagogical challenge arises from the limited capacity of the site, which does not allow for any seminar-type activities. This is being addressed by the construction of the new documentation centre. The tender for the centre stipulated its pedagogical function, and the winning design, praised by the jury as an appropriate place of learning, will contain seminar rooms, a library, and an archive.27 The new building is consciously neutral in form so as not to detract from the authentic ‘aura’ of the Topography of Terror. The impact of the site owes much to this ‘aura’, providing a visual context for learning about Nazi crimes (although the stretch of Berlin Wall flanking the site can rather blur the intended perception of history). The pedagogical value of the Topography of Terror lies not just in informing about perpetration under National Socialism but also in examining its legacy in post-war society. Lutz states that, as former Nazi perpetrators or bystanders were in the majority in post-war Germany, it is essential to consider the consequences of their crimes for German society.28 In documenting the post-war history of the site, the Topography of Terror provides an important overview of the changing process of Vergangenheitsbewältigung. Initial attempts to repress the significance of the site attest to an unwillingness to admit to the reality of perpetration, whilst the citizens’ initiative in the 1980s shows the shift towards active confrontation with the past.

Wewelsburg Wewelsburg castle is an imposing, triangular stone construction located on a rocky hilltop in the sleepy village of Büren, around 30 minutes from Paderborn. In 1934, the NSDAP started to rent the castle on the initiative of Heinrich Himmler, who

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initially planned to develop it into a training centre for the SS elite but later decided on an ideological or ‘cult’ centre for the SS. Himmler oversaw increasingly ambitious building plans that even envisaged resettling the whole village. A concentration camp was set up at nearby Niedernhagen to provide forced labour, but the construction plans were never fully realized.29 Following the war, the local community was reluctant to confront the history of Wewelsburg. However, public debate in the 1970s led to the establishment of the exhibition and memorial site Wewelsburg 1933–1945: Cult and Terror Centre of the SS, which opened in 1982 in the former SS guardhouse. The exhibition starts by detailing Himmler’s plans for Wewelsburg and explaining the ideological vision of the SS. It then describes the development of the concentration camp at Niedernhagen. The concluding sections examine the key features of the SS, the role of Wewelsburg in the SS state and the confrontation with the legacy of Wewelsburg since 1945. Of the sites examined here, Wewelsburg has the most direct link between perpetrators and victims on account of the former concentration camp. Consequently, the memorial site and exhibition have the aim of informing, remembering, and serving as a warning (mahnen).30 At the same time, Wewelsburg’s popular association with mystical gatherings of the SS evokes a fascination that risks appealing to apologist views of history that glorify the perpetrators.31 The victim perspective is thus crucial here to anchor the site in historical reality as well as to commemorate the victims of the camp. The exhibition shows the diversity of perpetrators within the SS, and its focus on SS ideology provides another angle from which to understand the motivation of perpetrators. Importantly, the exhibition details the rather ambivalent reactions in the village to the presence of the SS at Wewelsburg. Like the Topography of Terror, it also documents the post-war development of the site, including the initial reluctance to confront the past. Around 35,000 people visit the exhibition annually. Twenty per cent of these are British, which is probably due to the presence of a large British army base in nearby Paderborn.32 Wewelsburg offers guided tours and seminars, although most visitors are not part of a group. Tours follow the principle of self-guided learning: one approach is ‘Searching for Traces’, whereby visitors are provided with documentation, view relevant parts of the site and then respond to questions on a theme such as the role of the village during the Third Reich. Wewelsburg faces a number of specific pedagogical challenges. On a practical level, the authenticity of the site is somewhat diluted by the presence of a regional museum and youth hostel in the castle. In addition, the exhibition reflects pedagogical methods at the time it was conceived, which tended to shock the visitor into an emotional reaction. It is accordingly subjective in tone, for example criticizing Himmler’s ‘deluded’ or ‘crazy’ plans to make Wewelsburg the ‘centre of the world’. This approach will change, however, with the development of a new exhibition, due to open in 2010. A lack of precise information about the function of Wewelsburg also makes it difficult to ‘learn’ from the perpetrator aspects of this site: researchers have found evidence of Himmler visiting the castle but little is known about activities carried out there by the SS. The SS indeed comes across as a kind of esoteric cult, which reinforces its ‘mythical’ status, whilst the site’s link with Himmler undoubtedly

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strengthens its appeal but also perhaps dominates visitors’ perceptions of Nazi perpetrators. Unlike Wannsee and the Topography of Terror, the Wewelsburg exhibition includes objects, for example death’s head symbols and crockery. Museum exhibits point to the customs of a society and in this sense Brebeck considers these objects as a link to understanding the aspirations, influences, and world view of the SS.33 Unfortunately, the link is not explicit; indeed, putting these items behind glass cases lends them a historicized appearance that could impair the pedagogical aim of encouraging active confrontation with the past. The final room is a further example of the ‘staging’ that John-Stucke is keen to avoid in the new exhibition.34 It contains the uniform of a concentration camp victim and the reconstruction of a desk belonging to an SS employee at Wewelsburg, which evoke inevitable parallels between Wewelsburg and the Holocaust. A final problem results from Wewelsburg’s appeal to supporters of the far right, who come to express their admiration for Himmler and the SS. Two of the unfinished rooms in the castle are of particular interest: the Hall of the SS Leaders, which features the ‘black sun’ motif in the mosaic floor; and the crypt, which was apparently planned to honour the SS dead. These rooms are now only accessible as part of a tour. At one stage 600–800 individuals from the far right scene came to Wewelsburg annually.35 As a result, the ‘house rules’ have changed to refuse entry to anyone wearing far-right clothing or symbols, or anyone who says, gestures, or writes anything associated with racist, anti-Semitic, or far-right ideology. This could be viewed as a pedagogical failure and yet memorial sites now largely concur that they cannot ‘immunize’ individuals against far-right extremism. This of course begs broader questions regarding the pedagogical value of both victim and perpetrator sites. Wewelsburg has, however, responded appropriately to this issue by including the far right’s attitude to the site as a feature of the new exhibition.36

Conclusion The pedagogical value of perpetrator sites derives from the principle underlying Adorno’s adage that the roots of perpetration lie with the persecutors, not the persecuted.37 The House of the Wannsee Conference highlights the bureaucratic aspects of perpetration and helps understand how and why so many parts of society were involved. The Topography of Terror is particularly effective on account of its location and addresses post-war attitudes to the legacy of perpetration, whilst Wewelsburg illustrates both the ideology of the SS and its impact on the local community. One element perhaps lacking in these sites is a detailed examination of post-war justice, which could help tease out different levels of guilt and responsibility. These sites rightly avoid giving monocausal explanations or defining single perpetrator types or motives and they present Nazi perpetration as embedded within society rather than limited to the concentration camps. The ensuing complexity may confound the expectations of visitors who have a fixed view of perpetrators as directly linked with scenes of brutality, and admittedly it is evidence of this type

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of perpetration that has the greatest impact. Yet in presenting different agents and stages of perpetration the contextual approach works against the tendency to view the Holocaust as incomprehensible or Nazi perpetrators as ‘inhuman’. Importantly, as Kaiser points out, gaining an understanding of the perpetrators does not necessarily mean that one will have understanding for what they did.38 There is a tension between the dual function of remembrance and pedagogy at the heart of these sites, but ultimately this is a productive one: giving the perpetrators a face underlines the magnitude of their crimes and thereby the importance of commemorating the victims.

Notes 1. Interview with Mietek Pemper, Spiegel TV (Vox), 6 April 2008. 2. See H. Welzer, Täter. Wie aus ganz normalen Menschen Massenmörder werden (Frankfurt am Main, 2005). 3. I would like to thank Thomas Lutz (Topography of Terror), Wolf Kaiser and Norbert Kampe (House of the Wannsee Conference), and Kirsten John-Stucke and Wulff Brebeck (Wewelsburg District Museum) for their assistance in producing this chapter. 4. See P. Longerich, ‘Tendenzen und Perspektiven der Täterforschung’, Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte 14–15 (2007), 3–6. 5. For a good introduction, see A. Ehmann et al. (eds), Praxis der Gedenkstättenpädagogik. Erfahrungen und Perspektiven (Opladen, 1995). 6. P. Sander, ‘Didaktische Überlegungen zum entdeckenden Lernen mit reproduzierten Quellen in der Gedenkstättenarbeit’, in Landeswohlfahrtsverband Hessen (ed.), Methoden der Gedenkstättenpädagogik. Ein Tagungsband der Gedenkstätte Hadamar (Kassel, 1994), p. 13. 7. Interview with Wolf Kaiser, 16 May 2008. 8. See Welzer, Täter, p. 15. 9. Interview with Wulff Brebeck and Kirsten John-Stucke, 4 July 2008. 10. See Welzer, Täter, p. 12 and p. 37. 11. Interview with Thomas Lutz, 27 May 2008. 12. Interview with Wulff Brebeck and Kirsten John-Stucke. 13. W. E. Brebeck, ‘Zur Darstellung der Täter in Ausstellungen von Gedenkstätten in der Bundesrepublik’, in A. Ehmann et al. (eds), Praxis der Gedenkstättenpädagogik (Opladen, 1995), pp. 296–300, here pp. 296–7. 14. Ibid., p. 297. 15. On the history of the site, see S. Endlich, N. Goldenbogen, and B. Herlemann (eds), Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus. Eine Dokumentation (Bonn, 1999), vol. 2, pp. 218–21. 16. http://www.ghwk.de/deut/verein.htm (accessed 22 September 2008). 17. Gedenk- und Bildungsstätte Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz, Das Bildungsangebot (Berlin, 2000), p. 16. 18. ‘Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz Gedenk- und Bildungsstätte Besucherzahlen: Statistische Ubersicht über die Jahre 1992–2007’. Document provided by Wolf Kaiser. 19. Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz, Das Bildungsangebot, pp. 4–5. 20. Ibid., p. 12. 21. Ibid., pp.12–14. 22. Interview with Wolf Kaiser. 23. On the history of the site, see Endlich, Goldenbogen, and Herlemann (eds), Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus, pp. 71–5. 24. http://www.topographie.de/de/stiftung.htm (accessed 9 October 2008). 25. Interview with Thomas Lutz.

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26. Ibid. 27. See ‘Dokumentationszentrum Topographie des Terrors’, http://www.topographie.de/ user/baustelle.php (accessed 9 October 2008); and N. Apin, ‘Hauptsache billig und unauffällig’, Tageszeitung, 9 March 2006. 28. T. Lutz, ‘Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des NS-Regimes. Geschichte – Arbeitsweisen – gesellschaftliche Wirkungsmöglichkeiten’, in Ehmann, Praxis der Gedenkstättenpädagogik, pp. 37–47, here pp. 38–9. 29. On the history of the site, see U. Puvogel and M. Stankowski, Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus. Eine Dokumentation (Bonn, 1995), vol. 1, pp. 510–14. 30. Interview with Wolfgang Brebeck and Kirsten John-Stucke, Wewelsburg, 4 July 2008. 31. See LWL-Medienzentrum für Westfalen, Wewelsburg 1933–1945: Megalomania and the Terror of the SS (Westfalen-Lippe, 2007), p. 8. 32. Interview with Wolfgang Brebeck and Kirsten John-Stucke. 33. Brebeck, ‘Zur Darstellung der Täter in Ausstellungen von Gedenkstätten in der Bundesrepublik’, p. 300. 34. Interview with Wolfgang Brebeck and Kirsten John-Stucke. 35. Ibid. 36. See Kreis Paderborn, FB45, Kreismuseum Wewelsburg, ‘Themengliederung der neuen Ausstellung “Wewelsburg 1933-45” ’, 15 May 2008. 37. See U. Neirich, Erinnern heiBt wachsam bleiben. Pädagogische Arbeit in und mit Gedenkstätten (Mülheim an der Ruhr, 2000), p. 33. 38. W. Kaiser, ‘Gedenkstätten als Lernorte – Ziele und Probleme’ (conference paper, October 2000), http://www.ghwk.de/deut/tagung/kaiser.htm (accessed 9 October 2008).

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Section 3 Remembering Jewish Suffering

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3.1 Memorialization through Documentation: Holocaust Commemoration among Jewish Displaced Persons in Allied-Occupied Germany Laura Jockusch

Introduction Holocaust commemoration in Germany began in the immediate wake of the Second World War. The initiative did not come from non-Jewish Germans but from Jews who had survived the cataclysm, most of whom temporarily resided in Germany as Jewish ‘Displaced Persons’ or DPs.1 Amidst political turmoil, traumatization, and material want they commemorated the catastrophe by holding memorial gatherings, services, and celebrations, and by erecting memorials. They also documented, narrated, and chronicled the recent tragedy and established the first Holocaust archives. This chapter analyses the role of historical documentation and archival collections in processes of memorializing the Holocaust in early post-war Germany, an aspect of memorialization which has not been fully explored by researchers. On the basis of newly discovered archival documents from the holdings of the Yad Vashem Archives, the chapter seeks to show that for the survivors at the time, documenting the past was a commemorative act and archival collections of documents and testimonies stood on an equal par with memorials in their function as an injunction to remember the cataclysm of European Jews. The analysis focuses on the work of the Central Historical Commission in Munich in the US Zone of Germany in the years 1945–49. Founded by survivors to document the Holocaust, the commission played a central role in the memorialization of the past among the Jewish DPs. By way of introduction, the chapter gives an overview on the general situation of the survivors in Allied-occupied Germany. After a brief history of the historical commission, it explores the following questions: Why did the survivors deem documentation a valid tool for memorializing the past? Which aspects of the past became subject to memorialization? What was the significance of 181

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Germany for this distinct form of Holocaust memorialization in the early post-war years?

Holocaust survivors in Allied-occupied Germany For a relatively brief period in the early post-war years, Allied-occupied Germany emerged as a Jewish centre which not only provided a safe place for Jews escaping anti-Semitic violence in eastern Europe but which also functioned as a gateway to a future beyond the ‘blood soaked soil’ of Europe. In the years 1945–48, Germany became the temporary home for an estimated 250,000–330,000 Jews, mostly survivors of eastern European backgrounds, who enjoyed the protection of the Allied occupying forces as DPs, in addition to some 15,000 German Jewish survivors and remigrated exiles.2 Of the 20 million people on the move in war-torn Europe in May 1945, 7 million DPs found themselves on German soil, among them forced labourers, POWs, and survivors of labour, concentration, and death camps, including 70,000–80,000 Jews. The Allied occupying forces pursued a policy of rapid repatriation of the DPs to their countries of origin and between May and September 1945 they repatriated 6 million. However, by early 1946 the Allies were confronted with approximately 1 million ‘unrepatriable’ DPs who either could not return to their country of origin because they had lost their citizenship or, particularly in the case of eastern European Jews, refused to go back due to traumatization and fear. Accommodated in provisional camps housing up to 6000 people in army barracks, camps, and buildings requisitioned from the Germans, these DPs required the extended care of the occupying forces.3 While western European Jews liberated in Germany readily returned to their countries, survivors from eastern Europe generally refused to return to the sites of terror and those who went back in search of surviving relatives successively turned westward once they learned that Jewish life had been obliterated, leaving nothing but an enormous graveyard. Likewise, Jews who had survived the war in eastern Europe – including some 250,000 Polish Jewish exiles to the Soviet Union who had been repatriated to Poland as of summer 1945 – encountered hostility and violence from non-Jews who had taken possession of their apartments, jobs, and property. In Poland alone, violent assaults on Jews in the years 1944–47 took 1500 lives.4 Consequently, increasing numbers of survivors in Poland and other eastern European countries fled westward seeking the protection of the Allied armies and hoping to find a way to leave the ‘accursed soil’ of Europe once and for all to Palestine, the Americas, and other destinations. However, since before 1948 immigration especially to Mandatory Palestine and the United States proved a difficult endeavour, the western zones of Germany became the temporary haven for an ever-growing number of Jews. In February 1946, the number of Jewish DPs in the western zones amounted to roughly 70,000 and by November that year, it had risen to 174,000. In summer 1947, the number of Jewish DPs peaked at 184,000, with the vast majority, 157,000, concentrated

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in the US Zone due to the relatively liberal policies of the American occupying forces.5 Within days of liberation, Jews freed from camps on German soil organized tentative bodies of self-representation in the form of local camp committees. After a few weeks regional and zone-wide committees followed. They had the task of administering the distribution of material care provided by the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration and by Jewish relief organizations, searching for remaining relatives, and voicing demands for separate Jewish camps and the right to emigrate. As of 18 April 1945, a provisional Committee of Liberated Jews formed in Bergen-Belsen which gradually turned into the Central Committee of Liberated Jews in the British Zone, while, beginning on 1 July 1945, a Central Committee of Liberated Jews in Bavaria (later the US Zone) operated in the American sector. Between 1945 and 1948 both organs, whom the British and American occupying forces recognized as official bodies of Jewish self-government, held zone-wide congresses, two in the British and three in the American Zone.6 These representative bodies and the establishment of separate camps for Jewish DPs in the autumn of 1945 following the investigation by the American lawyer Earl G. Harrison on behalf of the US government into the living conditions of the survivors in the American Zone, fostered a distinct group identity amongst the survivors which they expressed by the Hebrew term She’erit Hapletah – ‘surviving remnant’.7 Bound together by survival, loss, and traumatization, and by the determination to leave Europe, the She’erit Hapletah shared the awareness that it constituted a community in transit at the verge of a new historical epoch. Yet the She’erit Hapletah did not form a monolith but a trans-territorial group of people from all across Europe with diverse wartime experiences who conceived themselves as part of a separate Jewish nation with a homeland in Palestine, irrespective of whether they would all end up living there. They displayed a strong historical consciousness which made itself felt in their animated and multifaceted activities in gathering the remnants of the past, preserving the memory of the dead, and assuaging their bereavement through building a future in which survivors would have agency to claim justice and redress and defend Jewish rights. The She’erit Hapletah in Germany undertook meticulously the rebuilding of cultural institutions and political parties which had characterized Jewish life in eastern Europe before the war, even while its destruction remained omnipresent. The memorialization of the catastrophe emerged as a pivotal feature of Jewish life in the DP camps, using four kinds of memorial media: (1) social gatherings commemorating local memorial days within the framework of landsmanshaftn (hometown societies) or an official day of remembrance to celebrate the liberation; (2) funereal work of restoring Jewish cemeteries and giving those Jews who had died on German soil a proper Jewish burial; (3) building memorial sites on cemeteries and in camps; (4) and narrative and documentary forms of commemorating the recent past both by collecting documents, images, and artefacts and by narrating and writing testimonies, either at an individual level or as a collective effort within the framework of a historical commission created by survivors to document the Holocaust.8

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The Central Historical Commission in Munich and the making of a Holocaust archive The Central Historical Commission became an essential component of the cultural institutions created by the Jewish DPs.9 It began its work on 28 November 1945 in Munich, on the initiative of the Byelorussian-born journalist and history teacher Israel Kaplan and the Polish-born accountant Moshe Yosef Feigenbaum, who sought to gather German documents pertaining to the persecution of the Jews along with testimonies, artefacts, photographs, and objects from the victims and survivors. The goal was to create an archive of documentary evidence on the fate of European Jewry in the recent war which would serve the prosecution of war criminals and the defence of Jewish political rights. Last but not least, the archive was also to serve future historical scholarship on the history of the Holocaust.10 Under the supervision of the Central Committee of Liberated Jews in the American Zone, the commission established over 50 branches in the entire US Zone, including west Berlin, and employed between 80 and 100 people – survivors with various educational backgrounds who were generally untrained in the historical profession – to retrieve documents from German institutions, collect survivor testimonies, and conduct surveys among the Jewish DP population. The headquarters in Munich catalogued the material and formulated research guidelines and questionnaires which followed the methods of Jewish social research developed by the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research in inter-war Poland.11 It also published a Yiddish-language historical journal Fun Letstn khurbn (Of the Latest Destruction) which appeared in ten numbers between August 1946 and December 1948 with a circulation of between 1000 and 8000 copies per issue. From the outset of its work, the commission paid particular attention to collecting sources from both perpetrators and victims. The survivors were aware that the destruction of Jewish cultural institutions had been part and parcel of the German attempts to extinguish Jewish life on the European continent and that consequently the survivors ‘were left with empty hands’12 when it came to conventional historical sources such as administrative records. Therefore, the commission workers saw it as their task to create new sources on the basis of personal recollections in the form of memoirs, questionnaires, and testimonies, in addition to Jewish folklore from ghettos and camps, images, and memorial objects.13 The commission discontinued its work in January 1949 when Jewish DP society underwent a process of dissolution, as increasing numbers departed Germany. By then, the Central Historical Commission had assembled close to 3000 testimonies and 10,000 questionnaires along with a collection of several thousand pages of Nazi documents, photographs, and Jewish folklore which Feigenbaum and Kaplan placed under the auspices of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the central Jewish Holocaust memorial and research institution in the making. In light of these multifaceted activities, the question remains what – in the eyes of the survivors at the time – qualified documentation and archives as useful tools for memorializing the Holocaust?

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Epitaphs for a murdered people without graves The impulse to document and research the past was the result of a process of rationalization in which the survivors began to ‘work through’ personal trauma by ‘making sense’ of bereavement and survival.14 They came to see their survival as having bequeathed upon them the duty to bear witness for the sake of the dead and the generations to come. For a number of reasons the survivors active in the Central Historical Commission regarded historical documentation as an adequate tool in their endeavour to preserve the memory of the recent cataclysm for posterity. By gathering documents, photographs, testimonies, and memorial objects they sought to capture the historical truth of the atrocities committed against the Jews of Europe and preserve the memory of the human beings murdered and the communities, culture, and ways of life destroyed. For example, one of the subcommissions of the Central Historical Commission urged the survivors in the US Zone: Describe the economic, social, and cultural life of the destroyed Jewish community from which you come. Describe the activity of the society or organisation you used to be a member of before the war. Immortalize how the Jews have lived, fought and were murdered during the Nazi regime. Immortalize all expressions, legends, and stories of the bygone tragic days. Write down the songs sung in ghettos, camps and among the partisans during the Nazi era. Hand the material over to the historical commission that collects and preserves this material for the generations to come!15 Through preserving the remnants of the past and creating historical narratives, the survivors sought to prevent the events from falling into oblivion. ‘There is a danger that the coming generations will not have an idea of what the Nazis, these beasts in human appearance, did to our children, of the torture and agony which our sisters and brothers endured, of the anguish and suffering of our mothers and fathers,’ argued the commission in Leipheim in an appeal to the camp population. ‘It is the duty of everyone of us to transmit a written or oral report on the experiences in ghettos, camps, bunkers, woods, hiding places, and partisan units. Please visit the historical commission in block 29, room 4, in order to preserve for posterity what every one of us has experienced.’16 Hence, in the perception of the commission members, documentation also lent itself to memorialization because the survivors could communicate their experiences to future generations and could assure that those who had not witnessed the cataclysm themselves would still memorialize the tragedy. The commission members also deemed documentation a valid means of memorialization because the testimonies and documents collected paid tribute to the dead and served the survivors in their process of mourning. The commission often referred to its collections as surrogate gravestones for the millions of dead whose graves were unknown and removed from the place in which the DPs currently found themselves.17 ‘Do not forget that every document, every picture, song,

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legend is the only gravestone which we are capable of placing on the unknown graves of our murdered fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and children!’,18 as one of the sub-commissions of the Central Historical Commission urged the survivors in the US Zone. Moreover, the Central Historical Commission understood its work of documentation as a vast memorial. Consequently, each testimony, photograph, or document contributed by individual survivors was meant to ‘lay the bricks for the grand historical people’s monument, which must eternalize the memory of our murdered sisters and brothers and embody the suffering, anguish, and heroism of the Jews under the Nazi regime’.19 This was not just a metaphor in the commission’s rhetoric to convince the survivors of the necessity to bear witness. Rather, it constituted a concrete project. The commission activists envisioned that the material they collected would eventually become a public archive which, given its physical presence in public space, would also function as a monument. Yet the location for such an archive and memorial institution would not be Germany but a sovereign Jewish state in Palestine.20 Although the commission activists were convinced that documentation provided a pivotal tool for memorializing the past, their trajectory became less clear when it came to the question of which aspects of the past ought to become subject to memorialization. Whose past deserved a central role in memorialization and how should different Holocaust experiences be represented?

The formation of a memory canon She’erit Hapletah in post-war Germany constituted a group combining various national backgrounds and diverse wartime experiences. Those survivors who formed the leadership of the She’erit Hapletah by virtue of having been in Germany first were ‘direct survivors’ who had endured ghettos, labour, concentration, and extermination camps, and had been liberated from camps on German soil. Others, also ‘direct survivors’ of Nazi rule who had survived in hiding, under a false identity, in the woods, and in partisan units in eastern Europe, had reached the DP camps in the months following the liberation. Still others had survived outside the orbit of Nazi rule, in the interior of the Soviet Union. They, too, had endured hard labour, malnutrition, and epidemics yet compared to Jews under Nazi rule, they had spent the war years in relative security. By the summer of 1947, this group of survivors made up 80 per cent of the Jewish DP population even though leadership positions in the Central Committee were still occupied by ‘direct survivors’ of the first and second generations.21 This was also the case in the Central Historical Commission. Israel Kaplan had been liberated from Dachau by the Americans, Feigenbaum had survived the war in hiding in Poland and after a brief sojourn in liberated Poland he had made his way to Germany.22 Aware of the underlying tensions between the different groups of survivors, the commission sought to create unity by addressing a great variety of experiences in its questionnaires and publications. In its ‘historical questionnaire’ the commission interrogated survivors on the events in their home towns once they had

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come under German occupation and on other places where they had spent the war, asking for details on the impact of Nazi rule on Jewish cultural, religious, economic, and political life. The questionnaire addressed a host of wartime experiences in ghettos, in labour, concentration, and extermination camps as well as in prisons, in hiding places, on the so-called ‘Aryan side’, that is with false papers among non-Jews, in forests, and among the partisans.23 This policy of addressing a great variety of wartime experiences also translated into the pages of Fun Letstn Khurbn. As the only Yiddish-language historical periodical in post-war Germany, the journal featured eyewitness testimonies from men, women, and children, historical documents, and photographs that the commission had collected in Germany along with studies on the fate of the Jewish populations in certain regions, towns, and camps prepared by the commission. It also published a collection of idiomatic expressions, proverbs, and poems from ghettos and camps. The editor, Israel Kaplan, scrupulously selected and edited the testimonies, assuring that they were individual reflections on what he deemed the collective experience of the She’erit Hapletah: ghetto, labour, concentration, and extermination camp, hiding, partisan fighting, death marches, and liberation – along with loss, destruction, and trauma.24 The testimonies published in Fun Letstn Khurbn generally did not reflect on experiences of western European Jews and of Jewish exiles to the Soviet Union. Likewise, the journal did not feature reports on famous Jewish personalities killed in the Holocaust but focused on the experiences of ‘ordinary’ men, women, and children.25 The commission sought to unite the survivors by creating a delocalized transregional eastern European Jewish memory, thus working against the tendency of the landsmanshaftn in the camps to focus on their localized memory.26 However, at the same time, the commission drew artificial boundaries. While placing different experiences on an equal par with each other, avoiding the creation of a hierarchy, it left out all those whose experiences did not correspond with those of the first and second generations of ‘direct survivors’ who had established the political and cultural institutions and constituted the leadership of the DP camps in Germany. In particular, it ignored the experiences of Jews who had survived outside of the orbit of German domination and excluded those who were not of eastern European background. To what extent, then was this form of memorializing the past the result of the survivors’ temporary stay in Germany? What was the impact of the place, Germany, on this form of Holocaust memorialization?

Memorializing the Holocaust in the land of the murderers The Jewish DPs had a painful and highly ambivalent relation towards Germany. On the one hand, it remained the land of the perpetrators, where the destruction of European Jews had been engineered and from which its implementation had been directed. On the other hand, Allied-occupied Germany provided a safe place and a bridge to a new life overseas. Moreover, for many Jewish DPs, documenting and commemorating German crimes on German soil caused a particular

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satisfaction and it gave a legitimization for the extended stay in the land of Hitler. The commission workers believed that the fact that the survivors found themselves in a transitional phase and under the provisional circumstances of the camps actually furthered their work of documentation. Once the DP camps were dissolved and the survivors had to focus on settling their lives overseas, collecting testimonies and documents would become more difficult.27 Another incentive for immediate action lay in the concern that ‘human beings forget, or want to forget. Maybe this is a healthy symptom for a people, yet [. . .] we must write down the experiences of the Jews to prevent them from being lost from our history.’28 This led to the conviction that the commission needed to seize every moment of the ‘waiting time in Germany for the work of eternalizing the Jewish holiness and heroism during the latest destruction’.29 While in Germany, the survivors needed to cooperate with non-Jewish Germans in their everyday routines. The historical commission interacted with German officials and archivists. The first numbers of Fun Letstn Khurbn were printed in a German print shop which had formerly printed the Nazi party organ Völkischer Beobachter and even after the commission acquired its own typeset it employed a non-Jewish German typesetter whom Kaplan had to teach the Yiddish alphabet.30 The commission also directly co-operated with German officials for the acquisition of historical data. In 1946, after much internal debate over whether ‘collaboration’ with the Germans was morally justified, the commission formulated a Germanlanguage questionnaire for mayors and district officials investigating the fate of the Jewish populations of their towns and districts, rather than asking the officials about their personal roles in the Nazi regime.31 Ultimately, for the survivors active in the historical commission the contact with the German officials as well as their sojourn in Germany was a means to an end: to gather information on and evidence of the destruction of European Jews which would benefit their lives elsewhere, where the material would serve the memorialization of the Holocaust and would also be used towards the prosecution of the perpetrators, in historical scholarship on the recent catastrophe, and for the defence of Jewish rights in the framework of a Jewish state.32

Conclusion Following the decision of the Central Committee, during the Third Congress of Liberated Jews in the American Zone in Bad Reichenhall in April 1948, to transfer the material of the Central Historical Commission to Yad Vashem in Jerusalem and discontinue the collection work in Germany, Kaplan and Feigenbaum, with the help of the Jewish Agency for Palestine, shipped their archives to the port of Haifa, beginning in the summer of that year. With the emigration of Kaplan and Feigenbaum in spring 1949, the work of the commission drew to a close. Due to the emigration of large numbers of Jewish DPs after the foundation of the state of Israel in May 1948 and the passing of the DP Acts by US Congress in 1948 and 1950, the Jewish DP population in Germany decreased from 165,000 in the western zones in April 1948 to 30,000 in September.33 By 1952 when all

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but one DP camp had been dissolved, the total number of Jewish DPs dropped to 12,000. Between 70,000 and 100,000 Jewish DPs settled in the United States, 100,000–142,000 immigrated to Palestine/Israel.34 Since the Jewish DPs in Germany formed a society in transit during an interim period that functioned as both epilogue and preface, their modes of memorializing the Holocaust disappeared from the German memorial landscape once the Jewish DPs departed without leaving an indelible mark – both in the figurative as well as in the literal, physical sense – on the memory culture that would develop in that country in the following decades. Even though the Central Historical Commission did not continue its work in Israel, mainly because Yad Vashem under its first director, the historian Ben Zion Dinur, did not seek to employ self-taught historians like Feigenbaum and Kaplan and only allowed survivors to play a subordinate role, the commission’s work nevertheless had a lasting effect in this institution in as much as it provided the foundation for the Yad Vashem archives. In this sense, the commission had indeed laid ‘the bricks for the grand historical people’s monument’ and the Holocaust archive compiled by the survivors during the temporary stay in Germany did become a monument with a physical presence in public space.

Notes 1. The term ‘DP’ was created by the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces in June 1944 to designate a group of people who found themselves outside the borders of their countries of origin by the end of the war and who would require the assistance of the Allies. See M. Proudfoot, European Refugees: 1939–1952: A Study in Forced Population Movement (London, 1957), p. 115 and p. 149. 2. Statistics on the Jewish populations in post-war Germany are inaccurate, which itself is the result of the post-war chaos. See Atina Grossmann’s recent re-examination of the numbers in her Jews, Germans, and Allies: Close Encounters in Occupied Germany (Princeton, 2007), pp. 131–2 and pp. 316–17, note 11. 3. For a general overview see M. Wyman, DPs: Europe’s Displaced Persons, 1945–1951 (Ithaca and London, 1998). 4. J. Gross, Fear: Antisemitism in Poland After Auschwitz: An Essay in Historical Interpretation (New York, 2006). 5. Proudfoot, European Refugees, p. 339 and p. 341; A. S. Hyman, ‘Displaced Persons’, American Jewish Yearbook 51 (1950), 315–24, here 315; and M. Marrus, The Unwanted: European Refugees in the Twentieth Century (New York, 1985), p. 335. 6. For a detailed description of the organizational structure of Jewish DP society in both zones, see H. Lavsky, New Beginning: Holocaust Survivors in Bergen-Belsen and the British Zone in Germany, 1945–1950 (Detroit, 2002); and Z. Mankowitz, Life Between Memory and Hope: The Survivors of the Holocaust in Occupied Germany (Cambridge, 2002). 7. This term is of biblical origin (Genesis 32:9; Second Book of Kings, 19:30–31; Jeremiah 31:7) and as of 1943 Jews in Palestine began to use it for those who would survive the persecutions in Europe. After the war, the survivors themselves used this term to express their separate group identity. Cf. Mankowitz, Life Between Memory and Hope, pp. 1ff. and D. Michman, ‘On the Definition of “She’erit Hapletah” ’, in Z. Mankowitz, Holocaust Historiography: A Jewish Perspective. Conceptualizations, Terminology, Approaches and Fundamental Issues (London and Portland, 2003), pp. 329–32. 8. James Young has argued that ‘in keeping with the bookish, iconoclastic side of Jewish tradition, the first “memorials” to the Holocaust period came not in stone, glass, or

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9.

10. 11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

Commemoration among Jewish DPs steel – but in narrative.’ He claims that at first survivors created ‘interior spaces, imagined grave sites’ through texts while ‘physical spaces’ came only as later developments (J. E. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and their Meaning (New Haven 1993), p. 7). However, recent research on the memorial work of Holocaust survivors in the immediate post-war period has shown that the indeed widespread narrative forms of memory were complemented by social forms of memory (that is, by social gatherings and public commemorative celebrations), rituals of burial, and the erection of physical monuments of stone and iron. See G. Finder, ‘Yizkor! Commemoration of the Dead by Jewish Displaced Persons in Postwar Germany’, in A. Confino, P. Betts, and D. Schumann (eds), Between Mass Death and Individual Loss: The Place of the Dead in Twentieth-Century Germany (New York and Oxford, 2008), pp. 232–57 and Mankowitz, Life Between Memory and Hope, pp. 192–225. Historical commissions were not limited to the DP camps but were a Europe-wide phenomenon. For an overview, see P. Friedman, ‘The European Jewish Research on the Recent Jewish Catastrophe in 1939–1945’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 28 (1949), 179–211. Yad Vashem Archives Jerusalem (hereafter YV) M1P, folder 2, pp. 9–10, protocol of the founding meeting of the Historical Commission, 28 November 1945, Yiddish. These techniques included the use of statistics, interviews, and questionnaires and the study of socio-economic, cultural and linguistic phenomena. See L. Dobroszycki, ‘YIVO in Interwar Poland: Work in the Historical Sciences’, in Y. Gutman et al. (eds), The Jews of Poland Between Two World Wars (Hanover and London, 1989), pp. 494–518. Archives of the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine Paris (hereafter CDJC), protocol of the First European Conference of Jewish Historical Commissions and Documentation Centers in Paris, 8 December 1947, morning session, p. 3, French. M. Y. Feigenbaum, ‘Why Historical Commissions?’, in Fun Letstn Khurbn 1 (August 1946), 2, Yiddish. ‘Working through’ is used here, following Dominick LaCapra, as an analytical process in which traumatized individuals gain a critical distance from the traumatic events in the past and are able to distinguish between now and then without avoidance, harmonization, forgetting, or submergence. See D. LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma (Baltimore and London, 2001), pp. 143–5. YV M1P-N digital image M1P/789. YV M1P, folder 9, p. 4, p. 6, and p. 7, memorandum by the historical commission in Leipheim, no date, Yiddish. I borrow the term ‘surrogate gravestones’ from Jonathan Boyarin and Jack Kugelmass, who use it in reference to the memorial books edited by survivors after the Holocaust to commemorate their destroyed communities through a collective act of writing. See J. Kugelmass and J. Boyarin (eds), From a Ruined Garden: The Memorial Books of Polish Jewry (Bloomington, 1998), p. 34. Similarly, James Young spoke of the ‘missing gravestone syndrome’ in reference to these books (Young, The Texture of Memory, p. 7). YV M1P-N digital image M1P/789. YV M1P, folder 38, p. 11, Report on the first conference of historical commission workers in the US Zone, 11–12 May 1947, Yiddish. YV AM.1, folder 128, frame 0642, speech by Moshe Yosef Feigenbaum, 8 December 1947, Yiddish. L. Dinnerstein, America and the Survivors of the Holocaust (New York, 1982), p. 279. For the biographies of Feigenbaum and Kaplan, see Congress for Jewish Culture (ed.), Leksikon fun der nayer yidisher literatur (New York, 1968), vol. 7, p. 342 and vol. 8, p. 94. YIVO DPG reel 13, frames 0217–0226 for a sample of the ‘Historical Questionnaire’. YV M1Q contains 534 completed historical questionnaires. In addition the commission used a ‘Statistical Questionnaire’, several questionnaires on theatre groups and Jewish folklore, and one interrogating the survivors on their experiences since the liberation.

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24. P. Friedman, ‘Dos gedrukte vort bay der sheyris-hapleyte’, in Di Tsufunft 54:3 (March 1949), 151. 25. Fun Letstn Khurbn, vols 1–10, August 1946–December 1948. 26. I. Kaplan, In der tog-teglekher historisher arbet Fortrag gehaltn oyfn tsuzamenfor fun di historishe komiyes, Minkhen dem 12tn may 1947 (Munich, 1947), p. 6 and p. 9. See also, T. Lewinsky, Displaced Poets. Jiddische Schriftsteller im Nachkriegsdeutschand, 1945–1951. Ph.D. dissertation University of Munich, 2007, pp. 116–29. 27. YIVO DPG reel 13, frame 0154–0155, work report of CHC, 12 May 1947, Yiddish. 28. YIVO DPG reel 116, frame 1225, work report of a regional historical commission, October 1946 through February 1947, Yiddish. 29. YVA M1P folder 6, p. 25, circular letter of CHC to its regional branches, 12 May 1948, Yiddish. 30. L. Dawidowicz, From this Time and Place: A Memoir 1938–1947 (New York, 1991), pp. 289–90. YV M1P, folder 7I, p. 49, work report CHC, 13 May 1947, Yiddish. 31. YIVO DPG, reel 13, frame 0241, sample of the questionnaire for German mayors and district administrators, German. YVA M1L contains some 500 completed questionnaires, German. For the debate over the moral implications of addressing the German officials see YVA M1P, folder 2, p. 14, protocol of the second meeting of the historical commission in Munich, 3 December 1945, Yiddish. 32. YV M1P, folder 38, p. 2f, report on the conference of commission workers, 11–12 May 1947, Yiddish. 33. Grossmann, Jews, Germans, and Allies, p. 252. 34. M. Brenner, After the Holocaust: Rebuilding Jewish Lives in Postwar Germany (Princeton, 1995), p. 40.

3.2 Memorializing Persecuted Jews in Dachau and Other West German Concentration Camp Memorial Sites Harold Marcuse

Introduction Even a cursory look at memorials dedicated to the same historical event reveals that they reflect the needs and goals of their makers far more than the events to which they are dedicated. This observation has several important implications. First, it is crucial to look carefully at the individuals and groups who initiate memorial projects, as well as at those who see them through to completion, and perhaps even at those who then use them for commemorative purposes. Second, there is a dialectical relationship between the political and cultural context in which a given memorial is created, and the memorial itself. While all memorials reflect the context of their establishment in some ways, most memorials are also designed to affect that context. This suggests, third, that it will be revealing to examine all those memorials in a given political entity, such as West Germany, that were established to commemorate a similar event, such as the persecution and murder of Jews in concentration camps. Such an analysis can reveal much about how West German understandings of the Jewish genocide developed over time and what purposes its commemoration was intended to serve. This chapter examines West German memorials to Jews murdered in concentration camps as reflections of evolving understandings of the Holocaust on the one hand, and as instruments to change commemoration on the other. It begins with a survey of the isolated initiatives to preserve memories of Jewish persecution in the first years after the Second World War, then moves to the emergence of West German nationwide practices of commemoration of Jewish life and death in Nazi Germany in the 1950s and 1960s. Examination of the memorials established in former concentration camps, especially in Dachau, which, as the most heavily memorialized site, can serve as a case study for the country as a whole, reveals the crucial roles played by Jewish Germans as compared to foreign Jews as agents of memorialization.

Jewish memorials in Germany’s western occupation zones There were four major Nazi concentration camps in the portion of Hitler’s Reich that later became the Federal Republic of Germany: Dachau, Neuengamme, 192

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Flossenbürg, and Belsen. Each of these, except for Belsen, which was technically a ‘detention camp’ (Aufenthaltslager), had from 67 to 188 branch camps, most set up after 1943, and some of which had an average inmate capacity of up to 3000–4000.1 In all of these camps the largest group among the dead was Jewish; in Belsen and in many of the branch camps, most of which used Jewish slaves to supply labour for war industries, the vast majority of the inmate population was Jewish. For instance, in early September 1938, at least one third of the roughly 6000 inmates in Dachau were Jewish. The camp’s last census in April 1945 showed that more than 22,000 (33 per cent) of the 67,665 inmates in the Dachau system were registered as Jewish.2 Dachau was also incomparably more lethal for Jewish inmates: of some 700 deaths registered between March 1933 and March 1939, at least 476 (68 per cent) were Jewish.3 Given the preponderance of Jewish victims in these camps, one might expect an emphasis on Jewish commemoration at these sites. However, in accordance with the observation that memorials primarily reflect the goals of those who establish them, that was not initially the case. In the first decade after 1945 few non-Jewish Germans were interested in remembering Jewish victims, and there were relatively few Jews in any part of Germany, with only a handful among them giving thought to leaving a lasting legacy in the land of their tormentors. Aside from a few telling exceptions, it took until the early 1960s before specifically Jewish memorials were erected. By that time information about the exceptional status of Jews as targets of Nazi genocide had become readily available in the West German public sphere. The most noteworthy of these exceptional early Jewish memorials stands in Bergen-Belsen. When British soldiers entered the camp on 15 April 1945 they found approximately 50,000 people, the vast majority of them Jews, living and dying in conditions that beggar description. Ten thousand corpses were strewn about, and inmates were dying at a rate of thousands each day, so that 13,000 more deaths would be added to the tally in the first weeks after liberation. In spite of this, the first memorial sign erected by the British army made no reference to the Jewish ancestry of the victims:4 This is the site of the infamous Belsen concentration camp, liberated by the British on 15th April 1945. 10,000 unburied dead were found here, another 13,000 have since died. All of them victims of the German New Order in Europe and an example of Nazi Kultur. Because it had the largest number of Jewish survivors, Belsen became the site of the largest Jewish displaced persons (DPs) camp in Germany after 1945, with over 11,000 residents. By 19 May these Jews had been moved to an adjacent former German Army base, renamed Belsen-Höhne. On their initiative an unpretentious memorial was erected in the field of mass graves on the outskirts of the former Belsen detention camp (Figure 15). Dedicated on the first anniversary of liberation in April 1946, the roughly 2 metre tall square column bears the inscription in Hebrew and English:5

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Figure 15

1946 Jewish Memorial in Belsen (photo Harold Marcuse)

Israel and the world shall remember / thirty thousand Jews / exterminated in the concentration camp / of Bergen-Belsen / at the hands of the murderous Nazis EARTH CONCEAL NOT THE BLOOD / SHED ON THEE! First anniversary of Liberation / 15th April 1946 / 14th Nissan 5706 Central Jewish Committee / British Zone. In this case the term ‘Israel’ refers to the international community of Jews, and places the memory in the hands of ‘the world’, ignoring the fact that, given its location deep within Germany, Germans were most likely to be in charge of preserving memories at the site. After the founding of the state of Israel in May 1948, the number of Jews in the Belsen-Höhne DP camp fell dramatically. It closed completely in March 1950. In Flossenbürg only a coincidental recognition of the Jewishness of its largest victim group appeared in the early memorialization. Thousands of DPs remained at the site for years after the war, but they were primarily Catholic Poles who did not want to return to communist-ruled Poland, not Jews. The main memorial they erected was a Catholic chapel built from the stones of demolished watchtowers. In 1947 a sign was mounted on the crematorium chimney listing the numbers and nationalities of the victims of the camp.6 It lists 17 countries plus ‘Jews’ in descending order by number of inmates, from 26,430 Russians and 17,546 Poles, to 3132 Jews in seventh position, to two Americans (who died liberating the camp). While experts now think that the total number of dead was not that sign’s total of 73,296, but closer to 30,000, it is likely that many of the victims included in

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various national tallies, especially Poles and Hungarians, had been imprisoned, deported, and killed because they were Jewish. In Dachau the situation right after the war was more complex, and reflects more accurately the situation in Western Germany as a whole. Simplifying only slightly, we can say that the interplay between two main groups determined the history of the memorialization of Jewish persecution in Dachau, and by extension in all of Western Germany. On the one side was the overwhelmingly non-Jewish German public, which one can divide into two subgroups: one opposed to any sort of memorialization of Nazi crimes, and one at least willing to accept the establishment of commemorative markers. On the other side were surviving Jewish victims, who can in turn be divided into two very different groups: Jewish Germans who, after having experienced varing degrees of degradation and persecution, had emigrated from Germany during the 1930s and 1940, thereby escaping the genocidal juggernaut that was launched in 1941. The other group of Jewish survivors were eastern European Jews who had been swept up in the genocidal dragnet after 1942, but had managed to survive the ‘extermination through work’ programme and the final death marches long enough to be liberated. Except for a brief interlude in 1949–50, from 1945 until the late 1950s (non-Jewish) Germans shaped commemoration in Dachau. Events right after liberation indicate why Jews did not play a role until much later. In the first days after Dachau’s liberation US military rabbis held special memorial services for surviving Jewish inmates, who, because of threats from antiSemitic camp survivors, required protection by Allied forces.7 In June 1945 the very first memorial proposed for the Dachau camp – probably by local authorities – had equal Christian and Jewish components: two 15 metre tall columns were to be erected at a mass grave near the camp, one crowned by a cross, the other by a Star of David.8 This project was abandoned only a few weeks later, however, when it was discovered that the designer had been affiliated to the Nazi party. The only memorial erected in the Dachau camp itself before 1949 was a tall wooden cross on the roll-call square, reportedly set up by non-Jewish Poles who remained in Dachau for the same reasons that their compatriots stayed in Flossenbürg, namely dislike of the new Communist government at home. Descriptions of designs submitted to a memorial competition sponsored by the Bavarian Ministry of Culture for the Dachau camp in 1946 make no mention of any explicitly Jewish symbolism (the models were destroyed in a fire soon afterwards, and the project then forgotten).9 The next memorial project in Dachau was initiated by a rare type of Jewish survivor who bridged the two groups mentioned above: Phillip Auerbach, a Jewish German businessman from Hamburg.10 He was deported to Auschwitz in 1943, but managed to survive until his evacuation to and liberation from Buchenwald in 1945. In September 1946 Auerbach was recruited to Munich to become the first Bavarian Commissioner of ‘Racial, Religious, and Political Persecutees’. In 1947 Auerbach played a crucial role in the founding of a national organization for all concentration camp survivors and other victims, namely the Association of the Persecutees of the Nazi-Regime (Vereinigung der Verfolgten des Naziregimes,

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or VVN), and became a key player in the struggle over who should benefit from the liquidation of the assets of the Dachau camp: the Bavarian government, or the survivors of the inmates whose labour had created the assets on the land. In August 1949 Auerbach printed a photograph of a planned commemorative sculpture on an invitation to the annual memorial ceremony at the Dachau crematorium in September, for which he was soliciting donations. Although Auerbach was himself Jewish and involved in Jewish life in post-war Germany, this Dachau memorial proposal, a statue of two inmates, contained no Jewish symbolism. This is not surprising, given continuing evidence of antiSemitic attitudes in the post-war years, such as a ‘flood of complaints’ in spring 1947 because camp survivors were receiving higher rations than the general populace, or a rash of desecrations of Jewish cemeteries in the spring of 1948.11 Two tumultuous chains of events in the summer and autumn of 1949, simultaneous with Auerbach’s publication of the design, ensured the rapid realization, by April 1950, of an alternative version of the statue memorial, sponsored by the Bavarian government. Those events make clear that without intervention by international organizations, the situation of Jewish survivors in occupied Germany was not conducive to the creation of memorials recalling the fate of Jews under Nazism. The first of these noteworthy 1949 events was precipitated when the main Munich newspaper Süddeutsche Zeitung printed a rabidly anti-Semitic reader’s response to one of the paper’s recent editorials.12 The editorial had been written in support of a statement by US High Commissioner McCloy in a July 1949 Heidelberg speech, that the ‘Jewish question’ would be ‘one of the real touchstones and the test of Germany’s progress’ towards democracy. The Munich editorial called on Germans to show ‘special consideration’ for Jews living in Germany. In addition to several positive responses to the editorial, on 9 August 1949 the Süddeutsche printed an anti-Semitic diatribe it received under the pseudonym ‘Adolf Loyalist’. That same day a spontaneous gathering of about 1000 Jewish DPs began a protest march from the city centre to the Süddeutsche Zeitung’s offices. When mounted German police arrived to disperse the Jewish protesters with truncheons, the Jews responded with a barrage of paving stones, and burned or smashed several police cars. Another revealing chain of events set in motion on 9 August 1949 was to have direct consequences for the memorialization of Jewish persecution in Dachau. That day a member of the Dachau VVN chapter wrote to the Dachau county governor that he had seen human bones in a mining pit near a mass grave of Dachau inmates – the one for which the original cross and Star of David columns had been proposed.13 Although the Dachau and Bavarian authorities initially succeeded in scotching claims that they had neglected that gravesite after the unsuccessful memorial competition in 1946, a French parliamentary inquiry in November 1949 put the issue back on the front pages. Even though winter was beginning, the site was provisionally relandscaped and a Jewish star on a post, flanked by two menorahs, was dedicated in mid-December.14 Although a second inaugural event the following April was again accompanied by speeches by the Catholic and Protestant bishops of Bavaria and the State Rabbi, the memorial design unveiled

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at that time was utterly devoid of religious symbolism. In fact, few if any of the 175 designs submitted for the memorial competition contained any religious references, even though its call for a monument that symbolized ‘the religious and national idea of sacrifice on behalf of peace’ could have encompassed Jewish motifs.15 Probably also in 1950 a small explicitly Jewish memorial was erected near the Dachau crematorium building, marking a place where human ash was buried.16 Behind two large stone blocks in the ground bearing the trilingual inscription in French, German, and English: ‘Grave of Thousands Unknown’ stood a cross and a wooden Star of David. Probably some time in the 1960s the wooden marker was replaced by a stone monument composed of a large circular disk inscribed with a Star of David surmounted by a menorah. Because of its location at the very back of the memorial site it is not seen by many visitors, and documentation about its origins has not yet been found, another indication of how low-key Jewish commemoration was kept during that decade. At the fourth of the major concentration camps on West German soil, Neuengamme, there was essentially no commemoration, certainly no commemorative markers, until French survivors began to lobby for a memorial to French victims in 1951.17 Since 1947 the camp buildings had been torn down or reused as part of a model correctional facility. In response to the French survivors’ initiative, the City of Hamburg commissioned its Office of Cemeteries to design a memorial. In October 1953 a modest, roughly 7.5 metre tall tapered column was dedicated on a site outside of the former prisoners’ camp, where the ashes of victims had been strewn. Its minimalist inscription made no reference to Jewishness or any other identifying characteristic of the dead: ‘To the Victims / 1938–1945.’ This vapid dedication, similar to the non-inauguration of the Dachau-Leiten memorial, was typical of the public silence surrounding all concentration camp victims in early 1950s West Germany, especially Jews. In 1952 there was one exception to this rule, however.

Commemorating Jewish victims, 1952–1959 Within a year of the dedication of the DPs’ Jewish memorial in Belsen in April 1946, the British occupiers commissioned a larger memorial, a 20 metre tall obelisk in front of a 40 metre long inscription wall. That monument was not dedicated until November 1952. It bears inscriptions from 14 of the 40 countries whose citizens had died in the Belsen camp, including an inscription in Yiddish and Hebrew, which translates as follows:18 This monument testifies to the incomparably horrific acts that the German ‘Third Reich’ committed against the Jewish people in the years 1939 to 1945, when the Nazi terror horribly and cruelly murdered five million of its sons and daughters. The world should never forget the innocently shed blood of these sacred victims that soaks this soil.

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The inscription is interesting in that it is again – like its 1946 companion – addressed not to the Germans who visit the site, but rather to ‘the world’. It also uses a figure of five million victims, instead of the six million that became the canonical figure by the late 1950s, after the first research-based monographs about the Holocaust had been written. The dedication ceremony was attended by representatives of nine European countries and the United States, as well as of three international Jewish organizations.19 The West German government organizers noted explicitly that 65 Jews would be present. The main speeches were given by Nachum Goldmann, the president of the World Jewish Congress, and West German president Theodor Heuss. In contrast to the silence about Jewish victims that was characteristic of the more locally oriented ceremonies in Dachau, at the internationally attended event in Belsen Goldmann emphasized ‘the horrible facts of the extermination of the Jews’. Heuss’s speech also explicitly mentioned the Jewish victims numerous times, and he named ‘Jews’ first when listing the groups of victims.20 However, this internationally oriented memorial and ceremony remained the exception during the 1950s. A delegation of British journalists and Winston Churchill visited Belsen in 1956, only to find it abandoned and neglected.21 Two further media events at that time indicate that when the Nazi genocide was presented in the West German media in the 1950s, it was in a form which downplayed or overlooked its focus on Jews. Anne Frank’s diary, a non-seller when first published in Germany in 1950 and again in 1955, did not reach a wide audience until 1957, after a ‘universalized’ theatre version of her story that downplayed her Jewishness was hugely successful on stages across Germany.22 Similarly, the widely screened French concentration camp film Night and Fog (1955) makes no mention that the vast majority of victims at Auschwitz and Belsen, two sites featured in the film, were Jewish.23 The first two major histories of the National Socialist judeocide, translated into German in 1955 and 1956, did not sell well at that time. They were Léon Poliakov and Josef Wulf’s The Third Reich and the Jews (French 1951), and Gerald Reitlinger’s The Final Solution (English 1953).24 The number of young Germans visiting West German concentration camp memorial sites over the course of the 1950s offers another measure of the changing interest both in the Nazi past in general, and in the German persecution and annihilation of Jews in particular.25 In 1957 a number of ‘pilgrimages’ to the site of Anne Frank’s death in Belsen were organized with 800, 1000, and 500 participants. The following year 3000 attended the main ceremony in April, while in 1959 the number climbed to 10,000 participants. In Dachau the record is patchier, but documents show that the youth organization of the German trade-union association (Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund or DGB) began annual commemorations at the memorial site in December 1953 on the fifth anniversary of the signing of the United Nations Charter of Human Rights.26 That year 5000 young Germans attended. From 1954 to the present, the DGB has always held this commemoration on the 9 November anniversary of Kristallnacht. In 1956 we find the first public newspaper report about the annual event, in the local Dachau edition of the

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Süddeutsche Zeitung. In 1957 the ceremony made the pages of the main Munich edition, which reported that attendance had fallen slightly to about 2000. On the twentieth anniversary of Kristallnacht in 1958 the Bavarian and Munich Youth Rings co-sponsored the event, but the press did not report the number of participants. Since so little is known about these events, we do not know for sure whether the speakers mentioned the Jewishness of the victims, but evidence suggests that they did not.

The emergence of explicitly Jewish commemoration in the 1960s In the early 1960s several events in West Germany underscored that Jews had been the primary victims of Nazi persecution and genocide, precipitating a radical shift in Jewish commemorative practice in West Germany. The first event was a wave of anti-Semitic vandalism that swept across Germany from Christmas 1959 to late January 1960.27 These incidents and a number of subsequent highly publicized events, including the trials of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem in 1961 and of Auschwitz personnel in Frankfurt in 1964–65, focused international attention on how West Germany was dealing with anti-Semitism and the Holocaust.28 In the midst of this rising awareness the first explicitly Jewish memorials were erected at Dachau, while the other West German concentration camp memorial sites – except for some private gravestones erected at Bergen-Belsen – have remained devoid of specifically Jewish commemorative markers until today. Dachau’s special status again indicates the importance of international attention for commemoration of Jewish victims in West Germany. The impulse to finally construct a prominent Jewish memorial at Dachau came not from Jewish survivors, but from a Catholic bishop who had been imprisoned along with other notables in a special section of the Dachau camp. Suffragan Bishop Neuhäusler was one of the host organizers of the August 1960 Eucharistic World Congress, which was to be held in Munich. Neuhäusler wanted to hold a commemorative ceremony in Dachau during the congress, and he decided to construct a Catholic memorial chapel to make the site more respectable.29 Backed by a national fund-raising campaign, that chapel was erected in record time, between March and August. Neuhäusler also proposed that Jewish and Protestant memorials be erected on each side of the Catholic one. The evolution of the Jewish memorial, which was finally dedicated in 1967, illustrates the growing status of explicitly Jewish commemoration in West Germany during the 1960s. In November 1960 Munich Rabbi Blumenthal did not respond enthusiastically to Neuhäusler’s suggestion.30 He answered that the Jewish community would be content with the construction of a ‘modest Star of David’ in the camp. However, the Bavarian Association of Jewish Communities disagreed, and sent a delegate to Yad Vashem in Israel to solicit advice and support. By March 1961 the Bavarian Jewish association had published a call for donations in Germany and abroad, and commissioned a well-known synagogue architect to design the memorial building.

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In 1963 a memorial boom began in Dachau, including memorials for Jews. At the liberation ceremony in April 1963, for the first time since the Leiten ceremony in 1950, a representative of a Jewish organization spoke. Also in April 1963 the cornerstone for a Carmelite convent was laid at the camp wall behind the Catholic chapel, and in November at the Leiten gravesite a Catholic chapel sponsored by Italian survivors was dedicated, followed in April 1964 by a memorial for executed Soviet prisoners of war and a monument to the Jewish camp victims buried at the Dachau city cemetery. The Association of Jewish Persecutees and KZ Invalids in Munich commissioned that monument, a five metre tall tower formed from four stone blocks with six-sided faces. The top blocks are engraved with menorahs and Stars of David, the second story is inscribed simply in Hebrew, English, and German: ‘Remember the Victims’. This is a rather unremarkable memorial; its establishment at this time testifies to the rising visibility of and willingness to tolerate remembrance of the Jewish Holocaust in the West German public sphere. Finally, also in April 1964, the cornerstone of the Jewish memorial building next to the Catholic chapel was laid.31 The architecture of this Jewish memorial, which was explicitly not a synagogue, since houses of God cannot be erected in places of death, is highly symbolic. A ramp descends 1.8 metres – the depth of a grave – into the open side of a parabolic perimeter wall (Figure 16). The rough-hewn interior walls carry 70 candleholders representing the 70 elders of Moses. The dark underground room might evoke the lightless gas chambers, but it was intended to symbolize the underground hiding places many Jews used to escape Nazi manhunts. At the apex of the parabola a vertical strip of marble extends through the roof, where light streams in, ending outside in a seven-armed menorah. The marble strip was hewn at Peki’in

Figure 16

1967 Jewish Memorial in Dachau (photo Harold Marcuse)

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in Israel, a place where at least one Jew is supposed to have lived at all times in history, thus symbolizing the continuity of Judaism and its connection with Israel. The column of light entering from the hole in the roof symbolizes hope, salvation, and liberation. This contrasts with the extreme hopelessness of the vast majority of Jews during the Holocaust. The Jewish memorial in Dachau thus emphasizes aspects relevant to contemporary Jewish identity, but is not necessarily representative of the historical events it commemorates. Once the outer shell of the building was complete in May 1965, a discussion about the inscription began. The architect suggested a quote from Psalm 9:21 as the primary text above the entrance: ‘Give them a sign of warning, eternal one! The peoples should learn that they are mortals’. A prominent Jewish German emigré survivor, however, disagreed because the ninth psalm was a ‘psalm of vengeance’, and conveyed anti-German sentiments. Ultimately an additional inscription was selected for the interior wall: Monument of warning to commemorate the Jewish martyrs who died in the years of the National Socialist rule of terror 1933-1945. Their death is a warning and obligation for us. Erected by the Regional Association of Israelite Cultural Communities in Bavaria in the year 1966/5727. In contrast to the Belsen monument of 1952, which referred to the murdered Jews as ‘sacred victims’, this inscription elevates them to the status of ‘martyrs’, from whose death obligations – presumably beyond mere remembrance – arise for the present. The émigré’s objection to the initial inscription reveals that in the 1960s Jewish Germans were still worried about triggering negative feelings among other Germans. By the time the memorial was finally dedicated on 7 May 1967, the Israeli ambassador was willing to spell out openly what such an obligation might be. Referring to the tensions between Israel and Egypt just a month before the 1967 Six Day War began, he underscored the connection between commemoration and present concerns in the conclusion to his speech: ‘Many monuments to this memory have been erected, but the forests and fields of Israel are a living monument for us. Now we are able to defend ourselves without outside help because we have become independent!’ His words may also have been a challenge to contemporary anti-Semitism in Germany, since a few days earlier a Jewish monument at Leiten had been desecrated, and neo-Nazi parties were making inroads in regional elections in Germany. A final indicator of the increasing acceptance in the German public sphere of commemoration of the Jewish Holocaust in the 1960s are changes to the conception of the main museum exhibition in the Dachau memorial site – the most comprehensive West German display about the Nazi period prior to the Berlin Reichstag and Topography of Terror exhibitions of the 1980s. In contrast to the museum that camp survivors provisionally installed in the crematorium building in 1960, the plan for a much-expanded exhibition in the former camp service building, presented to the public in June 1963, included an entire section about

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‘The Final Solution’.32 Until the expansions of the museums at Belsen, Flossenbürg, and Neuengamme in and after the 1990s, this was the only permanent museum exhibition in West Germany devoted explicitly to the Nazi judeocide.

Routinization of commemoration in the 1970s and 1980s Although no further Jewish memorials were erected in Dachau, a few prominent events in the 1970s and 1980s document the increasingly visible role that Jewish commemoration played at the Dachau site. Prior to the opening of the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, the West German government organized a special commemorative ceremony for international visitors at Dachau on 25 August.33 Israel, which had opposed having West Germany host the Games, also planned a special event for its athletes, on 1 September, the anniversary of the Nazi invasion of Poland. Perhaps because they were to go to Dachau just a week later, only five of 28 Israeli athletes attended the German event. On 5 September, just as German newspapers were reporting that Israeli newspapers were critical of the Israeli athletes for their sparse attendance, eight heavily armed Palestinian terrorists broke into the quarters of the Israeli athletes. Two Israelis were murdered on the spot, and nine taken hostage. After dramatic negotiations the remaining nine died in a failed rescue attempt. In addition to indicating that Jewish commemoration in Dachau was now widely accepted as part of West German national commemorative activities, this incident also reveals how charged the politics of Jewish commemoration still were in West Germany in the 1970s. At the end of the 1970s another national event triggered a huge upsurge in the visitor numbers in Dachau. When the 1978 US television mini-series Holocaust was broadcast on West German national television in April 1979, the response from viewers was unprecedented.34 The annual number of visitors, especially young German visitors, to the Dachau memorial site increased by 55 per cent in 1979, on their way to a plateau of just under 1 million during the 1980s. During the 1970s a Jewish ceremony at the 1967 Jewish memorial building became a regular event immediately preceding the annual liberation commemoration in early May. Hosted by the Bavarian Association of Jewish Communities, it is also attended by non-Jewish notables. This survey of memorials to Jewish persecution in Nazi concentration camps in West Germany shows how isolated early commemorations initiated primarily by non-German Jews in the 1940s and early 1950s gradually gave way to institutionalized commemorations by indigenous German Jews with non-Jewish German participation in the 1960s. At sites of former camps other than Dachau, where no significant memorial infrastructure had been created in that decade, Jewish commemoration has remained very low-key, rare, or non-existent. The international commemoration of the fortieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War in 1985 underscores this point. After Jews in the United States, in particular, protested against the West German government’s plan to invite US president Reagan to visit only a military cemetery, a visit to a concentration camp memorial site was added to the itinerary. Dachau was selected first, but when top officials determined that

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the memorial infrastructure there was too ‘grisly’ for the reconciliatory purpose of the commemoration, the bland Belsen memorial site was chosen instead.35 In this case, Dachau represented a more concrete and detailed understanding of the Holocaust, which was, however, deemed unsuitable for the commemorative purpose at hand, to promote West German–US relations. A less affecting site was more suitable for the politicians’ purposes. Shortly thereafter, in 1987, a West German initiative that ultimately produced the largest single memorial in the world ‘for the murdered Jews of Europe’ began. The vigorous debates accompanying its development until its dedication in 2005 indicate how Jewish commemoration in Germany moved from relative isolation at concentration camp memorial sites to the centre of the national capital in Berlin.36

Notes 1. Data compiled from M. Weinmann and International Tracing Service (eds), Das nationalsozialistische Lagersystem, 2nd edn (Frankfurt am Main, 1990), p. 483, pp. 492–4, pp. 554–6, and pp. 559–61. 2. P. Berben, Dachau, 1933–1945: The Official History (London, 1975), p. 13 and p. 219. 3. S. Zámecník, Das war Dachau (Frankfurt am Main, 2007), pp. 106–7, and G. Kimmel, ‘Das Konzentrationslager Dachau’, in M. Broszat (ed.), Bayern in der NS-Zeit (Munich, 1977), vol. 2, pp. 349–413, here p. 372 and p. 385. 4. The sign was erected prior to the 1946 publication of a photograph in D. Sington, Belsen Uncovered (London, 1946). 5. For details of the monument’s creation, see H. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau: The Uses and Abuses of a Concentration Camp, 1933–2001 (Cambridge, 2001), p. 264 with references on p. 512, note 10. 6. The sign is depicted in P. Heigl, Konzentrationslager Flossenbürg in Geschichte und Gegenwart (Regensburg, 1989), p. 88. 7. See Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, pp. 263–4, and A. Grobman, Rekindling the Flame: American Jewish Chaplains and the Survivors of European Jewry, 1944–1948 (Detroit, 1992), pp. 38–9. 8. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, pp. 189–90. 9. Ibid., p. 192. 10. Ibid., p. 447, note 29 and pp. 134–41; also G. Fürmetz, ‘Die Auerbach-Korrespondenz im Bayerischen Hauptstaatsarchiv’, Zeitenblicke 3:2 (2004), http://www.zeitenblicke.de/ 2004/02/fuermetz/index.html (accessed 21 November 2008). 11. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, p. 265, citing the report answering a July 1948 Bavarian parliamentary inquiry. 12. On this and the following, see ibid., pp. 143–4. 13. Ibid., pp. 142–50, and H. Marcuse, ‘Die vernachlässigten Massengräber: Der Skandal um dem Leitenberg, 1949–50’, Dachauer Hefte 19 (2003), 3–23. 14. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, fig. 36. 15. Ibid., pp. 194–7 and figs 33–5. 16. See D. Hoffmann (ed.), Das Gedächtnis der Dinge. KZ-Relikte und KZ-Denkmäler, 1945– 1995 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1997), p. 66. 17. U. Wrocklage, ‘Neuengamme’, in Hoffmann (ed.), Das Gedächtnis der Dinge, pp. 175–205, esp. pp. 186–90. 18. German translations of the inscriptions can be found at http://www.bergenbelsen.de/ pdf/zurgeschichte_2008-10-07.pdf (accessed 24 October 2008), 8. A photograph can be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/wordridden/1814038360/in/photostream (accessed 31 October 2008).

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19. J. Herf, Divided Memory: The Nazi Past in the Two Germanys (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 317–26. 20. A translation of Heuss’s speech is printed in R. Stackelberg and S. A. Winkle, The Nazi Germany Sourcebook (London, 2002), pp. 401–2. 21. See Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, p. 201. 22. See A. Rosenfeld, ‘Popularization and Memory: The Case of Anne Frank’, in P. Hayes (ed.), Lessons and Legacies (Evanston, Il., 1991), pp. 243–78, and H. Loewy, ‘Saving the Child: The “Universalisation” of Anne Frank’, http://www.cine-holocaust.de/mat/ fbw001473emat.html (accessed 14 November 2008). 23. See R. Raskin, Nuit et Brouillard by Alain Resnais: On the Making, Reception and Functions of a Major Documentary Film (Aarhus, 1987) and E. van der Knaap, Uncovering the Holocaust: The International Reception of Night and Fog (New York, 2006). 24. L. Poliakov and J. Wulf, Das Dritte Reich und die Juden (Berlin, 1955); based on Poliakov’s Bréviaire de Haine: La IIIe Reich et les Juifs (Paris, 1951). It was published in English as Harvest of Hate in 1954. On the small readership in the 1950s, see H. Broder, Erbarmen mit den Deutschen (Hamburg, 1993), p. 75. G. Reitlinger, Die Endlösung. Hitlers Versuch der Ausrottung der Juden Europas, 1939–1945 (West Berlin, 1956). 25. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, p. 201. 26. Ibid., pp. 203–4. 27. See W. Bergmann, Antisemitismus in öffentlichen Konflikten (Frankfurt am Main, 1997), pp. 235–50. 28. On these and other contemporary events see Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, pp. 212–14. 29. Ibid., pp. 230–1 and pp. 266–8. 30. For this and the following, see ibid., pp. 266–8. 31. The construction of a modest ‘document house’ in Belsen, which opened in 1966, should be mentioned in this context. A large gathering of Jewish survivors marked the 1965 anniversary of liberation; see: S. Bloch and World Federation of Bergen-Belsen Associations, Umkum un Oyfkum. Holocaust and Rebirth, Bergen-Belsen, 1945–1965 (New York, 1965). 32. B. Distel and R. Jakusch (eds), Concentration Camp Dachau, 1933–1945 (Brussels, 1978), pp. 173–89. 33. Marcuse, Legacies of Dachau, pp. 271–2. 34. Ibid., pp. 343–7, pp. 350–3 and fig. 73. 35. Ibid., pp. 359–64. 36. The debates are documented in U. Heimrod et al. (eds), Der Denkmalstreit – Das Denkmal? Die Debatte um das ‘Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas’. Eine Dokumentation (Bodenheim, 1999).

3.3 Remembering Nazi Anti-Semitism in the GDR Bill Niven

Introduction In his book Divided Memory, the American historian Jeffrey Herf argued that, while public memory of the Holocaust and sympathy for the concerns of Jewish survivors found a home in West Germany, in East Germany this was not the case.1 Herf’s book portrays the anti-Semitic purges in the GDR of the 1950s, the relegation of Jewish survivors in East Germany to the status of second-class victims, and the GDR’s hostility towards Israel – which it regarded as an imperialist and capitalist country, and to which it flatly refused to pay restitution. Herf also describes the SED’s shameless use of the Holocaust as an instrument in the Cold War against West Germany, some of whose official representatives became the subject of SED smear campaigns based on their roles or alleged roles during the Third Reich. According to Herf, ‘while some East German novelists and filmmakers addressed anti-Semitism and the Holocaust, these issues remained on the margins of East Germany’s official anti-fascist political culture.’2 Herf sees evidence that marginalization, indeed even exclusion of reference to Jews was characteristic of commemorative practices in the GDR generally, and particularly in the opening ceremonies of the Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen memorial sites: ‘solidarity with the Jews had no part in these ceremonies of remembrance’, which foregrounded rather antifascist resistance.3 Claudia Koonz is equally damning in her assessment of the GDR’s museum and memorial landscape at Buchenwald, which, focused as it was on the effects of ‘international fascist capitalism’, left no room for a memory of the Holocaust.4 Moreover, while Thomas Fox takes issue with the claim that there was no place for the Holocaust at GDR memorial sites, his study of representation of the Holocaust in the GDR nevertheless largely supports Herf’s ‘marginalization’ thesis.5 There can be little doubt that the Holocaust was not central to East Germany’s understanding of the Nazi past. In the GDR, the official view was that antiSemitism was a means of distracting the masses while the Nazis, representing capitalist interests, set about dismantling the trade unions and the parties of the working class. The genocide of the Jews was interpreted as a by-product of rampant profiteering. Nazism, then, was about class conflict and greed, not about 205

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racism. There can be little doubt either that remembering Jewish suffering was not a noticeable feature of the official GDR agenda of commemoration until well into the 1980s. Sites of memory such as Ravensbrück, Sachsenhausen, and Buchenwald, or indeed any of the other memorial complexes erected in the GDR tended to focus on antifascist resistance, particularly that of communists. As a result, the only Jews who were prominently remembered in the GDR were those classified as antifascist resistance fighters, such as the members of the Herbert Baum resistance group (a largely Jewish group which tried to burn down an anti-Soviet Nazi propaganda display in Berlin in 1942). The group was commemorated in the GDR in various ways, most notably in the form of a monument by Jürgen Raue unveiled in East Berlin’s Lustgarten in 1981. Even so, the act of resistance was not remembered as a Jewish act of resistance. The Museum of the Resistance Struggle and the Suffering of Jewish People at Sachsenhausen, opened in 1961, related the Jewish rebellion at this camp on 22 October 1942 as one instigated by communists, and generally played up communist solidarity amongst and towards Jews.6 Besides, even this museum – unique in the GDR since no other museum was specifically focused on the impact of anti-Semitism – was only constructed because the Union of Anti-Nazi Resistance Fighters in Israel had been demanding the right to establish a section in Sachsenhausen’s Museum of the Antifascist Freedom Struggle of European Peoples focusing on Jewish suffering. The SED, after all, had accorded other countries the right to set up an exhibit to remember their own nationals. In constructing the Museum of the Resistance Struggle, the SED was able to counter claims that it was not committed to remembering Jewish suffering, and justify refusing Israel the right to create its own exhibit on the grounds that Jews were already commemorated.7 Yet for all this, it seems to me that neither the term ‘excluded’ nor the word ‘marginalized’ precisely reflects the GDR’s official (re)presentation of antiSemitism and the Holocaust. What is often overlooked is that GDR memorials and exhibitions resulted not, or at least not only, from state fiats: different institutions such as the memorial site administrations themselves, the Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters, the Museum for German History in Berlin, or the MarxEngels Institute participated, as did the Ministry for Culture and other regional and local political authorities. Moreover, since collaboration (between artists, designers, sculptors, and construction teams) is intrinsic to memorials and exhibitions there were inevitable differences of opinion, which led to some degree of ambiguity and even contradiction in representations of various aspects of the Nazi past, including anti-Semitism. Furthermore, while the SED did quite unashamedly instrumentalize the Holocaust in its campaign against the West, it could hardly do so without publicizing it. In the course of the 1961 Eichmann trial in Jerusalem and the Auschwitz trials in Frankfurt between 1963 and 1965, GDR newspapers and other media did not just rail against West Germans with a brown past such as Globke; they also reported extensively on the murder of the Jews under Hitler. This was hardly marginalization, and at times the reporting focused much more on depicting the horrors than on disseminating anti-western propaganda.8

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One might ask, too, whether the attempt by the SED to project guilt onto West Germany was necessarily espoused by the populace. In 1975, Salomea Genin of the GDR’s Jewish Community talked, in relation to GDR citizens, of ‘an unconscious emotional identification with fascist crimes in the form of a bad conscience towards Jews’. Nor was the SED’s anti-Israeli stance necessarily adopted by all. During the Six-Day War in 1967, according to Genin, there was ‘strong sympathy’ for Israel among East Germans – despite the official anti-Israeli stance of the government.9 Moreover, the difficulty with interpretations such as Herf’s is that they are based on ‘totalitarianism theory’, focusing as they do on the attitudes and actions of the upper echelons of the SED. By contrast, if a ‘bottom-up’ approach were to be adopted, a much more complex picture might emerge. It was not just GDR writers and filmmakers who drew attention to Nazi anti-Semitism and its murderous impact. The Jewish communities in the GDR were certainly tiny and increasingly geriatric, and perhaps obedient to the SED’s political line, but they did commemorate the persecution of Jews. The Protestant Church did much to generate interest in the subject, sporadically in the 1960s (especially in 1963) and as of the 1970s. There are some examples, moreover, of local museums, or branches of organizations such as the GDR’s League of Culture or Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters, promoting memory of Jews as of the 1970s and early 1980s.10 According to the GDR historian Kurt Pätzold, the term ‘Holocaust’ was in unofficial use in the GDR by the mid-1980s.11 Certainly the SED leadership was itself beginning to ‘discover’ the Holocaust from the late 1970s, in an attempt to shore up its crumbling moral legitimacy. But it cannot simply be assumed that the broader organizational and social initiatives undertaken to remember Jewish suffering at this time were steered by central government. In many ways, developments in West Germany and East Germany moved in parallel, with waves of commemoration in 1978 and particularly 1988 on the occasion of the fortieth and fiftieth anniversaries of the November Pogrom (Reichspogromnacht). In both states, commemoration was to a significant degree driven from below – in the GDR, sometimes in opposition to the SED. To sum up so far: while official GDR memorialization did often treat the theme of the Nazi persecution of Jews rather perfunctorily, or indeed ignore it, it did not always do so. We should be wary, too, of understanding ‘official’ to mean ‘homogenous’. In cultural matters, the GDR was often as confusedly and confusingly polycratic as the Third Reich. Also, focusing on the official should not blind us to the existence of alternative discourses within GDR society. The GDR may not have been a pluralist state, but it was not without plurality. To illustrate some of these points, in the remainder of the chapter I wish to examine some important memorial sites and acts of commemoration.

Buchenwald I begin with Buchenwald, or, as it was called as of 1958, the National Site of Warning and Commemoration (Nationale Mahn- und Gedenkstätte Buchenwald).

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On 25 September 1960, a professor of pharmacology at the Medical School in Jerusalem by the name of Bergmann complained to the GDR’s Minister-President Otto Grotewohl about the exclusion of Israel from the nations whose dead were now officially commemorated at Buchenwald’s enormous memorial complex on the Ettersberg (dedicated in 1958).12 Georg Spielmann of the Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters answered on Grotewohl’s behalf. He claimed that Jewish victims had not been forgotten at Buchenwald. They had come into the camp as Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Belgian, French, and German prisoners – and these nations were commemorated. Spielmann implied that the GDR was giving back to the Jews what the Nazis had sought to take from them, namely their nationality.13 This seems like so much cynical sophistry. Nowhere in the Street of Nations was it clear that Jews were also meant where reference was made, say, to Poland or France. Subsuming them as a subcategory of the national effectively elided them. Excluding Israel, to which Spielmann implicitly denied the right to represent the Jewish dead, rendered Jewish suffering at the memorial complex invisible. And even if their suffering had been visible as part of the suffering of individual nations, this would have been to recontextualize it. Jews suffered because they were Jews or regarded as such, not because they were nationals of particular countries. In his letter to Bergmann, however, Spielmann also pointed out that a stone slab memorializing the Jews who had been incarcerated in Buchenwald following Reichspogromnacht had been set into the ground near the crematorium at the former camp itself in 1954. ‘From November 1938 through to February 1939, 12,250 Jews – children, men, old men – were imprisoned here. 600 of them were brutally murdered during this time. They died as victims of Nazi racial madness.’14 While we might object to the notion of ‘racial madness’, there can be no doubt that this memorial stone does explicitly commemorate Jewish suffering. It became a focus certainly for Jewish memory. When the Polish Jew Stefan Zweig, who as a three-year old had been saved by communist and other prisoners at Buchenwald, visited the camp in 1964 in a blaze of media publicity, he laid a wreath of red carnations at the site of the memorial.15 And the memorial – officially called the Memorial Stone for Murdered Jewish Prisoners – featured in GDR guidebooks on Buchenwald.16 It is true that, during GDR times, the area of the ‘Small Camp’ or ‘Jewish Camp’ where Jews perished in their thousands in the latter stages of the war was not memorialized in any way. But there were plans to mark it with a memorial stone and inscription – plans, admittedly, which also included razing it to the ground and planting a hedge round it.17 Why these plans were not realized is not entirely clear. What Bergmann might also have mentioned is the Buchenwald exhibition; following provisional ones in 1952 and 1953, a permanent exhibition was established (though subsequently revised) in 1954/55. The main emphasis in this exhibition in Buchenwald’s Museum of the Resistance Movement, was on the post-1918 exploits of the German Communist Party; only a relatively small section was actually dedicated to Buchenwald. In the following years, the exhibition, which had been designed by the Museum for German History in Berlin, came in for

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much criticism: the SED and the Soviets wanted more emphasis on international resistance, while the Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters wanted more emphasis on Buchenwald.18 However, there seems to have been little dispute about the fact that the 1954/55 museum represented Jewish suffering – at least to a degree. There was a section on ‘The Persecution of the Jews’, with pictures of a burning synagogue, the SA’s humiliation of Jews, the boycotting of Jewish shops, and of Jews being forced to clean streets with small handbrushes.19 There was also a section on Jews at Buchenwald, and reference was made to the ‘Tent Camp’ (part of the ‘Small Camp’), where ‘in the course of a mere three months, 3,300 Jews were hung, beaten to death, froze to death, or starved’.20 Nor were the Jews excluded in subsequent Buchenwald exhibitions. In the 1964 exhibition (which was not renewed until 1985), an entire room was given over to the theme ‘Fascist Principle: From Terror to Annihilation’, and Jewish suffering was a prominent focus of this room. The exhibition documents the transport of 12,000 Jews to Buchenwald in 1938, the wearing of the Yellow Star, the notorious Jewish barracks at Buchenwald, the setting up of the ‘Tent Camp’ and the death there of 3300 Jews. It also makes clear through a list of examples in a section on ‘Annihilation Transports’ that Jews were the principal victims of such transports (e.g. ‘1944, 1,188 Jewish prisoners sent to Auschwitz’).21

The antifascist master-narrative Without doubt, in all GDR Buchenwald exhibitions the portrayal of Jewish suffering, indeed of all suffering at the camp had superimposed upon it both the triumphant narrative of antifascist resistance, and the anti-western narrative according to which all suffering was the result of capitalist greed. The GDR remained reluctant to recognize that racism was the primary rather than an accompanying factor in the Holocaust. What is also noticeable in these exhibitions is an uneasy vacillation between frank acknowledgement of the particularity of Jewish suffering, and the tendency to universalize this suffering such that its specifically Jewish character is lost from view. Thus in the 1964 exhibition, a section on mass murder in Auschwitz and the ‘Operation Reinhard’ camps fails to make clear that almost all the victims were Jews; the visitor, however, could certainly have inferred this from the transport lists provided in the exhibition. Nevertheless, what we have in the exhibitions discussed is not ‘exclusion’, nor even ‘marginalization’. Rather it is a complex and uneven mixture of omission and admission, the explicit and implicit, of acknowledgement of the particular and submergence in generalization, and of empathy and reticence. Representation of the Jewish theme is at one moment pressed into an ideological mould, and at others unexpectedly punctures and throws into question the validity of the transcendent antifascist narrative. Contradictions occur – perhaps the result of the fact that Buchenwald’s exhibitions were crafted by representatives of various bodies.22 In the 1980s, communist stalwarts among former Buchenwald prisoners were still blocking the publication of research into the Jews and Sinti and Roma among Buchenwald’s prisoners. But such research was taking place; indeed it had

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been going on since the late 1970s.23 And in the mid-1980s, during preparations for the new film for showing to visitors at Buchenwald, the director Klaus Trostorff successfully resisted calls from Klaus Martin of the Antifascist Resistance Fighters to have the focus on Jews in the film reduced.24 Klaus Trostorff was not only a former prisoner. He was also of Jewish background. It needs to be stressed that any visitor to Buchenwald in GDR times will have come away with the impression that the site was being used mainly to disseminate anti-western propaganda and glorify antifascist resistance. But the theme of Jewish persecution was not absent. Then again, there are certainly examples of GDR memorials and exhibitions shaped by the narratives of antifascism which did completely exclude explicit reference to Jewish suffering and the Holocaust. The 1968 GDR memorial at the former Nazi labour camp of Zwieberge near Halberstadt, a satellite camp of Buchenwald, bore the striking inscription, ‘No one has the right to forget, and no one can be allowed to forget – for the sake of life and of humanity’. It is a sad irony that Zwieberge’s memorial complex, in omitting to mention that most of those who died at the camp or in subsequent death marches were Jews, actually encouraged the process it so vehemently warned against. An even more egregious case of omission was the GDR’s memorial site at Lieberose, near Cottbus. Erected in the 1970s and taking the form of a ring-grave, it commemorated the Nazi victims of Jamlitz, a satellite camp of Sachsenhausen. It honours these victims as ‘victims of fascism’ and, in a later variant, as ‘fighters against fascism and war’. That those murdered were Jews was not mentioned either at the site or in official pronouncements. After unification in 1990, claims were made that the Stasi may even have appropriated gold from the teeth of the corpses of Jews exhumed at the site. If this is true (and it still remains a contested claim), then it is a damning indictment indeed of a state that, in matters of coming to terms with the Nazi past, liked to claim the moral high ground.25 Even memorials which were expressly dedicated to the memory of Jews could have a generalizing tendency. A stele erected in 1973 in Dresden near the site of the former synagogue bears a text which explicitly references the destruction of that building by the Nazis. The stele itself takes the form of a Jewish menorah – except that it has six, rather than seven arms, a reference to the 6 million Jews murdered by the Nazis. Across the menorah’s arms, however, are inscribed the words: ‘in Eternal Memory: to the Victims of Fascism.’ In the very moment of symbolic specificity, the memorial’s referential framework is widened to embrace all victims of Nazism. Such ambivalence can also be detected within memorial clusters as well as in individual memorials. Near Tröbitz in April 1945, the Soviets found an abandoned train filled with Jewish Bergen-Belsen prisoners destined for Terezin. The accompanying SS had fled from the Russian advance. Those prisoners who had died during the transport, or died subsequently, were buried in and around Tröbitz. On 11 April 1952, a memorial was dedicated at the site of one the mass graves. It bore the inscription: ‘We honour you, Our Dead, Who Carry the Banner for Nameless Comrades.’ No reference was made to the fact that the dead were Jewish, and they were certainly not our dead – a formulation which rather suggested they had fallen for the cause of German antifascism.

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Yet at the Jewish cemetery established in Tröbitz for over a hundred other victims of the transport, a memorial was erected with a much more specific text: ‘in memory of the Jewish men and women who fell victim in Tröbitz as late as 1945 to murderous fascism, this memorial was constructed as a warning to the living.’ Another memorial to other victims (dedicated on 8 May 1975) refers to the ‘17 Jewish citizens buried here who were victims of fascism’. Tröbitz exemplifies a degree of complexity in the memorialization of Jews in the GDR. One could point to many other examples of GDR memorials to Jewish suffering which either fail to reference Jews explicitly, or do so but are at the same time dedicated to all victims of fascism, or preserve a specific focus on the Jews – although of course one could criticize the GDR for insisting on ‘fascism’ rather than on ‘racism’ as the root cause of Jewish suffering; arguably, already the use of the term ‘fascism’ renders that suffering generic. But my point in this chapter is to demonstrate that Jewish suffering was not always excluded or marginalized in GDR memorialization, and the ideological framing could vary from strong to weak. It cannot reasonably be argued that GDR memorials to Jews were rare – although certainly some may have been inconspicuous, while many were placed in Jewish cemeteries where non-Jewish Germans were not inclined to go. While it is difficult to estimate just how many memorials were erected in East Germany in memory of Jewish suffering between 1933 and 1945 – so far, no precise study has been conducted on this subject – it is easy to find examples of such memorials.26 I point here, for instance, to the memorial site for Jewish victims which was dedicated in Halle in 1965 (the memorial consists of the remains of the entrance to Halle’s synagogue – destroyed by the Nazis); or to the memorial dedicated in 1966 at the site of Leipzig’s Gottschedstraße synagogue. Newer memorials, moreover, sometimes dispense with the seemingly obligatory references to ‘fascism’. This is particularly the case with memorials constructed under the influence of the GDR’s Protestant Church. Thus the memorial erected outside Halberstadt’s cathedral in 1982 is dedicated ‘to the Jewish men, women, children from Halberstadt who, between 1933 and 1945, were persecuted, driven out, and murdered’.27 Finally, terms such as ‘exclusion’ or ‘marginalization’ are unhelpful because they imply an all-powerful central excluder and marginalizer: the SED Party leadership. This ignores differences between central and regional or local SED actors. It also ignores the commemorative activities of the Jewish communities themselves, of the GDR’s Christian Democratic Party, local town councils, and the Protestant Church. Recently, some critical attention has been paid to the role of the Church in organizing commemorations of the November Pogrom which provided a significant contrast to SED-orchestrated commemoration of the same event. Historians have also recently drawn attention to the fact that, in 1978, the heads of the Church Province of Saxony, followed a little later by the GDR’s Conference of Protestant Church Leaders, issued an address highlighting the fact that neither the Church as an institution, nor the Protestant community at large had done anything to protest against events on 9 November 1938.28 While official SED commemoration interpreted 9 November 1938 as a historical example of a fascist destructiveness still potentially present in West Germany, the Church

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provided a platform for a more self-critical act of commemoration, also providing scope for a critique of the GDR’s anti-Israel policy, reference to the danger of antiSemitism in the GDR, and even for criticism of the SED’s treatment of political opponents.29 There thus developed under the auspices of the Church, especially in the last decade of the GDR’s existence, a form of ‘counter-commemoration’ which challenged the attempts by the SED to impose a hegemonic memory of 9 November. We must look, then, for alternatives to ‘exclusion’, ‘marginalization’, and notions of ideological homogeneity when seeking to conceptualize the GDR’s memorialization of the persecution of Jews under Hitler. It might be that there is no single word or phrase to capture the character of this memorialization, but we should not therefore resort to over-simplification – an over-simplification which has had the unfortunate effect of making further research into the matter appear redundant. The present chapter demonstrates, I hope, that it would not be in the interest of objectivity and differentiation to close the case before it has been fully investigated.

Notes 1. J. Herf, Divided Memory: The Nazi Past in the Two Germanys (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1997), p. 2. 2. Ibid., p. 160. 3. Ibid., pp. 179–80. 4. C. Koonz, ‘Buchenwald: Eine Gedenkstätte im Interessenkonflikt’, in J. Young (ed.), Mahnmale des Holocaust. Motive, Rituale und Stätten des Gedenkens, pp. 87–95, here p. 92. 5. T. C. Fox, Stated Memory: East Germany and the Holocaust (Rochester and Woodbridge, 1999), p. 53. 6. See S. zur Nieden, ‘Das Museum des Widerstandskampfes und der Leiden des jüdischen Volkes’, in G. Morsch (ed.), Von der Erinnerung zum Monument. Die Entstehungsgeschichte der Nationalen Mahn- und Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen (Berlin, 1996), pp. 272–8, here p. 275. 7. For an insight into the motives behind the construction of the Museum of the Resistance Struggle, see zur Nieden, ‘Das Museum des Widerstandskampes’, and the file containing a key exchange of letters on the issue between GDR functionaries in Berlin’s Federal Archive at Lichterfelde (Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR im Bundesarchiv, Berlin [henceforth SAPMO-BArch] DY30/IV 2/2.028/76). 8. Thus SED Central Committee member Arne Rehahn complained in a letter to Albert Norden that reporting on the Eichmann trial in the GDR press had been ‘inadequate’ (see SAPMO-BArch DY30/IV 2/2028/21, Bl. 38, Rehahn to Norden, 19 June 1961). What Rehahn meant by this is implicit in a report accompanying his letter, which insists that ‘our press [. . .] must not lose sight of the need to use the Eichmann trial systematically to create more clarity [. . .] regarding the aggressive politics in Bonn, and neo-Nazism in West Germany’ (see SAPMO-BArch DY30/IV 2/2028/21, Bl. 39–42, ‘Der EichmannProzess und die unbewältigte Vergangenheit’). Clearly, then, the GDR press had not been beating the propaganda drum as loudly as the SED would have liked. 9. See SAPMO-BArch DY30/IV B 2/14/174 Fiche 1, Bl. 58–59, ‘Vorschlag für den Aufbau eines jüdischen Museums in Berlin, Hauptstadt der DDR’, April 1975. 10. A good example of such local commemorative initiative is provided by the town of Gröbzig, where a synagogue which housed the local museum had survived destruction by the Nazis. Thanks to the commitment of individuals such as Otto Hohmann

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19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25. 26.

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and Robert Hobusch, Gröbitz’s synagogue became a museum documenting local Jewish history and culture, as well as the history of Gröbzig’s workers’ movement. For more information, see I. Bongardt, ‘Das Heimatmuseum in Gröbzig’, Neue Zeit, 4 November 1978, reprinted in Verband der Jüdischen Gemeinden in der DDR (ed.), Gedenke! Vergiss Nie. 40. Jahrestag des faschistischen ‘Kristallnacht’-Pogroms (Berlin, 1979), pp. 122–16. K. Pätzold, ‘Die Benennung des Unvorstellbaren’, Weltbühne 5 (4 February 1986), 140–2. SAPMO-BArch NY4090/550: Letter from Bergmann to Grotewohl, 25 September 1960. SAPMO-BArch NY4090/550: Letter from Spielmann to Bergmann, 14 December 1960. Ibid. See, for instance, ‘Stephan kommt wieder’, Berliner Zeitung, 10 February 1964. See, for instance, G. Günther, Buchenwald (Weimar, 1973), pp. 84–5. SAPMO-BArch DR1/7520: ‘An das ZK der SED z. Hd. d. Gen. Erich Mückenberger’, 16 November 1953, 212–15. See M. Overesch, Buchenwald und die DDR oder die Suche nach Selbstlegitimation (Göttingen, 1995), p. 306; and B. Niven, The Buchenwald Child: Truth, Fiction and Propaganda (Rochester, New York, 2007), pp. 69–70. Buchenwaldarchiv: Drehbuch Widerstandsmuseum Buchenwald (Kantine), Letzte Fassung, 1955. Deutsches Historisches Museum, Bestand MfdG, Abt. Gedenkstätten: ‘Schriftwechsel der Abt. mit Universitäten, Akademien und Baubetrieben zur Ausgestaltung, baulichen Maßnahmen und Errichtung der Gedenkstätte Buchenwald, 1954–1958: Eröffnung eines “Museums der Widerstandsbewegung” im ehemaligen KZ-Buchenwald, Drehbuch’, 3 June 1954. Buchenwaldarchiv, ‘Drehbuch umgearbeitet nach den Hinweisen von der Besprechung am 3. und 18.10.1962 im Ministerium für Kultur’, 1964. These included the Museum for German History, the Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters, the Buchenwald Camp Committee, and Buchenwald’s National Site of Warning and Commemoration. See, for instance, SAPMO-BArch DY57/vorl. K24/8, letter from NMGB Director Klaus Trostorff to Helbig, 19 September 1977. For information on this film, see the folder SAPMO-Barch DR1/7181, and T. Heimann, Bilder von Buchenwald. Die Visualisierung des Antifaschismus in der DDR (1945–1990) (Cologne, 2005), pp. 203–16. See A. Weigelt, ‘Konspirativ gesteuertes Gedenken’, at http://www.buergerkomitee.org/ hug/h54-dateien/weigelt.html, accessed 24 August 2008. One book which lists some – but by no means all – of such memorials erected before 1975 is Anna Dora Miethe’s Gedenkstätten. Arbeiterbewegung, Antifaschistischer Widerstand, Aufbau des Sozialismus (Leizpig, Jena, Berlin, 1974). For a photograph of this memorial, see the cover of W. Hartmann, Juden in Halberstadt (Halberstadt, 1988). See, for instance, H. Schmid, Antifaschismus und Judenverfolgung. Die ‘Reichskristallnacht’ als politischer Gedenktag in der DDR (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 96–100. See T. Fache, ‘DDR-Antifaschismus und das Gedenken an die Novemberpogrome 1938. Eine Lokalstudie’, Medaon. Magazin für Jüdisches Leben in Forschung und Bildung 2 (2008), 1–23, here 10 (at http://www.mediaon.de/pdf/A-Fache.pdf, accessed 26 August 2008).

3.4 Rosenstraße: A Complex Site of German-Jewish Memory Hilary Potter

This chapter examines the memorialization of the Rosenstraße Protest in Berlin. The protest began at the end of February 1943 in response to the arrest and feared deportation of intermarried Jewish Germans and, in some cases, their children, socalled Mischlinge, arrested during the nationwide ‘Factory Action’ (Fabrik-Aktion). Although officially exempt from deportation, approximately 1500 Jewish Germans were detained in the former Jewish Community Building on Rosenstraße. Over the next few days, many of the non-Jewish partners, predominantly women, gathered in protest on the street outside. All but 25 of the detainees were released approximately one week later. However, the reason for their arrest and the cause of their eventual release remains disputed. While many such ambiguities still exist, what is not in dispute is that the protest was a notable act of civic courage that was largely ignored in both the FRG and GDR, and rightly deserves attention in the Berlin Republic. Over the past two decades the Rosenstraße Protest has become part of discourses on German-Jewish solidarity during the Third Reich. Thus far, academic debate has focused on historical debate and on filmic representation, with little attention given to the subject of the protest’s memorialization. I seek to address this in what follows. Memorial projects have been underway since 1988, with Rosenstraße becoming the location for two temporary exhibitions, opened in 1992 and 1993 respectively, for Ingeborg Hunzinger’s sculpture Block of Women (Block der Frauen, 1995), for a commemorative plaque (1998), and for an open-air exhibition by Berlin’s Topography of Terror (1999).1 The plurality of memorials to this single event is indicative of its increasing significance, certainly within Berlin’s memorial culture. As such, the memorialization of the Rosenstraße Protest warrants greater attention than it has hitherto received. In the limited space available here, I focus on the principal memorials, Block of Women and the Topography of Terror’s exhibition in Rosenstraße, analysing how they represent the protest. I demonstrate that multiple and conflicting interpretations can be read into the memorials and that while, visually and conceptually, they differ greatly, each evokes the key theme of German-Jewish solidarity. An examination of these memorials raises the question of whether it is possible to focus solely on the fact that the (non-Jewish) protesters publicly demonstrated their solidarity for the Jewish prisoners, or if such a focus would automatically lend itself to an exculpatory myth. 214

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Before engaging with these questions, however, I seek to contextualize the events in terms of the historical debate. I then speculate on the reasons why it took so long for the Rosenstraße Protest to gain recognition and on why it has been recognized in recent years. My focus then shifts to the memorials. Examining Block of Women, I argue that Ingeborg Hunzinger’s intricate and detailed work by no means offers a simplified engagement with the subject matter. Moving on to the Topography of Terror’s exhibition in Rosenstraße, I suggest that while it honours the protesters’ heroism it is also critical, reinforcing the fact that whilst these individuals were saved, the deportation of a far greater number of Berlin Jews proceeded unopposed. At the time of writing the Topography of Terror is itself undergoing significant alterations, with the development of its documentation centre at Niederkirchnerstraße. It remains to be seen whether the protest will be incorporated here as well. Historical opinion on the Rosenstraße Protest is divided. Debates centre on the questions of the regime’s intentions towards intermarried Jews and on the protest’s success. Two main theories have emerged in recent years. The first proposes that the spontaneous gathering of intermarried Germans on Rosenstraße was an act of successful resistance to the Nazi regime. Without this protest, the argument runs, the detainees would have been deported, irrespective of the law, which supposedly exempted them from deportation. The regime was forced to concede, however, releasing those in Rosenstraße out of fear of the long-term impact of public opposition. The second theory proposes that the protest did not bring about the release of those detained in Rosenstraße, as the regime intended to release and re-distribute intermarried Jews in enforced labour, following the Factory Action. The second interpretation does not seek to diminish the courage of the protesters nor the exceptionality of their opposition, but it casts doubt on the question of the protest’s success. Although there is much dispute over the events, there are areas of concurrence. Historians tend to agree that by and large the protesters in Rosenstraße were women, though men were also present. Additionally, some intermarried Jewish women were detained in Rosenstraße and in other transit camps, in particular Große Hamburger Straße. Lastly, of the detainees who were released the vast majority survived the Third Reich.2 In the ensuing years, however, the Rosenstraße Protest was excluded from the historical picture. This is not to imply that the lack of representation was in any way intentional, rather that the event was overlooked. Arguably the protest would have fitted poorly into the founding narratives of the FRG and GDR, the former focusing on the 20 July conspiracy and the White Rose resistance group, and the latter on Communist resistance. Whilst these resistance narratives centred on particular individuals and clearly defined groups, the same could not be said for the protest. It was shrouded in ambiguity and lacked iconic figures around which a narrative could be based.3 The protesters and former detainees also represented a minority – after all, most Germans were not intermarried – meaning perhaps that they could not easily be identified with. Furthermore, any discussion of the Rosenstraße Protest provokes consideration of the role of the ordinary German during the Third Reich. It also raises questions about the nature and possibility

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of resistance to National Socialism, questions that few were willing to consider in the early years of the FRG. Interest in the Rosenstraße Protest emerged in the 1980s, and primarily as a result of private initiatives. The GDR, on whose territory the street was situated after 1949, sought belatedly to recognize Jewish victims of Nazism, launching memorial initiatives and actively supporting ‘Jewish culture, including religious practices’.4 This included recognition of the Rosenstraße Protest. However, it was only after 1990 that this interest gained momentum. While there is insufficient space to explore here all of the many factors that have contributed to the emergence of the Rosenstraße Protest, certainly the protest could not have gained such attention had it not been for a readiness to engage with narratives of German-Jewish solidarity. The posthumous publication of Victor Klemperer’s diaries (1995) has provided one of the most pertinent examples of this; the diaries have particular resonance for the Rosenstraße Protest given Klemperer’s own intermarriage. In addition, solidarity demonstrated by the socalled ‘ordinary German’ has also become a focus of considerable interest. This is a theme taken up in such memoirs as Michael Degen’s Nicht alle waren Mörder (1999), Martin Doerry’s Mein verwundetes Herz (2004), and Sibylle Krauser-Burger’s Herr Wolle läßt noch einmal grüßen (2007), as well as in films like Max Färberböck’s Aimée & Jaguar (1999). Because cultural discourses in post-unification Germany have engaged with the theme of German-Jewish solidarity to a greater extent than in previous decades, it has proven possible to integrate the Rosenstraße Protest into official narratives of the Nazi past. Shifting from the broader discourses to the memorials, we can ask: How is the Rosenstraße Protest represented? Ingeborg Hunzinger’s work Block of Women is a five-piece sculpture carved from red porphyry (Figure 17).5 In the centre it depicts two women embracing, the one supporting the other. Two larger blocks portray the Babylonian exile and the imprisonment of Jewish men under Nazism. Additionally, a number of mourning symbols have been carved into sections of the sculpture. The second of the two large blocks appears fractured, forcibly divided.6 On the reverse, the sculpture’s inscription, framed by a skeletal figure, his arms raised as if crucified, reads: ‘1943, the power of civilian unrest, the power of love defeats the violence of the dictatorship. Give us our husbands back. Wives stood here. Conquering death. 600 Jewish men were free.’ There are two further parts to the sculpture: a short distance to the left is a single block, on whose front is depicted a male musician; further away to the right-hand side, a final section depicts a man sitting on a bench gazing into the distance. Block of Women has the protest at its centre, incorporating it into the contexts of persecution and exile, both in the Jewish tradition and during the National Socialist era. It depicts the recent experience of persecution (through the image of the Jewish forced labourers) and juxtaposes it with imagery of the Babylonian exile. The sculpture also contains images of destruction, evoking the forced expulsion of Jewish culture from German culture. In order to demarcate Jewish suffering and non-Jewish action within this memorial an ethnic and religious coding is deployed, both visually and textually. The use of traditional Jewish symbols carved into the sculpture offers a visual coding. Each symbol carries a different meaning,

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Figure 17 The three central sections of Ingeborg Hunzinger’s sculpture Block of Women (Block der Frauen) (photo Hilary Jane Potter, August 2006)

not all of which can be deduced without extensive knowledge of Judaism, and it is clear that they have been used to mark out those near to the symbols as Jewish. Conversely, an absence of symbolism, a ‘zero coding’ around several figures marks them out as non-Jewish or Christian. Indeed, because a visual imagery for the non-Jewish female courage that this memorial seeks to evoke does not readily exist, it is instead embodied in words, in the title and the inscription. The title ‘Block of Women’ focuses on the act of protest and its participants, referring metaphorically to the immovability of the protesters. The inscription, on the other hand, presents two possible readings, both of which imply unity and courage. Interpreted literally, the inscription reads as a verdict, suggesting that the protest forced the Nazi regime to concede; read figuratively, the role of the protest is less clear, though what is apparent is the presence of solidarity. The opening line, ‘the power of civil disobedience [. . .] of love’ attests to the continuation of German-Jewish partnership in spite of the regime. The line ‘love defeats the violence of the dictatorship’, I would suggest, implies that the regime failed to bring about an end to intermarriages. This is underscored by incorporating the protesters’ chant, ‘Give us our husbands back’, and the final line, ‘600 Jewish men were free’. In addition, further depictions of solidarity can be read into sections of the sculpture. Half of the second block depicts imprisoned men, one of whom is striving away from captivity, towards freedom and towards the woman on the other half. She is also striving forwards, one arm outstretched towards him, the other clenched in defiance at his captors. The expression on their faces is one of anguish.

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Given a basic knowledge of the facts, and in light of Hunzinger’s coding elsewhere, it is clear that the man is to be read as a Jewish prisoner, and the woman reaching out towards him as his non-Jewish German wife. The stone block from which these figures have been carved is fractured, a division that is not natural, but manmade. Yet, the two figures strive towards each other, suggesting resistance to this unnatural separation. Hunzinger seems to imply here that this unity is inherent, that Nazism has attempted but failed to put it asunder. Thus, the solidarity of the German-Jewish family cannot easily be broken. Nevertheless, Hunzinger’s work does not simply offer an idealized representation of German-Jewish solidarity. Rather, to an extent, the different sections of Block of Women offer alternative perspectives, ones that appear to contest the others. Whilst the aforementioned section honours the act of continued solidarity, Hunzinger does not seek to suggest this is representative of all German-Jewish relations during the Third Reich. Her positive reading of continued solidarity is contrasted with additional, negative interpretations, depicting failings in the face of Nazism. Block of Women also alludes to the destruction of German-Jewish partnership in culture. Moving forward from the central section, to the left there is a further block, into which a single figure has been carved. He is a musician and holds a broken violin in his right hand and a broken bow in his left hand. He faces away from the rest of the sculpture, physically distanced from it. Immediately surrounding this figure there is an absence of symbolism, a zero coding, suggesting that the musician is German, not Jewish. He leans forward from the block, implying a separation from what has gone before. Since the rest of the block does depict Jewish imagery, his separation from it suggests that prior unity no longer exists. The musician’s gaze is directed heavenward and his expression is mournful. I would suggest this figure is symbolic of the rupture in German culture, of the loss of the Jewish contribution to it. Whilst the musician represents loss and mourning, criticism is also implied, suggesting that – in contrast to the aforementioned depiction of continuing solidarity – there was little resistance to Jewish persecution. Further criticism can also be interpreted in Block of Women. To the right of the main sculpture, again at a distance, is the section depicting a lone man sitting on a bench. Once again, the lack of symbolism around him suggests that he is not Jewish. Looking closely he appears contemplative, his right arm laid across the back of the bench, relaxed, with space enough beside him for another person to sit; someone who is perhaps not expected but has already left. The sculpture, and thereby both persecution and the protest, are in his sight. The figure solemnly observes. The man on the bench is thus symbolic of the witness, the bystander, looking on whilst his former companion is persecuted. His presence could serve to highlight the passivity of Germans in the face of Jewish persecution, indicating silent complicity. The individual Hunzinger depicts here may not intervene, but he also does not participate. Thus, whilst complicity is implied, Hunzinger also demonstrates that it did not necessarily extend beyond witnessing. Block of Women honours the heroism of those who demonstrated solidarity with Jewish Germans, but does not seek to detach it from the context of those who did not. Yet her work does

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Figure 18 One of two advertizing columns – visible between the parked cars – used to display an exhibition about the Rosenstrasse Protest, close to where it took place (photo Hilary Jane Potter, August 2006)

not condemn: she points to the complicity in silence and inactivity, but, I would suggest, places the greater guilt on the absent perpetrator. Block of Women is supplemented by the Topography of Terror’s exhibition in the form of two advertizing columns. These are located outside the now rebuilt former Jewish Community Building and at the end of the street (Figure 18). An array of texts and images has been mounted on a red background. These have been placed in a seemingly random order, in keeping with the model of the advertizing pillar, onto which successive posters are pasted. The exhibition contains an explanatory text and a map of the area; personal accounts of detainees, a protester, a bystander, and Propaganda Minister Goebbels; and memoranda, police logbook entries relating to the ‘Factory Action’, a list of deportees, and, lastly, a report on their arrival at Auschwitz. The exhibition contains three headings: ‘Protest against National Socialist Terror’, ‘The Exception – Rosenstraße 1943’, and ‘Women protested in 1943.’ Photographs of Rosenstraße and transit camps at Levetzowstraße and Mauerstraße are provided, alongside photographs of the deportation stations at Grunewald and Putlitzstraße.7 The objectives of the exhibition in Rosenstraße are two-fold: to memorialize and to inform; that is, to remember out of respect for the victims and to bring the events to the attention of younger generations. Rather than indicating what the visitor should think and feel, the exhibition is intended to empower them to draw their own conclusions.8 In creating the exhibition, the Topography has made use of a familiar object, advertizing columns having been regular features of urban life in Germany since

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the nineteenth century.9 From a distance, the Rosenstraβe column may simply look like any advertizing column, yet on closer inspection, it clearly evokes the past, informing the passerby of the previous significance of the street they are now on. Pasted around the advertizing columns, and at differing heights, the texts and images are not ordered numerically. This indicates that they do not need to be read sequentially but can be considered in any order, whether individually, partially, or in their entirety. The effect is that no one view is allowed to dominate. Although the exhibition headings emphasize the act of protest and its singularity, the introductory text places it in the wider narrative of the Holocaust, reinforcing the notion that protest was restricted to a comparatively small group, while the deportation of many more individuals proceeded without opposition. The individual testimonies displayed offer different vantage points from which to consider the events. These can be grouped into three categories. The first suggests the existence of widespread solidarity whilst implying that intermarried Germans could provide the most effective opposition. Three testimonies fall into this category, and all depict scenes of open confrontation. Hans Grossmann’s account suggests a heroic effort by the women to physically block the convoy arriving at Rosenstraße. Moreover, it is only the women who take action whilst others merely look on.10 Similarly, in the second extract, the recollections of protester Charlotte Israel indicate a range of acts of solidarity amongst Berliners, whilst placing the greater emphasis on the protesters’ increasing defiance and their steadfastness when threatened with violence.11 However, the contrast between the efficacy of resistance by intermarried Germans and the relatively ineffectual nature of that staged by non-intermarried Germans is most clearly highlighted in the extract by Ruth Andreas-Friedrich, a non-Jewish journalist and member of the Onkel Emil resistance network. Recalling the first day of the Factory Action, she lists acquaintances amongst the deported and draws attention to the existence of solidarity, but also to its limitations. Whilst she can aid her Jewish friends, she is unable to prevent their deportation. This contrasts starkly with her account of the protest, which indicates the efficacy of intermarried Germans in opposing the regime: ‘At Rosenstraße the women rebel. They threateningly demand their husbands’ release [. . .] Anyone who had the good fortune to have married a non-Jewish partner was allowed to pack his bags and go home.’12 Whilst the testimonies in the first category thus emphasize the efficacy of intermarried Germans’ opposition over others, the second category deviates slightly from this interpretation. It contrasts the different fates of those in Jewish and in mixed marriages. The testimony of detainee Siegfried Cohn makes no mention of the protest. Instead, it recounts his arrest and detention. He summarizes: ‘For those of us who are in intermarriages, a white pass is hung around our necks, whilst those in Jewish marriages begin their journey to the concentration camps. We [. . .] are loaded again onto trucks and transported to Rosenstraße.’13 Cohn’s account also suggests intermarried Germans provided effective opposition, but that this did not lie in the act of protest, but rather in the continuation of intermarriages and the protection it afforded the Jewish partners. The third category in these testimonies marks a departure from the first two, suggesting a more widespread and relatively effective solidarity, placing the

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opposition of intermarried Germans within a wider trend. Joseph Goebbels’ diary entries make reference to acts of German-Jewish solidarity. They acknowledge the arrest of intermarried Jews and the ensuing protest. However, this is not the only incident of opposition indicated. Rather, the diary entries point to the broader solidarity in particular amongst intellectuals, artists, and industrialists that enabled the survival of thousands of Jews in hiding.14 These diary entries do not deny the efficacy of the opposition by intermarried Germans, but at the same time, it also does not prioritize it over that of other Germans. Whilst all testimonies point to opposition, they thus interpret the events differently. The inclusion of individual accounts serves to give a voice to those involved and to emphasize acts of courage and solidarity, yet the exhibition does not focus solely on positive readings. Following a similar pattern to Ingeborg Hunzinger’s sculpture, whilst the exhibition emphasizes the protesters’ courageous actions along with the everyday acts of solidarity, it does not detach the events from their wider context. The individual accounts are interspersed between official Nazi documentation on the deportation of Berlin Jews. The memoranda on the Factory Action, the deportation lists, and the report on their arrival in Auschwitz, serve to qualify the protest, setting it against the wider lack of opposition to the deportation of German Jews. The inclusion of these documents points to the greater loss, reinforcing the message that although lives were saved, many more were not. This is further reinforced by the use of photographic images of the transit camps and deportation stations. Each photograph bears a short description, stating the Nazis’ use of each location, providing what Roland Barthes termed ‘an evidential force’.15 The images point to absences of places and, more significantly, of the people who once occupied them. The pre-war images of Levetzowstraße, Mauerstraße, and the Jewish Community Building on Rosenstraße, alongside the post-war images of the Grunewald and Putlitzstrasse stations, serve as reminders of the haunting absence of the deported. Few people can be seen in these images, further reinforcing the sense of absence and loss. Thus, the exhibition appears to balance its representation, setting individual accounts of the protest, of civic courage, and of detention against the documents and photographic images, which provide evidence of the deportation of Jews during the Factory Action in 1943. That juxtaposition can be read as a criticism of the greater lack of opposition to Jewish persecution outside the sphere of intermarriage; equally it can be read as a celebration of the protesters’ rare heroism. The protest’s ‘exceptionality’ can thus be read both positively and negatively. I do not wish to suggest that I offer a definitive reading of the memorials in Rosenstraße or, indeed, that there is one to be found. The sculpture and exhibition are open to interpretation for which no specialized knowledge of the events is required. At the same time, Block of Women allows those with a greater knowledge of Judaism a more complex reading, given the religious symbolism of the imagery. Whilst Block of Women honours a courageous act of opposition, it also evokes suffering and loss. In representing the protest, Hunzinger contrasts the solidarity of intermarried Germans with the inactivity of so-called ‘ordinary’ Germans. She implies complicity through witnessing and not intervening, yet recognizes that

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this non-intervention was at least morally preferable to participation. Block of Women honours the Rosenstraße Protest but negates the possibility of reflecting upon it in isolation. In much the same way, the Rosenstraße exhibition also places the protest within the wider context, in this instance drawing on the events of the Factory Action. Information is provided on the protest, yet the exhibition retains a degree of ambiguity and therefore does not explicitly state how the Rosenstraße Protest is to be interpreted. Block of Women and the Topography of Terror’s exhibition in Rosenstraße honour the protest, while also inviting the viewer to reflect on the limited extent and effectiveness of German resistance as a whole. Whilst these memorials rightly demonstrate that German-Jewish solidarity continued, to imply that all Germans were philo-Semitic or, conversely, that all Germans were anti-Semitic would clearly be inaccurate. Incorporating multiple perspectives into the memorial representations circumvents the possibility of proposing either notion. Moreover it indicates that it is only within the wider context that the significance of the events can be accurately gauged. The memorials mark the events, but do not impose a meaning, leaving the individual to judge for themselves and privileging remembrance over satisfactory conclusions. Before the 1990s, the relevance of the events in Rosenstraße remained obscured to those who passed through the street. Today, the situation has undergone considerable change. The quantity of memorialization points not only to its increasing significance in Berlin’s memorial culture, but also to the complexity of remembering the Rosenstraße Protest.

Notes 1. An online version of the exhibition can be found at: http://www.topographie.de/de/ rosen.htm (accessed 5 January 2009). 2. For an overview of each side of the historical dispute, see N. Stoltzfus, Resistance of the Heart: Intermarriage and the Rosenstraße Protest in Nazi Germany (New Brunswick, 1996) and W. Gruner, Widerstand in der Rosenstraße. Die Fabrikaktion und die Verfolgung der ‘Mischehen’ 1943 (Frankfurt am Main, 2005). 3. In post-1990 representations, a small group of eyewitnesses have become associated with the protest and have taken the place of iconic figures in the narratives. 4. M. Kessler, ‘Anti-Semitism in East Germany, 1952–1953’ in L. Morris and J. Zipes (eds), Unlikely History: The Changing German-Jewish Symbiosis 1945–2000 (New York and Basingstoke, 2002) p. 151. 5. Other views of the memorial are available at http://fcit.usf.edu/holocaust/RESOURCE/ gallery/CERAM.htm (accessed 23 March 2009). 6. G. Jochheim, Frauenprotest in der Rosenstraße, Berlin 1943 (Berlin, 2002), p. 93. 7. With the exception of Mauerstraße, separate memorials mark each of these locations, with the Train Carriage Memorial (1988) at Levetzowstraße and Volkmar Haase’s jagged gravestone sculpture (1987) overlooking Putlitzstraße station from the bridge above. Grunewald has two memorials, Karol Broniatowski’s human silhouettes memorial (1991), along with the ‘Track 17’ memorial (1998). 8. Discussion with Dr. Gabriele Camphausen (formerly of the Topography of Terror), Berlin, 25 July 2006. 9. The idea of using an advertizing column for memorial purposes was first adopted for the temporary exhibitions (1992, 1993) and later adapted by the Topography of Terror. http://www.rosenstrasse-protest.de (accessed 5 January 2009).

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10. Although Hans Grossmann’s testimony was derived from several eyewitnesses, Grossmann is a fictional character, created by Gernot Jochheim. See his Frauenprotest in der Rosenstraße. 11. A. Ehmann, Die Grunewald-Rampe (Berlin, 1993), p. 147. 12. R. Andreas-Friedrich, Der Schattenmann, 3rd edn (Berlin, 1986), pp. 108–10, my translation. 13. W. Benz, Die Juden in Deutschland 1933–1945 (Munich, 1989), p. 593, my translation. 14. http://www.topographie.de/de/rosen.htm. 15. R. Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. by R. Howard (London, 1980), p. 89.

3.5 The Counter-Monument: Memory Shaped by Male Post-War Legacies Corinna Tomberger

Efforts to remember the victims of the Nazi past by building monuments are very common in today’s Germany. Even more, they are part of the representational politics of the German state. Since 1993 the Neue Wache, or New Guardhouse, dedicated to ‘the Victims of War and Tyranny’, serves as the central German memorial for ceremonies and state visits. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas), dedicated in 2005, has not only become one of Berlin’s main touristic sites, but, in the very centre of the German capital, it also showcases a self-confident reunified Germany now able to come to terms with its Nazi past. This German memory politics is not at all self-evident. On the contrary, it is a rather recent result of a long process of coming to terms with the Nazi past. In the 1970s few would have thought of building a national monument to commemorate the victims of the Nazi genocide. The project of exploring local history, especially the Nazi past, was only just emerging as a powerful grassroots movement at that time, in many cases meeting with the disapproval of considerable parts of society. Local history workshops all over West Germany made the existence of forgotten concentration camps public.1 People became involved in researching the local Nazi past. They published the results of their investigations and campaigned for the marking of local sites of Nazi crimes.2 But whether any monument would be able to commemorate the victims in the land of the perpetrators was fundamentally doubted at that time. Thus, a first attempt to build a national memorial to the victims of war and tyranny in the early 1980s failed. The Chancellor, Helmut Kohl, had promoted the idea of placing a huge crown of thorns in the capital of Bonn as a site of memory for representational purposes. But a broad social opposition resisted this plan, with the opposition parties protesting as well as representatives of the German Jews. Change came about in the 1980s with a new type of monument that will be presented and discussed in this chapter: the counter-monument.

The counter-monument: A story of success? This new type of monument seemed to result from the difficulties in remembering the Nazi genocide in the land of the perpetrators.3 Its main characteristic is 224

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a posture of opposition to the traditional monument. Whereas the latter aims to offer an object of identification and affirmation, the counter-monument is said to challenge the viewer’s perspective rather than confirm it. In the words of its most vocal promoter, James E. Young, the results are ‘antiheroic, often ironic, and self-effacing conceptual installations that mark the national ambivalence and uncertainty of late twentieth-century postmodernism’.4 Two German monuments in particular have become famous for representing a new type of monument: the Harburg Monument against Fascism, War, Violence – for Peace and Human Rights (Harburger Mahnmal gegen Faschismus, Krieg, Gewalt – für Frieden und Menschenrechte, 1986)5 and the Aschrott Fountain (Aschrottbrunnen, 1987).6 Quite aside from their fame they also represent prototypes of the counter-monument from a strictly formal point of view. Consisting of a sinking vertical they both literally invert the traditional erect monument. The signifier is hidden in the ground and thus rendered invisible. According to Young, a consequence of these first prototypes, in particular of the Harburg Monument, was the emergence of ‘dozens of “countermemorial” projects that became the standard for subsequent Holocaust memorial competitions in Germany’.7 In Young’s view, the counter-monument has thus to be considered as a success story. The former burden of the Nazi genocide turns out to be a precondition for developing an advanced mode of mastering the national past. For ‘only rarely’, as Young argues, ‘does a nation call on itself to remember the victims of crimes it has perpetrated.’8 By contrast, in this essay I argue the case for a more sceptical perspective.9 Although the counter-monument has apparently been successful, there has been an astonishing lack of investigation into the narratives the individual monument actually generates. What interests me when focusing on the narratives is the process of publicly assigning meaning to the monuments. As this process is based on the signifier the individual monument offers, it is determined by its aesthetic strategy. But this is only the starting point of a process of negotiating meanings in public. Various participants such as politicians, journalists, scientists, and the artists themselves take part in this process, producing step-bystep a coherent interpretation. I spotlight in particular the way the artist makes sense of the monument in public – not because I consider him as the creator of an original meaning, but due to his particular position: he is not only a powerful agent in the process of negotiating, but moreover, has a discursive function as the author of the monument. As the concept of ‘authorship’ provides a coherent and unitary subject supposed to be founding the work, it fundamentally frames the process of creating and negotiating meanings.10 By focusing on the artist’s comments which found their way into the public discourse I want to emphasize their framing function. Furthermore, the artist’s efforts to link his biography with the monument may exemplify the respective opportunities the narrative offers to the viewer. What I discuss as the narrative of the individual monument in the following is the outcome of the public process of creating and negotiating meanings, the narrative resulting from the public discourse.11 Exploring the two monuments mentioned above, I suggest that a close look at these narratives may completely change our perspective on the counter-monument.

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Narratives of loss and recovery The Aschrott Fountain is located in the City Hall Square of Kassel, a small Hessian town near the former border between the two German states. The monument consists of a quite unusual fountain: the water runs through channels engraved in the ground and falls down into a deep well, hardly to be seen from above. This fountain is meant to commemorate its predecessor of the same name, a sculpted fountain donated by the Jewish entrepreneur Aschrott at the beginning of the twentieth century. The former Aschrott Fountain, an obelisk, had been destroyed and taken down by the Nazis because of the Jewishness of its donor.12 Only the basin remained. When the city decided to redesign the fountain in the 1980s, local artist Horst Hoheisel proposed transforming it into a site of memory. The former obelisk was rebuilt and lowered inversely into the ground. According to Hoheisel, the resulting abyss is supposed to evoke ‘feelings of loss, of a disturbed place, of lost form’.13 Loss and mourning are the key words in the artist’s comments on his work. Remarkably, these terms are often cited by the critics without any explanation.14 Apparently, everyone is supposed to know what has been lost and what has to be mourned. But once we analyse the artist’s comments in detail this loss turns out to be highly ambiguous. On the one hand, the term refers to the murdered Jews, on the other hand, it refers to unnamed losses suffered by the non-persecuted Germans and their descendants.15 Ten years after the inauguration the artist specified a personal loss that he himself relates to the monument. In 1997, he revealed in an interview how the Jewish history of Kassel is interwoven with the history of his own family. For in the woods of Riga, where the artist’s father had worked as a forest warden in the 1940s, tens of thousands of Jews had been murdered by the SS during the same period. The victims included Jews deported from Kassel. Hoheisel discovered this coincidence when he investigated the Jewish history of Kassel: ‘I went through the dates of the Jews, deported from Kassel. Everywhere it said: Riga, Riga, [. . .] again and again Riga. And Riga was the city my parents came from.’ ‘You can’t execute such actions without the forest warden and the forest administration,’16 Hoheisel added. Thus in the course of conceptualizing the monument, the artist was by accident confronted with his father’s possible involvement in the Nazi genocide. Considering this biographical background, the narrative of loss seems to have a very personal meaning: it tells of the loss of the father as an object of identification. As psychological studies have shown, a whole generation of post-war Germans, the descendants of the perpetrators, underwent similar experiences.17 In spite of accusing their parents’ generation during the students’ movement, many descendants knew and still know very little about the concrete Nazi past of their family. As a result, many children of the participants of the Second World War have been haunted by fantasies of a possible involvement of their parents in Nazi crimes, in particular of the father. From this point of view, the artist’s concern about his father’s past reflects a collective fear.

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Thus, the narrative of loss may have an ambiguous meaning for the descendants of the perpetrators in general. From their point of view the narrative of loss not only refers to the victims of the Nazi genocide, but may also be linked with their own losses caused by the Second World War. As the monument is not only interpreted as a signifier of loss but also as a site of mourning, the narrative offers a mode of both articulating individual losses and coming to terms with them. As this offer deals with identification with the father and descendance it is, of course, gendered. Due to the assumed dominance of men in executing the Nazi genocide, the suspicion of having participated mainly affects male adults of that time; that is the fathers of the following generation. Because of the father’s importance for masculine identity – for reasons of genealogy and gender identification – the fear of one’s own father having been involved in the Nazi genocide in particular haunts male descendants. But it is not only the artist’s story of loss that genders the narrative; the gendering is also part of the monument itself. The history of the artist’s family only exemplifies the gendering already inscribed in the monument. The traditional form of the monument, the erect vertical, can be considered as a masculine, phallic form. Its phallic coding corresponds with the traditional meaning of the monument as a sign of power. The Aschrott Fountain, a lowered vertical, formally inverses this signifier. As I want to argue, however, its traditional meaning is not erased by the inversion, but persists. The lowering of the vertical performs the withdrawing of the phallic signifier. Since the association of masculinity and the vertical is a cultural coding, it is readable to the viewer without being explicitly mentioned. The narrative culturally inscribed in the monument due to its aesthetic strategy therefore is a narrative of masculine power being erased. The erasure of power, inscribed in the monument, is not necessarily a narrative of definite loss. For the vertical has not vanished, it has only been withdrawn from visibility; it is still there, hidden in the ground. What, according to the artist, is supposed to remain visible to the viewer is ‘a funnel, through which the water runs down into the dark’, ‘a primeval fountain, a hole, deep down filled with water’.18 These descriptions allude to a primeval, fertile substance serving as a repository where the hidden vertical is kept and may one day rise again. This kind of recovery is exactly what the artist performs in 2002 in a video referring to the Aschrott Fountain. The video shown near the site in an accessible, funnel-shaped sculpture offers views of the interior of the fountain. ‘It will take some time until we will be able to erect the destroyed obelisk again,’ the artist comments, ‘But it would be quite possible to erect it again virtually.’19 The hole, caused by the reverse vertical, turns out to offer not only a place of mourning, but also a place of preservation and possible transformation of the seemingly lost. Remarkably, a rapprochement between father and son precedes the virtual recovery of the phallic signifier. Whereas Hoheisel has not been able to talk to his father about the paternal past, the artist’s professional preoccupation with the Nazi past opens up an opportunity for understanding. For the father’s acknowledgement of his son’s memorial art gives the latter the impression of a mute agreement between them concerning the paternal past.20 Thus the artist’s memory work becomes a place of imagined communication about the father’s unspoken Nazi

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past. Moreover, Hoheisel professes to do this memory work in place of his father who is not able to do it on his own. Working through the Nazi past allows the artist to reconcile himself with his father’s past without challenging the paternal rule of secrecy and thus to re-inscribe himself in a male genealogy.

Narratives of victimhood and overcoming The Harburg Monument is located in the outer districts of Hamburg. It is the work of an artist couple, Jochen Gerz and Esther Shalev-Gerz. Originally, only Jochen Gerz, a well-known conceptual artist, was asked to draw up a proposal for an antifascist monument. Since the couple developed the concept together, when it was inaugurated in 1986 the monument was presented under both of their names. Nevertheless the way the female artist makes sense of the monument is hardly ever mentioned in the public discourse.21 Although the Harburg Monument consists of a sinking vertical as well, it differs considerably from the Aschrott Fountain. In Harburg, the vertical was not lowered into the ground from the very beginning. On the contrary, at first it was clearly visible as a twelve-metre high column above the ground. Its step-by-step lowering was part of an interactive concept. The passers-by were invited to engrave their names in the lead-covered surface of the monument as a gesture both against fascism, war, and violence, and for peace and human rights. Whenever the surface of the monument was covered with signatures, it was partially lowered into the ground. After seven years and eight lowerings the column had been completely withdrawn from visibility.22 This, in short, is the concept of the monument. In reality things were a little different. It was not only signatures that were engraved on the surface of the monument, but a great variety of inscriptions. Many of them – based on available photographic documentation, one is tempted to say the majority – did not refer to the issue addressed by the monument.23 There was graffiti of varying content, as well as scribbles and scratches without any explicit meaning. Moreover, Nazi signs such as swastikas or SS runes were engraved in the surface. Signatures were also crossed out. As a consequence, numerous people in Harburg criticized the monument. They generally questioned the monument’s suitability as a symbolic statement against fascism. Defending their project, the initiators as well as the artists provided a different interpretation of the situation. They saw those inscriptions which differed from the proposed signature as ideological statements against the monument’s message. In their opinion, the supposedly fascist attitude expressed in the divergent inscriptions proved the necessity of the monument. This point of view was adopted by the critics. ‘Those who support racism have put the column’s rigidness to the test’,24 claims one article. Thus, defending the monument was equated with taking a stand against fascism, whereas doubting the monument’s usefulness was perceived as a symptom of repressing the Nazi past. The conflict about the monument also developed an additional, symbolic dimension. Because the smooth lead surface was equated with a vulnerable skin, a symbolic body was assigned to the column.25 Engraving differing inscriptions in

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its surface was then perceived as a wounding. Thus the conflict took on a violent, aggressive aspect. Victimized as a passive, vulnerable body, ‘violated’26 by supposedly neo-fascist aggressors, the column was discursively feminized. This gender effect occurred in relation to those passers-by who engraved differing inscriptions in the surface, as well as to the male artist. Whereas the female artist was hardly perceived as an agent in this scenario, Jochen Gerz appeared as a heroic figure defending the fragile, defenceless monument in a ‘duel with repression’.27 The figure of the male hero has its counterpart not only in the victimized monument, but also in the artist as a child. A biographical story of four-year-old Jochen Gerz is part of the narrative of the monument. In a manner comparable to the case of Hoheisel, the biographical story relates the artist to the Second World War. As a little child, one learns, Gerz experienced his home being bombed and burnt down.28 As a consequence the boy lost his voice for a whole year. Gerz’s regaining of his ability to speak at the age of five is said to have been accompanied by a new consciousness providing a foundation for his later artistic work. Thus, the artist’s heroic stance against fascism and its repression, on the one hand, is set in opposition to the feminized monument, with the artist himself as a helpless victim of war, on the other. From this point of view the narrative of the monument turns out to be a narrative of victimhood and overcoming. As with Hoheisel’s biographical background, Gerz’s childhood story has a collective dimension. Young Gerz is an example of the so-called ‘war children’.29 This term refers to those children who grew up during the Second World War and who, while being exposed to existential threats, were often forced to assume responsibility for the family or for younger brothers and sisters, thus adopting the role of adults. The way in which Gerz relates the overcoming of his war victimhood to the monument may thus illustrate the monument’s ability to serve as a transformative site for similar experiences of victimhood. Notably, the artist is not the only one to move beyond his status as a victim. The monument itself seems to undergo a similar process of transformation. Whereas it appears as a passive, suffering victim with respect to the engraving of inscriptions, it is described as active and aggressive in relation to the lowering. ‘It’s a knife in a wound that will not close’,30 comments Jochen Gerz. In this scenario the column figures as a powerful agent with the capacity to inflict injury. Obviously, this ability is not feminine; on the contrary, the column now appears as a masculine penetrating agent. Overcoming the status as a victim is described as a process of remasculinization. This refers to the fact that the column, once it is completely lowered into the ground, is no longer accessible for inscriptions. The vulnerability of its symbolic body, its assumed femininity, therefore is only a temporary state which ends with the final lowering. ‘Above all I am a veteran of a struggle I never experienced: the German crime’,31 Jochen Gerz once said of himself. The notion of fighting strength in this self-description dramatizes the artist’s active stance against fascism, and it also gives it a military note. The artist’s memory work thus may be seen as ambiguous: Gerz attempts to relate himself to the preceding generation, especially to traditional forms of masculinity, while at the same time trying to distinguish himself

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from their Nazi legacy. This ambiguity seems to be a main driving force determining the narrative of the monument. For the pattern of heroic overcoming performed by the male artist is deeply rooted in a tradition of military masculinity. From this point of view, the monument opens up the possibility of revalidating traditional male patterns, formerly discredited by the Nazi past.

Remasculinization and renationalization Comparing the narratives of both monuments, we have in the one case the loss and recovery of a phallic signifier, and in the other a feminized victimhood and its heroic overcoming. Both narratives resemble each other in their plot of a gendered transformation, i.e. a remasculinization. Analogous to the withdrawing of the phallic signifier, masculine identity in both cases has been shattered by experiences resulting from the Second World War, and the Nazi crimes as a post-war legacy. The similarities between the two narratives suggest that it is precisely the withdrawing of the signifier which invites interpretations relating narratives of male uncertainties and gestures of reassurance to the counter-monument. The withdrawn phallic signifier functions as a signifier of a lost male coherence or continuity, while also representing the opportunity to renew it. In the cases discussed, mastering the Nazi past takes the form of overcoming uncertainties resulting from a male descendance from the perpetrators’ generation. As the generational link makes clear, this is not a personal issue of the two male artists, but a collective one. This is underlined by the fact that the narrative of a monument has numerous authors. Even while the narrative contains personal stories of the artist, other agents have also taken part in forming it. The artist therefore figures as a protagonist in a scenario that has no single director. The need to reassert a masculine identity shattered by the post-war legacy is, as I have argued, a collective issue. Offering a culturally readable signifier, the counter-monument opens up a space for the articulation of this discomposure and for overcoming it in a collective process. A close look at the agents reveals that it is especially cultural and political elites who take part in this process.32 To them, the problem of a shattered masculine identity and its overcoming is a fundamental, political question in so far as it has to do with the capacity to make history. Regaining the power to make history may thus be understood as one motive for developing new forms of memorialization. Returning to the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, one might ask if the idea of regaining the power to make history is limited to the two counter-monuments discussed here. Whereas the Aschrott Fountain and the Harburg Monument, despite their international fame, are local monuments, Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is a national one. What is striking is that in analogy to the efforts to repair a shattered masculine identity, the plans for a central monument in Berlin were shaped at a time when the formerly divided Germany was trying to redefine its identity as a reunified nation.33 The unification of the two German states has opened up a space to lay claim to the status of a reaffirmed nation which had regained

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its strength. It therefore no longer seems to be limited by its past but, on the contrary, to be able to play a leading role again not least because of its proven ability to come to terms with its Nazi past.34 The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe figures as a proof of this ability, and at the same time has provided a scene for debates on national identity in unified Germany.35 If we understand the nation-state as a ‘repository of male hopes, male aspirations and male privilege’,36 a reaffirmed nation in particular offers benefits for masculine identity. This may indicate a connection between re-establishing masculine identity and rebuilding national identity. From this point of view, local memory culture seems to offer a testing ground for developing and trying out models of interpretation and arguments before they are transferred to the national level. In conclusion, I suggest that today’s German memory politics is not primarily shaped by the rethinking of conditions of memory but by a male post-war legacy. The latter consists of repressed longings for traditional forms of identity, both on the individual and on the collective level.

Notes 1. For the emergence of the ‘new history movement’, see A. G. Frei, ‘Alltag – Region – Politik. Anmerkungen zur “neuen Geschichtsbewegung” ’, Geschichtsdidaktik. Probleme, Projekte, Perspektiven 9:2 (1984), 107–20. 2. For example in Kassel, regional historical studies on the Nazi past have been published since 1983 (e.g. D. K. Vilmar and J. Kämmler, Nationalsozialismus in Nordhessen – Schriften zur regionalen Zeitgeschichte (Kassel, 1983)). For an overview of the monuments and sites of memory in West Germany, see R. Puvogel and M. Stankowski (eds), Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Nationalsozialismus. Eine Dokumentation (Bonn, 1995), vol. 1. 3. J. E. Young, ‘The Counter-Monument: Memory against Itself in Germany Today’, Critical Inquiry 18 (1992), 267–97. 4. J. E. Young, At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary Art and Architecture (New Haven and London, 2000), p. 93. 5. In what follows I refer to this monument as the Harburg Monument. 6. See in particular the numerous publications of J. E. Young, such as ‘The CounterMonument’, At Memory’s Edge, and The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven and London, 1993). 7. Young, At Memory’s Edge, p. 139. 8. Young, ‘The Counter-Monument’, 270. 9. This contribution draws on the results of my study on the counter-monument. See C. Tomberger, Das Gegendenkmal. Avantgardekunst, Geschichtspolitik und Geschlecht in der bundesdeutschen Erinnerungskultur (Bielefeld, 2007). 10. This way of conceptualizing the discursive function of ‘authorship’ in the field of art history refers to Foucault’s analysis of the author, see M. Bal and N. Bryson, ‘Semiotics and Art History’, Art Bulletin 73:2 (1991), 174–298, here 180. 11. Hence other interpretations are possible, but have not become widely accepted in the public discourse. For more information on my methodological approach see Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 27–38. 12. For a presentation of the monument from the perspective of the initiators, see Magistrat der Stadt Kassel, Kulturamt (ed.), Der Aschrottbrunnen oder die verlorene Form (Kassel, 1987); Magistrat der Stadt Kassel, Kulturamt (ed.), Aschrottbrunnen. Offene Wunde der Stadtgeschichte (Kassel, 1989).

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13. H. Hoheisel, ‘Rathaus – Platz – Wunde’, in Magistrat, Aschrottbrunnen: Offene Wunde, no pagination [p. 9]. 14. Cf. Young, ‘The Counter-Monument’, 294; Young, The Texture of Memory, p. 46; and Young, At Memory’s Edge, p. 100. 15. Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 215–24. 16. Hoheisel, cited in J. Spielmann, ‘Kunst als Umweg. Gespräch mit Horst Hoheisel’, in Spielmann and C. Staffa (eds), Nachträgliche Wirksamkeit. Vom Aufheben der Taten im Gedenken (Berlin, 1998), p. 240. 17. See W. Bohleber, ‘The Children of the Perpetrators – the After-Effects of National Socialism on the Following Generations’, in International Study Group for Trauma, Violence and Genocide (ed.), ‘Coming Home’ from Trauma: The Next Generation, Muteness and the Search for a Voice (Hamburg, 1996), pp. 39–52. 18. H. Hoheisel, ‘Verlorene Form’, in Magistrat, Aschrottbrunnen oder verlorene Form, no pagination [p. 6]. 19. Hoheisel, cited in Hessisch-Niedersächsische Allgemeine, 8 June 2002. 20. Spielmann, ‘Kunst als Umweg’, p. 259. 21. See Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 106–10. 22. For a presentation of the monument from the perspective of the initiators, see A. Könneke (ed.), Jochen Gerz & Esther Shalev-Gerz. Das Harburger Mahnmal gegen Faschismus/The Harburg Monument against Fascism (Ostfildern, 1994). 23. See Könneke (ed.), Jochen Gerz & Esther Shalev-Gerz, p. 17, p. 46, pp. 56–7. 24. L. Albertazzi, ‘1,929 stones . . . for now’, La Piz, 20 February 1992, 60. 25. Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 138–43. 26. M. Gibson, ‘Hamburg: Sinking Feelings’, Art News, Summer (1978), 106; see also J. E. Young, ‘The Monument Vanishes’, in Könneke (ed.), Jochen Gerz & Esther ShalevGerz, p. 85. 27. S. Schmidt-Wulffen, ‘Duell mit der Verdrängung: Ein Gespräch mit Esther und Jochen Gerz’, Kunstforum international, January/February (1987), 318. 28. Young, At Memory’s Edge, p. 147. 29. See H. Radebold, ‘Kriegsbeschädigte Kindheiten: Die Geburtsjahrgänge 1930–32 bis 1945–1948’, Psychosozial 2:92 (2003), 9–15. 30. Gerz, cited in Könneke (ed.), Jochen Gerz & Esther Shalev-Gerz, p. 24. 31. Ibid. p. 69. 32. Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 323–30. 33. For further analogies between the two counter-monuments and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, see Tomberger, Gegendenkmal, pp. 321–3. 34. For instance, the German engagement in the war in Kosovo in 1993 was justified by arguing the need to avoid a new Auschwitz. 35. See J.-H. Kirsch, Nationaler Mythos oder historische Trauer? Der Streit um ein zentrales ‘Holocaust-Mahnmal’ für die Berliner Republik (Cologne, Weimar, and Vienna, 2003). 36. A. McClintock, ‘ “No longer in a future heaven”: Nationalism, Gender and Race’, in G. Eley and R. G. Suny (eds), Becoming National: A Reader (New York and Oxford, 1996), pp. 260–84, here p. 281.

3.6 Stumbling Blocks: A Decentralized Memorial to Holocaust Victims Michael Imort

Monuments are nothing if not selective aids to memory: they encourage us to remember some things and to forget others. The process of creating monuments, especially where it is openly contested, [. . .] shapes public memory and collective identity. – Brian Ladd, The Ghosts of Berlin1

Introduction A key question at the heart of the process of public memorialization is how we as citizens ‘learn’ what to forget and what to remember about our collective past. One of the ways in which we can learn about the ‘rules of engagement’ for public remembering is by interpreting memorials and monuments in public space: through their location, form, material, inscription, and many other aspects they instruct us what, how, and when to remember. In fact, that is arguably the sole reason for their existence. Most public monuments are unique objects whose signification is created by a combination of historically connotative location and distinctive symbolic design. By contrast, this chapter discusses a monument that exists in thousands of almost identical repetitions that are dispersed, and at the same time interconnected, over countless locations. Called Stumbling Blocks (in German Stolpersteine), these small, affordable, and easily transportable monuments make it possible for everyone to commission their own memorial for individual victims of the Holocaust and to site them in everyday locations. As a decentralized, collective monument that is initiated and sustained by individuals, rather than the state or institutions, the Stumbling Blocks are thus democratizing public memorialization.2 At the same time, this downscaling, multiplication, and dispersal of Holocaust monuments is also re-invigorating the public discourse over the aims and methods of Holocaust memorialization in Germany just as the debates over the central Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin are beginning to fade. I will begin with a brief introduction to the Stumbling Blocks project and the symbolism of its monuments. This will be followed by a case study in which I analyse the debates over the refusal of Munich city council to allow the installation of Stumbling Blocks on its public pavements. Finally, I will show how 233

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the increasing number of Stumbling Blocks all over Germany not only represents a new type of decentralized monument, but also a new process of decentralized memorialization.

Tripping memory: The stumbling blocks project In a rapidly growing number of towns and cities across Germany and neighbouring countries, pedestrians encounter small, brightly polished brass plaques – not on the façades of houses, but underfoot. Measuring 10 centimetres by 10 centimetres, these plaques are actually the brass-plated tops of handcrafted cobblestones set flush into the public pavement in front of private house entrances. Each is engraved with the words ‘Here lived’ followed by a person’s name, their dates of birth and death, and the date on which they were deported from that house and sent to their death by the Nazis. In front of some houses, there is only one plaque to be found, while in front of others there are clusters representing family members or neighbours: one stone, one life commemorated. These miniature memorials are called Stumbling Blocks – and that is exactly what they are designed to do: to trip the memory of passers-by, wresting from them a moment of remembrance in honour of the victims so individually named. Stumbling Blocks were originally conceived as an art project by the German performance artist Gunter Demnig in the 1990s.3 While working on an installation that used paint lines on the pavement to trace the routes taken by deportation commandos through the city of Cologne in 1940, Demnig realized from the reactions of neighbourhood residents how unaware many were that the victims of these deportations had once lived on their very own street, even in their very own homes. Demnig was gripped by the idea that by placing a simple marker in front of those homes, he could achieve two effects: to remind local residents and passers-by that the victims of the Nazis had lived their lives in the midst of this very neighbourhood and that their disappearance could obviously not have gone unnoticed; and to commemorate every victim as an individual by permanently inscribing their names into public space and so preventing their memory from being forgotten. In 1996, Demnig began to realize his vision by installing Stumbling Blocks in public pavements in Cologne and Berlin, initially intending them to be an art project and thus not seeking permission from the authorities.4 He soon realized, however, that his Stumbling Blocks had the potential to become bona fide permanent monuments to the victims of the Nazi regime. In 2000 he began to accept sponsorships (currently ¤95 per block) for Stumbling Blocks and to obtain permission from municipal councils to install them permanently on city pavements. The on-site installation usually brings together the supporters and sponsors such as peace activists, church groups, school classes, or other interested individuals. Demnig is the only person producing and installing Stumbling Blocks and the waiting list for installations has stretched to well over a year. By September 2008, he had handcrafted and installed more than 16,000 Stumbling Blocks in over 350 communities in Germany, Austria, the Netherlands, and Hungary, with more planned

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for Poland, Italy, Ukraine, and France.5 For his work he has received several public awards, including Germany’s highest recognition, the Order of Merit. At the same time, Demnig receives no public money or corporate sponsorship, but lives on the small surplus generated from the sponsorships. For better or for worse, the project has become the artist’s life.6

The memorial symbolism of the Stumbling Blocks Small and plain, Stumbling Blocks are nonetheless very complex monuments, rich in a symbolism that works on several levels. On the level of texture, for example, the brass plate inscribed with the name and life dates of the victim never tarnishes, as friction from shoe soles continually burnishes the material to an almost golden gleam and so visually refreshes the memory. The text is manually stamped into the brass in lettering that, to those familiar with documents from the Nazi era, evokes uncanny comparisons with the typescript of the memoranda in which the Nazis meticulously recorded their mass murder. The inscription itself is rather small, so passers-by must stoop down a bit to be able to read – and thus perform what can be seen as a respectful bow to the victim. Insisting that his project ‘must not become a factory’,7 Demnig crafts every Stumbling Block by hand, punching each letter individually into the metal. While this limits the number of Stumbling Blocks he is able to produce, it also pays homage to the individuality of the victims so remembered.8 On a more metaphorical level, this handcrafting of remembrance also creates a counterpoint to the industrial methods and scale of the killing. Taken together, the physical features of the Stumbling Blocks create a simplicity and plainness that comes across almost as an absence of design and thus suggests a more immediate, authentic form of memorialization than is the case with more obviously artistic monuments. On the textual level, the personalized inscription triggers memory work that encourages the beholder to understand the victims as individuals whose fates may appear similar to some degree, but who clearly lived and lost unique lives, a point that is reinforced by the placement of the blocks in front of the individual’s last voluntary residence, rather than at a central site.9 Stumbling Blocks are thus part of a trend that is transforming the landscape of memorialization in Germany: they name individual victims of the Nazis rather than treating them as a collective entity,10 and they do so in a spatially dispersed manner rather than in a central location, thus injecting memorialization into the quotidian life-world of passers-by. Moreover, the uniformity of the Stumbling Blocks means that each one also points to their totality and so becomes part of what Germans call a Gesamtkunstwerk or integrated work of art in the sense that they combine to form a larger entity whose meaning both enhances and transcends that of the individual components.11 For instance, the spatial distribution of the individual Stumbling Blocks generates a map of deportation sites that, much like a pointillist painting, allows for different images to emerge as one’s perspective zooms out: as passers-by come across a Stumbling Block, they

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notice the individuality of the fate inscribed; however, as they encounter one after another in different streets, communities and even countries, the repetition of the experience drives home at every spatial level how extensive Nazi persecution and violence were. Consequently, Demnig’s Stumbling Blocks are both memorials and monuments in the strict sense: they combine the functions of commemorating (memorial, from Latin memorare, to remind) and warning (monument, from Latin monere, to warn). In English, the distinction between the two words is not very obvious; in fact, they are often used interchangeably. In German, however, the equivalent words Denkmal and Mahnmal are clearly distinguishable: a Denkmal invites the viewer to remember and reflect, while a Mahnmal admonishes the viewer not to permit a repetition of the calamity that forms the subject of the monument. Stumbling Blocks fulfil both functions at once because their symbolism combines the immediacy and uniqueness of the local, individual fate with the realization that it formed but a miniscule part of a tragically ubiquitous pattern all across German-occupied Europe: memorialization thus becomes admonishment. Of course Demnig knows that he cannot create individual Stumbling Blocks for every one of the six million Jewish victims across Europe, or even for the 55,000 deported from Berlin alone. Does this diminish the memorials’ authenticity or effectiveness? On the contrary: this admitted futility performs yet another important symbolic function, as the ‘absent presence’ of the possibility of completion only serves to exemplify the unfathomable magnitude of the Holocaust.

Whose memory, whose memorial? Public controversies about the Stumbling Blocks In the 12 years since its inception, the Stumbling Blocks project has grown almost exponentially: as more and more Stumbling Blocks appear in the urban landscape, citizens have begun to interpret them as part of an emerging collective monument from below and they want their community to become a part of it. This has introduced a new tension to the public discourse about memorialization where the public claims a larger role than before. Traditionally, many monuments in public space were commissioned, sponsored, and maintained by the state, although there never existed a central institution whose mandate was to deal with matters of public memorialization. With the Stumbling Blocks, however, the influence of the state is reduced: while the decision about whether to allow the installation of a Stumbling Block in the public pavement is still in the purview of the local council, and while the Stumbling Stones become the property and responsibility of the municipality once they are installed, the instigation for Stumbling Blocks now comes from below through sponsorships from individual citizens, school classes,12 peace groups, and other activists. Reactions to those initiatives vary: in many communities the Stumbling Blocks project is welcomed, supported, or even funded by the local council;13 in others it is embraced after initial hesitation, while in very few it is opposed. It is instructive to examine the objections raised by some local councils as they reveal as much about the changing process

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of public memorialization and the decision-making behind it as they do about the continuing sensitivity of the German public towards Holocaust remembrance. At the same time, they also exemplify a shift in the nature of that sensitivity. Cologne, Gunter Demnig’s home town, was the first community where the artist sought approval from the city to install Stumbling Blocks permanently on the pavement. His first application in 2000 took a full three years to process: it was sent from committee to committee as no-one seemed to be sure what to do with such an application.14 Today, however, the city stands firmly behind Demnig and he has installed over 1500 Stumbling Blocks on the city’s pavements (only Hamburg has more, with numbers approaching 2500). Similarly, in Freiburg in the year 2002, the mayor initially refused to give permission, mainly because one member of the local Jewish congregation objected. Demnig decided to proceed with an illegal installation, which created so much media attention that 60 sponsorship offers were received within three days.15 With the public clearly interested in the project, and the Jewish congregation deciding to support it against the wishes of the single dissenting member, the council unanimously voted to permit installations.16 Proponents of the Stumbling Blocks idea in Konstanz took note of the difficulties encountered in Freiburg and decided to build awareness and public support for the project before attempting installations: interested citizens were invited to form teams that researched the fates of victims and presented their findings to the city council. At the same time, a broad-based coalition was built that integrated Jewish and Christian cultural and religious associations, business, educational institutions, private individuals, and finally the city administration. Only then were local media engaged to find sponsors for the installation of individual Stumbling Blocks.17 While the cases of Cologne, Freiburg, and Konstanz illustrate some initial concerns over who should be involved in making the decision, the examples of Hanover, Kassel, and Leipzig reveal a fear of offending the Jewish community. In Hanover, for example, the city council shied away from permitting Stumbling Blocks at first because it feared being accused of allowing the memory of victims to be ‘trampled on’ (a consequence of the Munich controversy to be discussed later in this section). However, a survey of Jewish organizations and congregations revealed unanimous support for the project and the city council decided to support the project in 2007.18 In Kassel, opponents likened the decision over who would, or would not, be commemorated by a Stumbling Block to the nefarious selection process on the arrival ramps at the death camps. In Leipzig, the criticism was that the Stumbling Blocks bore too much resemblance to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. After public debate, both cities eventually retracted their objections and now support the installation of Stumbling Blocks.19 Such is not the case in Munich, where a passionate debate has been raging unabated since 2004, effectively preventing the installation of Stumbling Blocks in public space.20 Attempts to bring Stumbling Blocks to Munich began in 2003, when a local school class researched the fate of a Jewish couple, Siegfried and Paula Jordan, and sponsored two Stumbling Blocks for them. In May 2004, the son of the couple, Peter Jordan, who had escaped on a Kindertransport in 1938

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and now lives in Manchester, UK, travelled to Munich to attend the first installation of Stumbling Blocks in Munich. However, the installation was illegal because the Mayor of Munich (a Social Democrat with an established track record of addressing Munich’s Nazi past in a thoughtful manner) had not granted them permission. Three weeks later, the Munich city council upheld the mayor’s decision and approved a motion by a Jewish council member not to permit the installation of Stumbling Blocks on city pavements. Within hours, the Stumbling Blocks were removed from the pavement. Since then, a local campaign group, Initiative Stolpersteine für München (Stumbling Blocks for Munich), has been trying to convince the council to reverse its decision. At the time of writing (late 2008), the city council of Munich had not changed its position. The council has given several reasons for its refusal: fear of trivializing the memory of the Holocaust victims, dread of a surfeit of memorials competing with each other for attention, the difficulty of finding a fair process for selecting individuals to be commemorated, the desire to commemorate all victims, and the city’s focus on supporting the recently opened Jewish Centre in Munich city centre, the largest Jewish construction project in all of Europe.21 The argument that proved to be most influential and controversial, however, was the fact that the Chair of the Jewish Community (Israelitische Kultusgemeinde) of Munich, Charlotte Knobloch, did not support the project, and the city did not want to be seen supporting it against her wishes. Knobloch is a prominent figure: in June 2006 she was elected President of the Central Council of Jews in Germany, the highest representative of the Jewish community in Germany. She has also served as vice president of the European Jewish Congress and the World Jewish Congress. In Knobloch’s view, Stumbling Blocks as markers of Jewish suffering should not be laid at ground level to be ‘trampled upon’ either carelessly or purposely.22 She has argued that she would regard this as an insufferable situation, yet she has also consistently stated that she respects the opinions of others on this matter. For the time being, however, it appears that her opinion possesses what Germans call Deutungshoheit or, loosely translated, ‘interpretative dominance’ in the sense that it is able to set the parameters for the prevailing interpretation of the issue. For example, when the Telegraph reported on the issue in 2004, it was Knobloch’s objections that reverberated through the rationale that Munich’s mayor Christian Ude was quoted as giving: ‘We want to keep all the Holocaust victims in our hearts and not among the dirt of the street. We do not want the victims to be trampled over every day, and we want to remember all of them, not just one or two.’23 With the city council officially respecting and reaffirming Knobloch’s position, the situation is thus at a standstill: even a June 2008 meeting with Peter Jordan, who urged her to relent and not stand in the way of his choosing Stumbling Blocks as an appropriate method to commemorate his parents, did not change Knobloch’s mind.24 It seems then that the voice of one, albeit very influential Jewish leader is preventing the Stumbling Blocks project from being accepted by the city of Munich – with consequences that reach far beyond as other municipal councils, for instance in Aschaffenburg and Hanover, have cited Knobloch’s concerns as their reason for initially prohibiting the installation of Stumbling Blocks. The persistent influence

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of Knobloch’s views is all the more remarkable since the position of the Jewish community (both in Munich and Germany as a whole) has been neither united nor unchanging, which points to the problem of assuming the existence of one Jewish perspective on the Stumbling Blocks project. For instance, while some Jewish groups were initially wary because they feared that the Stumbling Blocks might provoke anti-Semitic actions,25 the Central Council of Jews in Germany approved of the project in principle in October of 2003. Its current vice-president, Salomon Korn, endorses the project,26 as did Knobloch’s predecessor as president, Paul Spiegel, who had explicitly recognized the prerogative of local councils to allow or reject Stumbling Blocks without interference from the Central Council.27 Similarly, Michael Rado, who heads the Jewish Congregation of Cologne, believes that Stumbling Blocks may serve the important function of a grave marker for all those victims of the Holocaust that were denied a proper burial.28 Demnig himself acknowledges that the general public most likely agrees with Rado’s interpretation, although he prefers his Stumbling Blocks to be seen as art rather than gravestones.29 He relates how in Berlin, where municipal workers were instructed to remove the Stumbling Blocks he had installed without permission in 1997, they refused to do so because they perceived them as objects of art. At the same time, he frequently observes that people avoid stepping on Stumbling Blocks and so express their respect for them.30 Ultimately, Demnig maintains, it is less important whether the public thinks of them as art or gravestones, than that they respect them. And that they do respect them is suggested by the remarkably low rate of vandalism: only about 0.5 per cent have been vandalized or removed.31 In the case of Munich, however, a historical precedent has made the council fearful of even the perception of exposing memorials to any risk of vandalism by placing them in the pavement. In two unrelated instances in the 1990s, the city was severely criticized for installing memorials in the pavement: the city had wanted to install plaques commemorating victims of right-wing violence during the Weimar Republic on the facades of two buildings, but was denied permission by the owners (ironically, one of them was the state of Bavaria). The city resorted to installing the plaques on the public pavement, unleashing a storm of indignation. This negative experience has made the city council wary of being accused of denigrating the memory of the Holocaust victims by allowing Stumbling Blocks on the pavement, even if it were done on the explicit wishes of the public – even the Jewish public.32 The example of Munich shows that the sensitive question of whether the placement of the Stumbling Blocks into the ground represents proper commemoration or an affront against Jewish faith can be answered in several ways. It also shows that these answers cut across lines of political and religious affiliation – and that real or imagined sensitivities loom large in the positions taken by each side in the debate.33 As of late 2008, the debate in Munich is continuing, and so are the sponsorships – both dedicated and unspecified. For instance, out of the 118 sponsorships received between June 2004 and September 2006, more than a quarter were given without stipulating any particular person to be commemorated – an unusually high proportion.34 It may be assumed that these

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undedicated sponsorships are at least partly the result of the Initiative Stolpersteine für München urging the public to sponsor as many Stumbling Blocks as possible and so put pressure on the city to allow their eventual installation.35 At the same time, dozens of Stumbling Blocks already crafted by Demnig as a result of these sponsorships have been installed temporarily on private ground in a very public location: they form a deliberately uneven walkway that cuts across the foyer of the Academy of Music and Drama – the building once used by Hitler as his Munich headquarters.36 Through accompanying exhibitions, public events, and vigorous media presence, the Initiative Stolpersteine explains the background to the temporary installation and puts continuous pressure on the city to permit their public installation. As the concluding section will show, such very public debates over the Stumbling Blocks form an integral part of the memory work that is triggered by them: Stumbling Blocks are not merely memorials, they are also a process of memorialization.

Conclusion: Stumbling Blocks as a process of decentralized memorialization Stumbling Blocks differ from more traditional, state-sponsored, centralized monuments in several ways: they are initiated and funded by individuals; they are dispersed in multiples across everyday locations; they are incomplete or open in the sense that they offer no in situ contextualization or interpretation frameworks and thus challenge the beholder to engage with them; and they are discussed and decided at the grass-roots level rather than in expert juries. All of these differences are fundamental to the particular process of memorialization that Demnig wants to initiate with the proliferation of Stumbling Blocks. To begin with, it is crucial to Demnig that the Stumbling Blocks are sponsored by individual Germans, who thus initiate and sustain the process of memorialization because ‘[t]his is our work, it’s not up to Jewish people to mark this.’37 However, it is quite possible that this statement has more truth to it than Demnig realizes: did James Young not observe that ‘these are memorials by and for the Germans, [. . .] these aren’t really for the Jewish community but for Germans remembering’?38 While this could indeed be seen as disqualifying Stumbling Blocks as ‘memorials to German commemorating’, I would argue that it actually shows a maturing of the German attitude towards remembrance of the Holocaust: not too long ago, the need for a monument as such was under intense discussion; today, the need to commemorate is not only unchallenged, it has become a desire or virtue, while the discussion has shifted to the question of how to commemorate appropriately and authentically. This last question is also fundamental to Demnig’s explicit challenge to the central Holocaust Memorial in Berlin, as he has purposefully designed his Stumbling Blocks to form a decentralized monument that, in his view, possesses a greater claim to representing German memorialization than Eisenman’s monument: ‘In a way, my Stolpersteine are small, but they are bigger, bigger than the big monument in Berlin. That is a memorial in the center of the city. I’m all over Germany. North, south, east and west.’39 The question of appropriateness and authenticity

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is thus reopened every time the fate of an individual victim becomes the subject of a block installation, as well as when the concept as a whole is under scrutiny (as exemplified in the case of Munich). Ultimately, it just may be the controversy surrounding the Stumbling Blocks that represents their greatest contribution to Holocaust memorialization, for it is precisely in these passionate public debates that true Vergangenheitsbewältigung or ‘working through the past’ is finally taking place.

Notes 1. B. Ladd, The Ghosts of Berlin (Chicago, 1997), p. 11. 2. See K. Harjes, ‘Stumbling Stones: Holocaust Memorials, National Identity, and Democratic Inclusion in Berlin’, German Politics and Society 23 (2005), 138–51. 3. The website of the artist Gunter Demnig offers a detailed introduction to the Stumbling Blocks project, including photographs and a continually updated list and map of installations: http://www.stolpersteine.com/ (in German). For an introduction in English, see the website of the Smithsonian Magazine: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/peopleplaces/stolpersteine.html. 4. L. Katzman and G. Paulix, ‘Against Forgetting: The Memorial Art of Gunter Demnig’, Art Papers Magazine 29 (2005), 16–19. Demnig’s website features a continually updated chronology of the project and the public’s reactions to it: http://www.stolpersteine.com/ (in German). 5. Gunter Demnig interview, Telegraph online, 12 September 2008, http://blogs.telegraph. co.uk/harry_de_quetteville/blog/2008/09/12/humbling_stumble_stones_mark_nazi_ past_/. 6. Gunter Demnig, interview, Jewish Tribune, 22 September 2005, http://www.jewishtribune. ca/tribune/jt-050922-19.html. 7. Quoted in the eulogy for the 2005 Obermayer Foundation German Jewish History Award winners: http://www.obermayer.us/award/awardees/demnig-eng.htm. 8. One must also wonder, however, whether Demnig’s complete identification with the project and his insistence on being personally involved in the production of every single Stumbling Block characterize the project as private ‘art franchise’ rather than a public form of memorialization. 9. Gunter Demnig, interview, Parapluie, 24 November 2005, http://parapluie.de/archiv/ zeugenschaft/stolpersteine/. 10. Among the new generation of monuments that name every victim are the Börneplatz monument in Frankfurt and the memorial to the deported and murdered Jews of Mannheim. I am indebted to Chloe Paver for directing me to these examples. 11. Gunter Demnig, interview, Jewish Tribune, 22 September 2005, http://www.jewishtribune. ca/tribune/jt-050922-19.html. 12. A website sponsored by the Federal Education Ministry even provides detailed instructions on how to integrate a Stumbling Block research project into the curriculum, teaching archival research and other skills in the process: http://www.stolpersteinebildungssteine.de/Bildung.html. 13. In Hamburg, for example, the city has taken the lead in researching and funding Stumbling Blocks. See the official web page co-hosted by the Hamburg Public Agency for Civic Education (in English): http://87.106.6.17/stolpersteine-hamburg.de/?MAIN_ID=7. 14. Gunter Demnig, interview, Jura Magazin Hamburg, issue 10/ 2004, http://studium.jura. uni-hamburg.de/magazin/. 15. Gunter Demnig, interview with the Amadeu Antonio Foundation, http://archiv.mutgegen-rechte-gewalt.de/artikel.php?id=21&kat=75&artikelid=1148. 16. Demnig, interview, Jura Magazin Hamburg.

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17. The project was spearheaded by the Vereinigung der Verfolgten des Naziregimes: http://www.vvn-konstanz.de/projekte.do. 18. Press release of the city of Hanover: http://www.hannover-web.de/magazin/artikel/ Stolpersteine-Hannover-100046.htm. 19. Demnig, interview, Jura Magazin Hamburg. 20. For an account (some of it in English) of the debates in Munich, see the website of the Initiative Stolpersteine für München that has been trying to bring Stumbling Blocks to Munich: http://www.stolpersteine-muenchen.de/index.htm. 21. Press release issued by the City of Munich on 26 May 2004. 22. ‘Neue Diskussion über die “Stolpersteine” ’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 13 June 2004. See http://www.sueddeutsche.de/muenchen/artikel/324/33291/. 23. ‘Munich Denies Permission for Holocaust Memorial “Stumbling Stones” ’, Telegraph, 1 August 2004. See http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/germany/ 1468393/Munich-denies-permission-for-Holocaust-memorial-stumbling-stones.html. 24. ‘Münchner Streit um Stolpersteine: Wer gedenkt am besten?’, TAZ, 28 June 2008. 25. B. Meyer, Die Verfolgung und Ermordung der Hamburger Juden 1933–1945. Geschichte, Zeugnis, Erinnerung (Hamburg, 2006), p. 169. 26. Demnig interview with the Amadeu Antonio Foundation. 27. Rheinische Post, 17 January 2005. Spiegel had made this comment with reference to a similar situation in Krefeld, where the Chair of the Jewish congregation had also opposed the project partly against the wishes of its members. Eventually, a compromise was reached between the city council and the local Stumbling Block initiative but not until the latter had threatened to force a referendum on the issue. 28. Deutsche Welle, 18 June 2004: http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,2144,1240170,00. html. 29. In fact, Demnig even sought and obtained confirmation from the Jewish congregation in Cologne that the Talmud does not interpret his Stumbling Blocks as gravestones. Demnig interview with Arte TV in January 2008: http://www.arte.tv/de/Geschichte-amMittwoch/1898170.html. 30. Gunter Demnig, interview, in Neue Gesellschaft für Bildende Kunst (eds), Stolpersteine (Berlin, 2002), pp. 9–22, here p. 15. The public works department eventually legalized the Berlin Stumbling Blocks after the fact. 31. Demnig interview with the Amadeu Antonio Foundation. 32. See the public letter by Mayor Christian Ude: http://www.stolpersteine-muenchen.de/ Archiv/Docu/docu-040109-ude.htm. 33. So large, in fact, that they have caused the concerns of other commemorated groups to be completely drowned out: many Roma and Sinti, for instance, strongly object to their names being walked on, a circumstance that has not been given nearly the same consideration. See Demnig interview in Neue Gesellschaft für Bildende Kunst, Stolpersteine, p. 20. 34. A table describing these sponsorships is available online: http://www.stolpersteinemuenchen.de/Archiv/steine.htm. 35. http://www.stolpersteine-muenchen.de/Engage/engage.htm. 36. Photographs of the installation are posted at http://www.stolpersteine-muenchen.de/ Fotos/fotos-02.htm. 37. Demnig interview, Telegraph online. 38. James Young, interview, Smithsonian Magazine, 11 October 2007, http://www. smithsonianmag.com/people-places/stolpersteine.html. 39. Demnig, interview, Nextbook – A new read on Jewish Culture, http://www.nextbook.org/ cultural/feature.html?id=419. All websites were last accessed on 5 December 2008.

3.7 Affective Memory, Ineffective Functionality: Experiencing Berlin’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe Brigitte Sion

The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas), unveiled in Berlin in 2005, consists of a gigantic field of 2711 rectangular stelae of different heights, and an underground Information Centre, which presents an exhibition about the Holocaust. It is the first national monument to the Holocaust erected in Germany with the political and financial support of the Federal State. This Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe has been studied extensively, but with relatively little attention to the life of the memorial after its completion. This chapter analyses the monument as an event in itself and as a site of embodied performances. The great potential of Eisenman’s design was to engage visitors in Holocaust remembrance through somatic and kinesthetic experiences. By looking at the tensions between architecture, commemorative practices, political and economic agendas, and social behaviour, I argue that the memorial fails to perform remembrance but succeeds as a public artwork. Unexpectedly, the modest and didactic Information Centre generates an emotional response from visitors, and involuntarily becomes the site of remembrance. The immense scope of the Holocaust precludes any attempt to record and remember each individual life in a single monument. The design by American architect Peter Eisenman does not shy away from being monumental, but does not attempt to individualize each death. The field of stelae does not bear a name or any reference to the Holocaust. The stelae are abstract. To many critics, the arbitrary location of the memorial diminishes its commemorative power. The location is neither the site of Hitler’s chancellery nor of its bunkers, but rather a former noman’s land in the old ministerial gardens. What matters is the memorial’s symbolic position in the heart of the city today and its integration in the urban landscape of Berlin. The first stelae, at ground level, look like a natural continuation of the sidewalk. There is no separation between the street and the memorial, which seems to grow from and recess into the asphalt. The fact that the field of stelae is not site-specific and that it lacks a focal point reflects the fact that perpetrators and victims are everywhere in the city; they are ambient (Figure 19). 243

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Figure 19

The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin (photo Brigitte Sion)

The design, without a focal point or a space dedicated to gatherings, prevents any ceremonial use. It is an ‘anti-commemorative’ memorial both for collective and individual purposes. Architecture blurs the lines. The slabs are similar to tombstones, and the accumulation of stelae reminiscent of a cemetery. Visitors are confused, and some act as if in a cemetery. They walk slowly until they find an evocative pillar and leave an object according to their spiritual tradition: red candles with engraved crosses, stones, or flowers. The presence of objects associated with mourning and remembrance, along with the silent and sombre attitude of these visitors clearly identify the field of stelae as a memorial. However, the material traces they leave behind are quickly removed by the housekeeping staff; as if the stelae were to be admired as an artwork, but not to be used as a memorial. Traditionally, Western monuments have celebrated military victories, heroes, and triumphs. However, years of dictatorship and crimes against civilians have challenged these architectural and political conventions. The Second World War, and specifically the Holocaust, shifted commemorative practices. The focus on victims moved from soldiers to civilians, and memorial design turned to increased abstraction. Defeated states and perpetrators could choose to present themselves as victims, deny any wrongdoing, or face self-indictment. Self-indicting monuments – monuments approved and funded by a state to commemorate the victims of a past regime – are a relatively new occurrence. Early Holocaust memorials in West Berlin focused on specific places, such as destroyed synagogues, or the sign listing Nazi camps on Wittenbergplatz (1967).

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Victims were rarely mentioned and the dedication remained vague. Germany experienced a renewed interest in Second World War memory in the late 1980s and early 1990s, coinciding with the fall of the Iron Curtain, with fiftieth anniversary commemorations of the end of the war, the thinning numbers of Second World War witnesses, and translation into exhibitions, ceremonies, television series, etc. Buildings were marked and civilian victims became the central focus of the memory debate; local memorials for specific groups of Jewish victims multiplied across West Germany. In 1993, Chancellor Kohl expressed support for the project of a centralized Holocaust memorial and promised its promoters a large piece of land in the centre of Berlin. The first Berlin competition in 1995 was a fiasco because of the disappointing quality of the entries. After the appointment of a new jury, a second competition, by invitation only, opened in 1997. The proposal submitted by Peter Eisenman and Richard Serra was one of the finalists. In June 1998, when the jury asked Eisenman and Serra to amend their project by reducing the number and height of stelae, Serra withdrew from the competition. Eisenman renamed the downscaled proposal ‘Eisenman II’. Finally, the parliament narrowly passed a resolution on 25 June 1999 that stated, ‘The Federal Republic of Germany will erect a memorial to the murdered Jews of Europe.’1 What kind of memorial? The aftermath of the Holocaust has become paradigmatic of the difficulty of translating the memory of a tragedy into a memorial. This challenge has inspired new approaches to memorial architecture, such as the ‘counter-monuments’ in the 1980s. James Young describes the goal of a countermonument as ‘not to console but to provoke; not to remain fixed but to change; not to be everlasting but to disappear; not to be ignored by passersby but to demand interaction; not to remain pristine but to invite its own violation and desanctification’.2 The Berlin Holocaust memorial focuses on the memorial process itself. Peter Eisenman states, The project suggests that when a supposedly rational and ordered system grows too large and out of proportion to its intended purpose, it in fact loses touch with human reason. It then begins to reveal the innate disturbances and potential for chaos in all systems of seeming order, the idea that all closed systems of a closed order are bound to fail.3 In Eisenman’s perspective, the memorial is a rendition of a rigid system that starts off with a purpose of law and order, but turns into a killing monster; as such, it resists all redemptory ideals. However, the field of stelae seems to point both to the perpetrators and the victims. While the grid refers to the Nazi regime and its systematized murder plan, the tombstone-like stelae conjure up the image of a cemetery and of innumerable victims. Seen from a distance, the field of stelae seems to be swallowing and spitting out people, as they penetrate and sink into the memorial, falling out of sight; they disappear in the unknown, only to reappear unexpectedly in a different corner, incomprehensibly. The field of stelae might

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attempt to bring both perpetrators and victims into the same space, in contrast to other memorials dedicated either to Holocaust victims or to the crimes of the perpetrators. Although the memorial was built ‘to the murdered Jews of Europe’, it is impossible to divorce victims from perpetrators; in his design, Eisenman reinstates the agent that is missing in the name of the memorial. Counter-monuments engage visitors in walking, touching, and other embodied experiences. Embodied experiences, which Thomas Csordas calls ‘somatic modes of attention’, are ‘ways of attending to and with one’s body in surroundings that include the embodied presence of others’.4 Edward Casey applied the embodied perspective to the study of memory, and showed how the body was ‘at once a transmitter of the inheritance of the external world and itself an inheritance for perception in the present’.5 The architecture of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is conducive to multi-sensory experiences that engage not only sight, but also movement, touch, body temperature, hearing, and smell in remembering the victims of a tragedy. Unfortunately, the great potential for a somatic experience of memory is simultaneously acknowledged and rejected by the architect himself. Inside the field of stelae, the narrowness of the paths, the angular architecture, the cold and grey stone along with the immensity of the site create a physical sensation of confinement, claustrophobia, threat, and disorientation. Through walking, the living bodies may experience the memory of the victims, both by somatically experiencing a sense of disorientation and discomfort, and by feeling in their own bodies the absence created by the genocide. Eisenman’s architecture does not aim at recreating the confined atmosphere of a concentration camp; rather, it invites visitors to experience the absence caused by the Holocaust and think about their role as carriers of memory. This memorial architecture engages them in both feeling the void and filling the void. However, the corporeal understanding of absence is ephemeral. Visitors are constantly interrupted in their peripatetic experience; they have to adjust their pace and breathing as the terrain slopes up and down, often steeply; the pavement can be wet, slippery, icy, and requiring caution; visitors often have to stop at a stelae corner to avoid colliding with another visitor hidden by a high stela. The aural architecture muffles all sounds coming from the surrounding traffic, creating an eerie atmosphere that adds to the discomfort. However, the quiet is constantly interrupted by shouts, laughter, loud conversations, and other noises. In contrast, an audible angst is palpable in the Information Centre, where sobs, sniffing, and other non-verbal sounds can be heard throughout the exhibition, and especially in the room of names, the only room with sound. There, the recitation of names and short biographies of Holocaust victims is akin to other mourning rites during which names of the deceased are read. The room-filling volume and grave tone of the voices that list the dead create a solemn sonic experience that gives a name and identity to a handful of Holocaust victims. The effect on visitors is immediately perceptible. One name calls for another name; many visitors are mesmerized by the voice that gives substance to a ghost or a statistic. The Information Centre is deceptively powerful. The light is dim; replicas of children’s letters, pictures, and other personal testimonies of truncated lives

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are soberly and didactically displayed, but they seem to stimulate unexpected emotions. The exhibition, first rejected by Eisenman, was supposed to be as unobtrusive as possible, so that visitors would experience the outdoors monument in its full power. Yet, the Information Centre fulfils the potential of embodied memory more than the field of stelae. In the confined underground space punctuated with stelae rising from the floor and coffered on the ceiling, discomfort is visible; some visitors express their distress through bodily reactions: they cry, cling to each other, and pause in silence. It is perhaps the part of the memorial in which the Holocaust is unequivocally present, and in which visitors respond emotionally to corporeal experiences, and lose their innocence about the reality of the Holocaust. In the field of stelae, they are not in a clearly identified space. As they walk down to the underground exhibition, they are confronted with a Holocaust museum and its explicit panels. The field of stelae and the Information Centre complete each other; they do not compete against each other. However, with all the emphasis put on the huge monument above ground, the impact of affective memory in the underground exhibition has been downplayed, if not ignored. In an unexpected reversal, the Information Centre is a site of Holocaust remembrance, while the field of stelae expresses the ephemeral and fragile nature of memory as it is experienced in the present. The field of stelae evokes the remembrance process, a step removed from actual remembrance of the Holocaust itself. It stands in a different timeframe, as Peter Eisenman argues: ‘In this monument [. . .] there is no nostalgia, no memory of the past, only the living memory of the individual experience. Here we can only know the past through its manifestation in the present.’6 Eisenman means that the memorial is neither a mirror of Holocaust history, nor an embellished reminder of life before the catastrophe. As such, the field of stelae questions the remembrance process and its idealizing powers. Eisenman cannot ignore the past, but he looks at a raw past, a gut feeling still untouched by nostalgia and regret, which echoes Freud’s concept of the uncanny, ‘that species of the frightening that goes back to what was once well known and had long been familiar’.7 The cemetery-like field of stelae generates an uncomfortable sentiment: are we in a cemetery with dead people under ground, or in an artistic construct? What is this uncanny feeling of disorientation in a grid that seems rationally mapped? Eisenman is less interested in the victims than in today’s visitors as they relate to those victims; less in the past than in its fragile expression in the present. The corporeal engagement with the memorial leads to contrasted experiences of memory; it also affects the behaviour of visitors and the identity of the memorial. Are we still in a site of contemplation and meditation? Is this monument only a site of memory, or is it equally an artwork that can attract tourists and visitors looking for leisurely activities? ‘The Holocaust memorial has become a tourist magnet,’ observed Uwe Neumärker, managing director of the memorial, in May 2006. One year after its opening, the memorial had attracted 3.5 million visitors. More accurately, throughout the years of construction and controversy, the tourism dimension has been part of the memorial and everything from safety issues to gift shop,

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cloakroom, food stands, guided tours, bus parking, and earned income has been factored into consideration. Tourism is an industry usually dedicated to leisure, time out, and escape. Its goal is to market attractions and pleasurable experiences rather than moral uplift. Marketing a memorial requires a delicate negotiation between staying true to the serious purpose of the memorial and promoting it as an attractive destination that repairs the image of a country burdened with negative history. Memorial executives and tourism professionals target different market segments – visitors with a connection to the events of the tragedy, and those without one – and different kinds of tourism, in particular thanatourism and architourism. A. V. Seaton defines thanatourism as ‘travelling to a location wholly, or partially, motivated by the desire for actual or symbolic encounters with death, particularly, but not exclusively, violent death’.8 When it comes to the Holocaust, Germany is the second most visited country in the world after Poland. Germany’s challenge lies in the promotion of the memorial to tourists connected to the victims, tourists connected to the perpetrators, and tourists with no connection to the Holocaust at all. How does the country of perpetrators attract descendants of victims to a memorial built on the victims’ behalf? One example of a state-sponsored marketing tool is the brochure Germany for the Jewish Traveler, published in 1997 by the German National Tourist Office, and addressed to American Jews. It tries to balance past and present, religion and culture; it juxtaposes the landmark Oranienburgstrasse synagogue and the ‘newly fashionable section of art galleries and cafes’.9 The as yet uncompleted memorial is described in terms of scale (‘a sea of 2,700 pillars [. . .] a vast swath of land’), centrality (‘just 100 yards from the Brandenburg Gate’), authenticity and morbidity (‘just feet from . . . the bunker inhabited by Hitler’), and euphemistic aesthetics (made ‘to recall a waving cornfield’).10 The memorial is listed next to the ‘extraordinary’ Jewish Museum, its ‘delightful’ restaurant, and the ‘elegant’ Wannsee villa. This brochure simultaneously promotes and sanitizes Holocaust memory in its effort to attract Jews who have a deep aversion to Germany, but who might be willing to make a Holocaust-themed trip. Jews participating in ‘negative sightseeing tours of the sites of destruction of European Jewry’11 respond to the marketing by the German Tourism Office or by Jewish heritage travel agents who equally exploit the Holocaust. Holocaust tourism makes it possible for Jews who were reluctant to visit Germany to come to this country to fulfill a sense of duty to remember and bear witness. When Jewish tourists mark their presence in the guestbook of the memorial, or participate in pilgrimages to Jewish Germany, they also reaffirm the roles of victims and perpetrators, in the sense that Germans keep promoting Holocaustrelated sites or artefacts, and Jewish tourists keep buying them, in a repeated performance of thanatourism. The marketing effort for the memorial is different when it targets non-Jewish German tourists who account for the majority of visitors. In its attempts to draw descendants of perpetrators to a site dedicated to the victims of these perpetrators, the memorial has to reconcile the leisure appeal and convenience of a tourist

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attraction with the self-indicting nature of the site. The centrality of the Holocaust memorial indicates its importance and puts it directly in the tourist’s path. In 2006, a building was added next to the memorial, providing a beer garden, an ice-cream parlour, and a souvenir store. This gift shop offers books, postcards, and posters that show aestheticized views of the empty field of stelae, such as close-ups, aerial views, views by night, under the snow, and from spectacular angles. Without people, these stelae look like artwork, not like a memorial that is meant to be walked through. Those few images that include people show everyday activities – a man with his briefcase, a group talking, someone speaking on a mobile phone – mundane actions that clash with the reverence that is expected at memorial sites. The memorial is marketed as an aesthetic object and a public space for leisure activities, with the field of stelae as the main focus of promotional efforts. Its size and location, its abstraction and artistic value, its mystery and novelty are exploited to add to its allure, and contribute to the attractiveness of the site as a tourism destination. Without the Information Centre and the guides, this monument would arguably not fulfil its mission as a Holocaust memorial. Rather, the effort to make the field of stelae a convenient and comfortable space helps nonJewish German visitors to dis-identify with the perpetrators, and offers them the same detached and neutral entry point as tourists who have no connection to the Holocaust at all. As an aesthetic project, the memorial belongs to the category of archi-tourism, buildings created by famous architects, or ‘starchitects’ that attract design-savvy travellers. In the last fifteen years, Berlin has invited famous architects to reshape the new capital of unified Germany with daring building projects: the Reichstag (Norman Forster), the Jewish Museum (Daniel Libeskind), and the German Historical Museum (I. M. Pei) among many. Many Berliners and other visitors have casually shortened the official name of the monument, ‘The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe’, to ‘the Eisenman memorial’, giving precedence to the architect over the memorial. In his analysis of Holocaust memorials that predated starchitecture memorials, James Young wrote: There is a difference between avowedly public art – exemplified by public monuments [. . .] – and art produced almost exclusively for the art world, its critics, other artists, and galleries, which has yet to be properly recognised. People do not come to Holocaust memorials because they are new, cutting-edge, or fashionable; as the critics are quick to note, most of these memorials are none of these. Where contemporary art is produced as self- or medium-reflexive, public Holocaust monuments are produced specifically to be historically referential, to lead viewers beyond themselves to an understanding or evocation of events.12 Young’s distinction between art and public monuments seems blurred in the case of Eisenman’s memorial, which is both a self-reflexive contemporary artwork and a historically referential monument. In the field of stelae, art takes precedence over historical reference. In guidebooks, tourism flyers, and other advertizing material, descriptions of the memorial are short, factual, and general; they rarely mention

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the Information Centre or the relationship between the architecture and the historical referent. A survey conducted in the field of stelae in May and October 2005 confirms that over 60 per cent of visitors had ‘an interest in the architecture’ and 40 per cent came ‘to remember the murdered Jews of Europe’.13 Conflicting performances are particularly visible in public spaces, which welcome anybody free of charge, and are governed by general laws of conduct like public decency. The public opening of the memorial was marked by another scandal. ‘Youngsters jump from stela to stela,’ read the headlines of Berlin’s dailies.14 Pictures showed children and adults climbing, hopping, or sunbathing on stelae. Eisenman’s reaction to the jumpers was positive; he praised the appropriation and daily use of the memorial by Berliners. Earlier, he had spoken of ‘openendness’ [sic] and freedom of behaviour. The memorial is certainly open to interpretation – its abstract character contributes to its openness. Can the same be said for the behaviours found there? What ‘interpretation’ do playing, kissing, having sex, and urinating, which also take place in the field of stelae, perform?15 Eisenman rejected all signs that would indicate the name, dedication, or purpose of the site. One has no way of knowing, except by previous knowledge, that the field of stelae is a memorial, and to which historical event it is dedicated. The design may remind visitors of a cemetery. The architecture invites conflicting attitudes: visitors are torn between their knowledge and their spontaneous needs, between showing appropriate respect in a memorial and succumbing to the temptation of jumping on the stelae to experience a moment of pleasure. This goes against traditional thinking that memorials induce respect by their mere function. When Peter Eisenman says that the memorial is both serious and fun, he emphasizes his design as public art, and echoes former Chancellor Gerhard Schröder’s wish for a memorial as ‘a place to which one enjoys going’.16 The permissive attitude in the field of stelae is validated by the architect, the highest political authorities, and the management, who do not address how such behaviour undermines efforts of coming to terms with Germany’s Nazi past. Rather, it suggests political disengagement from memory or mature acknowledgement of past crimes. The fundamental contradiction between commemoration and play and freedom is at the heart of this memorial. Uwe Neumärker explained that the behaviour of visitors mirrors society, while Lea Rosh considered the fact that people talked about the memorial a success. What, however, do they say about anti-Semitic vandalism? Ironically, swastikas, yellow stars of David, and other graffiti painted on the stelae define the site more clearly as a Holocaust memorial. These extreme references to Nazism place the memorial in its historical context and render the words ‘to the murdered Jews of Europe’ even more resonant. As a public space and public artwork, the memorial may be ideally open for multiple interpretations, but visitor behaviour indicates how the ambiguity created by the design threatens the commemorative raison d’être of the memorial. There are, however, clear rules of conduct, added against the will of the architect: the ‘Ordinance for Visitors of the Field of Stelae’, written in German only, engraved on black stones and embedded in the ground on each corner of the

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site. The engravings are easily overlooked because they blend in with the grey concrete. They explain that the memorial should be experienced by walking at a normal pace, and list eight activities that are verboten: making noise; climbing on the stelae; sunbathing; bringing dogs; using bikes or skates; parking motorbikes; smoking, drinking alcohol, and barbecuing; and soiling the memorial. Within a few hours after the public opening, however, all rules had been violated numerous times. The two guards in charge of monitoring the field of stelae are overwhelmed. In the absence of signs on the stelae themselves, the entire burden of encouraging appropriate behaviour falls upon the design of the memorial; it cannot rely upon a single sign with a normative message. Eisenman rejected signs, rules, and all kinds of guidelines that would identify the memorial as such, induce a specific behaviour, or curb the ‘openendness’ that is the core of his design. If only the field of stelae is experienced, visitors do not get to grips with the Holocaust. However, the Information Centre is too discreet by design; it is relatively small and its access is not obvious. It cannot stand alone; it needs the field of stelae to draw visitors. Together, the field of stelae and Information Centre offer an original and moving experience of Holocaust memory, but not separately. According to a survey conducted in 2006 among 800 high-school students who visited the memorial,17 43 per cent said that they were moved by what they saw and felt, and 66 per cent were more impressed by the Information Centre than by the field of stelae. Inside the field, one third of the surveyed thought about National Socialism and the persecution of Jews; one fifth was too distracted to concentrate and gave up; and 40 per cent stated that the ‘memorial means nothing without the Information Centre, one wouldn’t know what this is all about’.18 The memorial tries to do many things, perhaps too many things. Even the best memorial can become a place to deposit memory, if the moral burden of remembering is delegated to the monument rather than an active personal and collective engagement with memory in the present. It is for this reason that James Young argued that discussion about the memorial was in fact a memorial itself.19 To this day, the memorial is a conversation topic: it intrigues and annoys; it generates misbehaviour, pride, or embarrassment. While these conflicting reactions can be taken as a measure of the monument’s success in keeping alive the debate about what it is, this debate also shifts attention away from the historical event that is commemorated. As Heinz Dieter Kittsteiner wrote, as early as 1996, ‘instead of talking about the murder of the Jews, we talk about the memorial to the murdered.’20 Being so contingent, memorials depend for their success on sensitivity to their immediate and ramified contexts. They must address the relationship of past and present, perpetrators and victims, state and citizens, while never losing sight of their core mission: commemoration.

Notes 1. See http://www.holocaust-mahnmal.de/en/thememorial/history/resolution (accessed 14 February 2009). 2. J. E. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven, 1993), p. 30.

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3. P. Eisenman, ‘Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe’, in Foundation for the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (ed.), Materials on the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (Berlin, 2005), pp. 10–13. 4. T. Csordas, ‘Somatic Modes of Attention’, Cultural Anthropology 8:2 (1993), 135–56. 5. E. S. Casey, Remembering: A Phenomenological Study (Bloomington, 1987), p. 174. 6. Eisenman, ‘Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe’, p. 12. 7. S. Freud, The Uncanny (New York, 2003), p. 124. 8. A. V. Seaton, ‘Guided by the Dark: From Thanatopsis to Thanatourism’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 2:4 (1996), 234–44. 9. German National Tourist Office, Germany for the Jewish Traveler (New York and Frankfurt am Main, 2003), p. 10. 10. Eisenman, ‘Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe’, p. 12. 11. T. Cole, Selling the Holocaust: From Auschwitz to Schindler – How History is Bought, Packaged, and Sold (New York, 1999), p. 117. 12. Young, The Texture of Memory, p. 12. 13. Survey conducted by the Free University of Berlin between April and October 2005. 14. See, among others, Berliner Zeitung, B.Z., and Blick, dated 13 May 2005. 15. According to media reports, official reactions from the memorial foundation, and eyewitness accounts, people have been caught or left traces of their improper behaviour. 16. A quote that became a book title. See C. Leggewie and E. Meyer, ‘Ein Ort, an den man gerne geht’. Das Holocaust-Mahnmal und die deutsche Geschichtspolitik nach 1989 (Munich, 2005). 17. Christian Saehrendt, ‘Information beeindruckt mehr als Kunst. Eine Umfrage unter Schülern nach deren Besuch des Berliner Holocaust-Mahnmals’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 23 January 2007. 18. Ibid. 19. J. Young, At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary Art and Architecture (New Haven, 2000), p. 191. 20. H. D. Kittsteiner, ‘Der Angriff der Gegenwart auf die Vergangenheit’, in M. S. Cullen (ed.), Das Holocaust-Mahnmal. Dokumentation einer Debatte (Zurich, 1999), pp. 61–70.

3.8 From Monuments to Installations: Aspects of Memorialization in Historical Exhibitions about the National Socialist Era∗ Chloe Paver

Introduction Exhibitions and memorials are generally classed as two quite distinct creative products: memorials have traditionally been fixed in place, made of lasting materials, executed in one primary medium, and addressed largely to our sense of sight. Exhibitions, by contrast, are constructed of multiple materials and media (often including sound), are not designed to last forever,1 and have the potential to be mobile (at least when limited to simple displays). Doubtless one could chip away at these easy contrasts: one might, for instance, follow Thomas Haakenson, who, in his chapter for this volume, draws on Walter Benjamin’s concept of the ‘tactile’. For Benjamin, Haakenson explains, human beings appropriate reality partly by ‘tactile’ means, that is, by habituated (repeated and unreflected) movements of the body through space – in contradistinction to optical appropriation, which involves a more static and focused ‘contemplation’.2 Both memorials and exhibitions demand a combination of ‘contemplation’ and ‘tactile appropriation’, since both require an embodied viewer to move in relation to what is displayed, using movements which are to a large degree a matter of ‘habit’, in Benjamin’s sense. In the case of memorials, however, such movement has traditionally been of a fairly ritualized kind (wreath-laying, placing of stones on grave markers, and so on), whereas movement through exhibitions, while still hedged about with social prescriptions and expectations, is arguably much more open to individual response. A comparison of recent exhibitions about National Socialism and recently built memorials to the victims of National Socialist crimes suggests that conventional boundaries between exhibitions and memorials are becoming increasingly blurred: memorials are becoming less fixed in place, time, and material form, while exhibitions have begun to borrow commemorative forms from the traditional memorial. As my examples will show, one meeting point for the two creative forms has been the art installation;3 another has been the ‘necrology’ or roll-call of the dead. Besides this, exhibitions also play a significant role in reflecting critically on memorial culture. The analysis that follows is based on visits to more than 50 exhibitions and on written and recorded data about many others;4 it draws partly on discussions 253

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with exhibition makers. Although the corpus of exhibitions covers the full range of National Socialism’s victim groups, cross-fertilization between exhibitions and memorials appears to be a notable feature of Holocaust commemoration. Accordingly, the chapter focuses mainly on displays about the history of lost and destroyed Jewish lives. The growing flexibility in the form, materials, and temporal and spatial dimensions of memorials is already well documented, not least in the current volume. In her chapter, Susanne Knittel analyses Horst Hoheisel’s and Andreas Knitz’s Grey Bus Memorial (2005), which combines traditional fixity with a more challenging mobility and impermanence. Several authors refer to the ‘history path’ (Geschichtslehrpfad), an increasingly popular model for a linear, walkable memorial through the urban or rural landscape. Corinna Tomberger employs James Young’s terminology of the ‘countermonument’ to examine Hoheisel’s inverted Aschrott Fountain (1987) and Jochen Gerz’s and Esther Shalev-Gerz’s disappearing Harburg Monument (1986). As Tomberger shows, counter-monuments attempt, amongst other things, to counter the dominance of the vertical plane in the traditional monument; the same impulse is evident in some of the examples in this chapter. As work overseen by Michael Diers has demonstrated, the idea of the ephemeral memorial is nothing new, with a history stretching back centuries.5 However, the examples investigated in Diers’ volume suggest that, prior to the twentieth century, the ephemeral memorial was above all a feature of popular culture, in which it played a largely affirmative role (as a component of festivals and other mass leisure events), whereas the contemporary ephemeral memorial takes the more intellectualized form of installation art. Temporary installations may, like their popular forebears, use mass public spaces as their stage, but they do so in order to challenge and disorientate rather than to entertain and unite. Well known temporary memorials include Hans Haacke’s 1988 installation Und ihr habt doch gesiegt in Graz, a reconstruction of an earlier, equally temporary, monument erected by the National Socialist regime to celebrate the Anschluss.6 Less well known is Dennis Adams’ Fallen Angels, produced for the same arts festival as Haacke’s memorial, ‘bezugspunkte 38/88’. Adams drew attention to a house in Graz’s suburbs that had once been the Hitler Youth headquarters by projecting an inverted image of its entrance onto a wall opposite, overlaying it with an image of Hitler Youth in uniform. Other memorials, while striving conventionally for permanence, use multimediality to avoid becoming ‘set in stone’. The recent Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime, analysed elsewhere in this volume by Haakenson, includes a video sequence which will be changed every two years; similarly, Katharina Karrenberg’s proposed but unrealized memorial to the protesters of 17th June 1953, which is analysed by Anna Saunders, left open the possibility of changing or supplementing the documents and photographs set into the ground on a city square. Though not analysed in this volume, the KZ Gusen Memorial in Austria has incorporated an ‘audiowalk’ into the site (2008), described by the artist Christoph Mayer as a ‘sculpture one can walk through’ (‘begehbare Skulptur’).7

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While Young’s work has provided a clear framework for understanding these developments in memorial design8 corresponding developments in exhibitions about National Socialism have received less attention.9 In what follows I examine three developments: the use of art installations in exhibitions, the role of the necrology in exhibitions, and memorials as a subject for exhibition.

Art installations While the primary motive of exhibition makers on this subject is an educative one, and the key mode of display therefore informative (providing proof, anchoring material remnants of the past in a historical context, relating biographies, and so on), exhibitions sometimes include an artwork or a piece of graphic design whose role, not unlike a memorial, is to invite contemplation and commemoration.10 Typically, in such installations explanatory texts – which would otherwise keep the visitor focused on the facts – give way to a primarily sensory and/or imaginative experience, with the artwork providing a surface onto which the viewer may project his or her own ideas. The exhibition Home and Exile: Jewish Emigration from Germany since 1933 (Heimat und Exil. Emigration der deutschen Juden nach 1933, 2006) provides a typical example. The final room of this exhibition offered a studied contrast to the vibrant array of colours and textures that characterized the main body of the exhibition (which showed large numbers of objects loaned by survivors-in-exile): the walls and ceiling of the final room were painted black and the lighting kept low, while along the left-hand wall a long black bench invited the visitor to sit facing the installation opposite. This consisted of a jumble of white boards, arranged to look like a long pile of broken shards. The shards served as a screen onto which were projected both still and moving pictures of Jewish men and women before their exile, as well as a small selection of quotations from Zeitzeugen (people who lived through the events). Freed from the historical narrative of the main exhibition (though of course informed by it), the viewer was invited to contemplate the images and make associations. Since the broken surface of the ‘screen’ had the effect of splitting up family and social groups and of cutting up faces (Figure 20), the visitor was likely to contemplate the ways in which persecution fractured social life and violated individuality. A rather different kind of installation features in the touring exhibition The Engineers of the ‘Final Solution’: Topf & Sons – Builders of the Auschwitz Ovens (Techniker der ‘Endlösung’. Topf & Söhne – Die Ofenbauer von Auschwitz, 2005). At either end of a floor-level shallow tray of approximately 18 feet by 6 feet, funerary urns are lined up, each row slightly longer than the last, forming two rough wedge shapes. Between them lie two further exhibits: a long pile of shoe leather, in an advanced state of disintegration, and a collection of seven iron bars, arranged at odd angles to one another as if they had fallen where they were dropped.11 It is a moot point whether this can properly be termed an installation given that it consists of three groups of museum objects, duly labelled: the funerary urns were discovered concealed in a roof space at Buchenwald in 1997, the shoes came from

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Figure 20 Detail from an installation in the exhibition Home and Exile: Jewish Emigration from Germany since 1933 at the Jewish Museum Berlin (photo by Chloe Paver, April 2007)

a rubbish heap on the Buchenwald site, known to contain the belongings of Jews evacuated to Buchenwald from Auschwitz, and the steel girders were salvaged from the ruins of the Auschwitz crematoria. The labelling makes clear what links them: notwithstanding their superficially rather indistinct appearance, they represent important proofs of the crimes. Despite the labelling, however, several things suggest that display is intended primarily to invite an imaginative response (rather than to ground the historical narrative in material fact, as other objects do). First, a conventional ‘historical’ display would not require such large numbers of objects: one funeral urn could stand for all others, and a much smaller display of shoe leather would make the historical point clearly. Secondly, the use of the floor-level horizontal plane is more appropriate to an installation in the tradition of the counter-monument than to the display of historically significant objects (which tend to be placed at or just below eye level). And thirdly, however powerful a witness the objects are to Nazi crimes (the urns had been hastily emptied to conceal evidence, but still contained traces of human ash), the connection to the story of the firm Topf & Sons is more tenuous than in the case of other displayed objects: the urns, for instance, are not said to be manufactured by Topf & Sons, just to be similar to those manufactured by Topf & Sons that were also delivered to Buchenwald. The siting of the montage within the exhibition space also suggests that it is designed to invite a sensory and imaginative experience rather than convey information. Although the exact placement depends on the exhibition’s location, my visits to two separate stations on its tour (Nuremberg and Erfurt) suggest that it is intended to occupy its own separate space, with plenty of room to walk around it and no other cases in the immediate vicinity to compete for the visitor’s attention.

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What might it evoke? The contrast between the ordered rows of urns and the chaotic heap of dusty shoe leather invokes the peculiar combination of extreme rationality and extreme irrationality at the heart of National Socialist ideology. In a second contrast, the anonymizing effect of both the industrial iron bars and the identical urns (which, it is explained elsewhere, rarely contained the uncontaminated remains of a single person) is countered by the shoe leather, since the rough shape of the human foot powerfully evokes living individuals. Where only part of a sole remains intact the mind’s eye can still supply the remainder, so that the fractured whole suggests both the individual and the violence done to him or her. Inevitably, the mere sight of shoes in this context evokes the ‘processing’ of human beings at Auschwitz and its memorialization in the Auschwitz Museum, despite the fact that these piles of discarded leather are the product of a rather different process, taken as they were from both live and dying prisoners on arrival at Buchenwald after a march that would have rendered most shoes unwearable. The display creates an imaginative bridge between Buchenwald and Auschwitz; at the same time, it might be criticized for inviting the viewer to lump diverse events and processes of the Holocaust together in an undifferentiated emotive mass. The incremental arrangement of the urns (in rows each slightly longer than the last) encourages the viewer to supplement the visible objects with the thousands of others that would form the continuation of the mathematical sequence. This is true also of the shoes: because the heap of leather has no straight edges, it could potentially spread out indefinitely. The curators of Topf & Sons (based at the Buchenwald Memorial) have doubtless been influenced by their previous collaborations with the artist Naomi Tereza Salmon, who has displayed disintegrating and discarded objects from the Buchenwald site.12 Her memorial art (much like the photographic work of Arno Gisinger for the Austrian exhibition inventARISIERT: The Looting of Furniture from Jewish Households – inventARISIERT. Enteignung von Möbeln aus jüdischem Besitz, 2000) tends to isolate individual objects rather than pile them up, but these apparently opposing impulses – to heap things up and to separate them out – spring from a common desire: to challenge the anonymization of individuals in mass murder.

Roll-calls and lists Memorials have a long tradition of listing the names of those killed.13 Increasingly, exhibitions about the crimes and victims of National Socialism have taken on this commemorative role in addition to their primary, informative function and include a full list of those victimized at the exhibition location or in the particular events under discussion. The exhibition National Socialism in Mainz 1933–45: Tyranny and Everyday Life (Der Nationalsozialismus in Mainz 1933–45. Terror und Alltag, 2008) exemplifies this trend. The main informative exhibits filled a large, circular space at Mainz Town Hall, while a separate side room contained a list of all 2450 known local victims of the regime. The name lists were hung on 14 banners about 6 feet high, each printed with four columns of names. The room also contained ten display pillars, each relating an individual biography. Compared with

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the main exhibition space, which was brimful of very diverse images and objects, this room had a uniform tone: it was dominated by the colour white and used only two display formats, with generous space left between the columns and the banners. The relative austerity and calm of the room marked it out as a place inviting quiet reflection. The recurrent exhibition We Were Neighbours: 109 Biographies of Jews Who Experienced National Socialism (Wir waren Nachbarn.109 Biografien jüdischer Zeitzeugen), held yearly at Schöneberg Town Hall since 2005, displays its core of historical and biographical information on display tables modelled on an old-fashioned library. Leaning against the walls of the exhibition hall are about twenty boards, each showing roughly 200 identically shaped file cards. Each card, completed in identical handwriting, is headed with an address in the Schöneberg district of Berlin; below the address are the names, dates of birth, and dates of death of those deported. The cards represent years of historical research by a local man into the fates of Schöneberg’s Jews. As such, they are both a historical document – a testament to the individual, voluntary work that generated the majority of local commemoration before the 1990s – and an act of homage to those whose lives were destroyed. If the exhibition makers had simply wanted to document the names of the deported, as at Mainz, they could have fitted them onto a much smaller set of display boards. Yet precisely in their visual ‘excess’ these cards create a kind of memorial installation. By leaving a small but visible space between each card (which might easily have been placed end to end, or even overlapping) the exhibition makers signal that each represents a separate life (or family grouping), while the brick-like structure of the rows of cards may evoke the co-existence of Jews and non-Jews in the local built environment, which is the central message of the exhibition. The sheer number of the identical cards conveys a sense of the magnitude of the crime even in a relatively small neighbourhood (and therefore of the inevitability that non-Jewish Germans witnessed it), in a way that a mere name list could not do. At the same time, however, visitors who do not read the board explaining the genesis of the file-card collection may well believe that this is a name list produced by the National Socialist bureaucracy. Moreover, the uniform handwriting, coupled with the impossibility of reading all the cards, may give the impression of an undifferentiated mass. The example of We Were Neighbours highlights the difficult balancing act at the heart of all such name lists. On one side of the equation are two laudable aims: to honour each person by dint of naming them, thus restoring individuality to those who suffered forcibly anonymized deaths; and to make visible the magnitude of National Socialist crimes. These aims must be set against the danger that a list, far from restoring individuality, replicates the loss of individuality that was part of the original victimization, especially since, as a means of controlling large groups of people the name list was one of the instruments used by the Nazi bureaucracy to facilitate its policy of mass murder. Exhibition makers have found various ways of resolving this tension. In both We Were Neighbours and National Socialism in Mainz the potential problems were mitigated by the presence nearby of biographical accounts of individual lives; these

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Figure 21 Detail from one of a series of banners listing the names of victims of National Socialist persecution, shown in the exhibition National Socialism in Mainz 1933–45: Tyranny and Everyday Life (photo by Chloe Paver, April 2008)

indicated that a synecdochal act of ‘completion’ is required for each name. In addition, in National Socialism in Mainz a visual technique worked to counter the potential for renewed anonymization: in the background of every other banner a black and white photographic image of one or more men, women, or children appeared, digitally manipulated so as to be slightly out of focus (Figure 21). This signalled that each name on the list must be imagined as an individual, even in cases where an exact biography can no longer be re-constructed. Given the scale of National Socialist murder, a complete list of names is not an achievable aim for many exhibitions about the Holocaust, and some therefore seek visual means of evoking a synecdochal relationship between a small number of exemplary names and the much larger sum of victims. The permanent exhibition at Buchenwald Memorial Site, opened in 1995, presents most of its exhibits in glass-fronted display spaces set into larger, floor-to-ceiling metallic

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grey blocks (in imitation of the store cupboards that stood there when the camp was in operation). One such display case shows sheets of A4 paper covered in densely packed type, each sheet listing about fifty numbers and names of prisoners, accompanied by the date of their death. The title of the display, ‘Death Lists: February/March 1945’, indicates that these deaths occurred on the eve of the camp’s liberation and at the height of the SS’s wilful neglect of its victims. The display case is broad enough to show at least five of these sheets side-by-side and it would have been possible to cut the glass to size so that it corresponded exactly to the width and height of five sheets. A caption could have explained that these were just five of many such lists, containing some 10,000 names in total.14 Instead, the curators use visual and spatial means to evoke the magnitude of the death toll at this time. They have ‘carved out’ a space in the metallic grey block large enough to pin up ten sheets of death lists, but have made the glassfronted opening smaller than the display space, so that each A4 sheet is cut off either at the top, the bottom, or the side by the grey metallic walls of the block. The remainder of each sheet can be seen disappearing behind the casing. This configuration implies that the lists of names could be multiplied, if not ad infinitum, then at least to a degree that cannot be contained in a display case. At the same time, because the opening is placed so that the partial view of the sheets is not symmetrical, the display arguably undercuts the false sense of order created by the camp authorities through their obsessive inventorizing.15 The deliberate visual irritation caused by the partial blocking of the lists from view might be compared with Jochen Kitzbihler’s memorial for the murdered Jews of Mannheim (2003), which consists of a glass cube with names of some 2400 known Jewish victims etched into it. The memorial counters the anonymizing potential of the necrology by creating a moment of visual confusion which requires a conscious effort of looking to resolve: the names have been etched onto the inside of the glass cube, so that they appear as a mirror image when viewed conventionally (that is, when the passer-by views the surface closest to him or her). Only by standing close to the monument and looking through the closer surface to the opposite surface is it possible to read the names.

Exhibitions about memorials Because Holocaust memorials are widely scattered and often neglected or forgotten, photographers have performed a valuable service in travelling to the sites of memorials to document them. An example of an exhibition based on such a photographic project is The Invisible Camps: The Disappearance of the Past in the Process of Commemoration (Die unsichtbaren Lager. Das Verschwinden der Vergangenheit im Gedenken, 1993). As the title suggests, this one-man show by Reinhard Matz did not simply document memorials (a task that has now largely passed to the Internet) but also questioned their efficacy. Other equally critical exhibitions deal with a lack of memorials where one might expect them to be. Ulrich Knufinke’s Forgetting Remembered (Erinnertes Vergessen, 2003) shows photographs of sites of former synagogues. In some cases small plaques indicate that a synagogue once stood

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here; in others no trace remains, not even the footprint of the original building or the boundaries of the plot of land on which it stood. Sabine Würich’s exhibition The Memory of Places: Traces of National Socialist Crimes in Cologne (Das Gedächtnis der Orte – Spuren nationalsozialistischer Verbrechen in Köln, 2004) was preceded by painstaking research into the exact sites of acts of persecution and murder in Cologne. The sites shown in her photographs are even less ‘marked’ than those of Knufinke, partly because she deliberately resists the self-framing of the streetscape and shows disorientatingly unbounded spaces.16 Finally, where no memorials exist, an exhibition can act as a kind of surrogate for a memorial. Exasperated by the long-running indecision of Wiesbaden officials over a proposed monument to the victims of Nazism, and sceptical of the purpose of a traditional monument, the scholar Klaus Neumann and architect Hans Lessing came up with the idea of The Skip, a metal freight container that could be moved around Wiesbaden on a randomly generated itinerary and serve as a temporary exhibition space for the local community.17

Hybrid forms The techniques analysed above may, of course, be used in conjunction. The exhibition ‘And Nobody Said Kaddish for Us . . .’: Deportations from Frankfurt am Main, 1941–1945 (‘Und keiner hat für uns Kaddisch gesagt . . .’. Deportationen aus Frankfurt am Main 1941–1945, 2005) by and large used the conventional techniques of a historical exhibition. However, it also displayed a series of photographs of the Neuer Börneplatz Memorial (Gedenkstätte Neuer Börneplatz, 1996), a plain, plastered wall on which the names, dates of birth, and dates and places of death of 11,000 Jewish victims are recorded, each on a small block of identical shape, with the blocks spread out in uniform rows along the wall. The photographic document of the memorial, by photographer Norbert Miguletz, has in common with the work of Matz, Knufinke, and Würich that it is in black and white and that no people appear in the frame (a technique which allows for long exposure times and thus very sharp pictures but has the disadvantage of obscuring the social and performative aspect of memorials). What stands out in the case of Miguletz’s photographs is that he has not chosen the most ‘logical’ way of illustrating the memorial, namely a close-up of a single section that can (thanks to the uniformity of the necrology) stand for all other sections. Instead, he has photographed the whole memorial wall. Even by standing at some distance from it and using an aspect ratio of 1:3.7, Miguletz still produced a documentation that took up the full length of a corridor in the exhibition space and takes up 17 double-spread photographs in the catalogue. Only the fact that the wall is not entirely uniform – that it is occasionally interrupted by a gate, or a tree, or a turn in the wall – shows us that these are not 17 identical images but separate sections of wall. In other words, in all other circumstances it would make no sense to repeat this image over 17 pages, since any one section can stand for any other. Only the subject matter can explain the photographer’s imperative to achieve completeness: from this point of view (which, as we have seen, is not the only current view) only the entire necrology can honour the

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dead or victimized individuals. The fact that Miguletz’s method necessarily renders each individual name unreadable again demonstrates the tensions inherent in this method. The exhibition Crimes of the Wehrmacht: Dimensions of the War of Extermination (Verbrechen der Wehrmacht. Dimensionen des Vernichtungskrieges 1941–1944, 2001) contained a display of photographs of the sites of wartime atrocities as they look today. This time, the photographs were in colour, but again they were taken without people in the frame and suggested an almost total lack of memorialization of the victims of Wehrmacht crimes. What makes this display special is that it formed an installation similar to those analysed above. While the exhibition consisted largely of conventional display boards combining text and documentation, this series of photographs was isolated from the historical analysis, hung along a corridor formed by two display walls. Visitors needed to make a conscious effort to enter the corridor and once inside could not see the other exhibits. Apart from captions identifying the places in the photographs, no other information was given, so that visitors were left alone with their thoughts: thoughts, perhaps, about how little trace human atrocities leave behind unless conscious efforts are made to remember.

Conclusion Increasingly, historical exhibitions about the Holocaust engage with many of the same questions as memorials: questions about marking the landscape, naming, and honouring; and about the representation of individuality in the wake of mass, anonymized death. Creating spaces for quiet reflection may accord with traditional memorial practice but, like contemporary memorial makers, today’s exhibition makers often seek to provoke the visitor rather than to provide a stable framework for interpretation. Accordingly, they invite the visitor to reflect on the relationships between the one and the many, between the named, the unnamed, and the unnameable, and between what is marked, unmarked, and erased.

Notes ∗

I would like to express my gratitude to the British Academy for facilitating trips to view exhibitions and interview exhibition makers. 1. Even so-called ‘permanent’ exhibitions are intended to last only 15–20 years. 2. W. Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’, Illuminations (New York, 2007), pp. 217–52, here p. 240, as cited by Haakenson. 3. Not every example I use in this chapter could be classified as ‘installation art’ – they might be classed more generally, as works of memorial art with pronounced sculptural qualities – but note that Claire Bishop sees installation art as addressing the whole body rather than relying on optical contemplation: ‘Installation art presupposes an embodied viewer whose sense of touch, sound and smell are as heightened as their sense of vision’. C. Bishop, Installation Art (New York, 2005), p. 6. 4. See http://people.exeter.ac.uk/cpaver/exhibitions_ausstellungen.html for an inventory of exhibitions about National Socialism. For the sake of brevity, minimal information (full title and date of first showing) is given for exhibitions cited in this chapter. The

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5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

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online inventory contains full details including names of the bodies or individuals that produced the exhibitions and publication details of any catalogue. M. Diers (ed.), Mo(nu)mente. Formen und Funktionen ephemerer Denkmäler (Berlin, 1993). H. Haacke, ‘Und ihr habt doch gesiegt, 1988’, in J. E. Young (ed.), The Art of Memory: Holocaust Memorials in History, exh. cat. (New York, 1994), pp. 77–81. http://audioweg.gusen.org/index.php?id=5 (accessed 26th October 2008). J. E. Young, ‘Memory, Countermemory and the End of the Monument’ in Young (ed.), At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary Art and Architecture (New Haven, 2000), pp. 90–119. For a brief overview of the existing literature, which, however, is only peripherally concerned with design techniques, see C. Paver, ‘Exhibiting the National Socialist Past: An Overview of Recent German Exhibitions’, Journal of European Studies, 39 (2009), 227–51, here 228. For more general accounts and analyses of ‘memorial art’ on the subject of National Socialism see Peter Friese (ed.), After Images. Kunst als soziales Gedächtnis (Frankfurt am Main, 2004) and Ronald Hirte, Offene Befunde. Ausgrabungen in Buchenwald. Zeitgeschichtliche Archäologie und Erinnerungskultur (Braunschweig, 1999), pp. 58–79. Hirte documents a similar installation, ‘Realienfeld (Buchenwald)’ (1994), by artist Werner Reuber. Hirte, pp. 68–9, photograph p. 70. Reuber scattered discarded objects dug up at Buchenwald across a rectangle of soil laid out on the floor of the exhibition room. Amongst other things Salmon designed a long table display in the permanent exhibition of Buchenwald in which finds from a rubbish heap are set out in such a way that they invoke a stubborn individuality even in the face of mass neglect and murder. In contrast to the Topf & Sons installation, the objects are not presented as rubbish: rather, clear space is left around the most worthless of objects (mostly buttons but also other personal items), according them a worth of which their owners were deprived. Nevertheless, here too, incomplete items (broken combs and spectacles) oblige the mind to complete them, and speak both of individuals and the violence done to them. See, for instance, I. Eschebach, ‘Die Namen der Toten. Traditionslinien nationalen Gedenkens im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert’, speech held at a conference of the Verein Berliner Mauer (‘Opfergedenken an der Bernauer Straße’), unpublished typescript. This estimate is based on a figure of 13,969 for 1 January to 11 April 1945, though the exact number is less important here than the impossibility of representing visually such a large number of names. See http://www.buchenwald.de/media_de/index.html (accessed 24 October 2008). Henri Lustiger Thaler has studied death lists at the Bergen-Belsen memorial site. Though his article is concerned chiefly with the complex history of the lists, rather than with their display in the memorial site museum, he nevertheless touches on areas of interest to the present argument. For Thaler, the lists are to be understood not just as historical documents but as ‘memorial objects’. The finite lists of names point beyond their own presence to an uncountable number of absent names and come to substitute figuratively for the identities of those buried in mass graves around the memorial site museum despite the fact that they actually refer to bodies buried elsewhere. Henri Lustiger Thaler, ‘Holocaust Lists and the Memorial Museum’, Museum and Society 6 (2008), 196–215, here 196. For more detail on Würich see Paver, ‘Exhibiting the National Socialist Past’, 236–7. Ulrich Baer places similar photographs in an art-historical context, arguing that two photographs of empty landscapes, one by Dirk Reinartz and one by Mikael Levin, exploit the viewer’s habituation to the conventions of landscape art. By appearing to promise a vantage-point from which knowledge of the self and the world can be established, and then disappointing that expectation, the photographs forestall the ‘reflexive responses’ and ‘cognitive numbing’ caused by overexposure to Holocaust representations. Ulrich Baer, Spectral Evidence: The Photography of Trauma (Cambridge, MA, 2002), pp. 61–85, here p. 70.

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17. Though the project appears not to have been realized (it is described and pictured in K. Neumann, Shifting Memories: The Nazi Past in the New Germany (Ann Arbor, 2002), pp. 239–40), its principles have been realized in the ‘Zug der Erinnerung’ exhibition currently touring German in an old train. At the end of the exhibition space one carriage is devoted to the work of schoolchildren, which is displayed on tables and walls (and presumably cleared to make way for new work at the next stop).

Section 4 Socialist Memory and Memory of Socialism

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4.1 Heroes and Victims: The Aesthetics and Ideology of Monuments and Memorials in the GDR Susanne Scharnowski

The arts in general, and especially the visual arts, were essential to the East German government,1 which assigned them the task of educating the people of the GDR. Their most important didactic objectives in this context were to evoke, to express, and to emphasize positive feelings towards the new socialist state as well as the occupying forces of the Soviet Union.2 Memorial art was particularly relevant in this context: while the arts in socialist Germany generally served the didactic and political purpose of representing (or creating) an optimistic view of progress in society and of portraying both the working class and the governing Socialist Unity Party (SED) as the driving forces behind this progress, memorial art was assigned the additional task of creating an image of the past that was in accordance with a Marxist view of history.3 The people of the GDR were meant to perceive the process of establishing a socialist workers’ state not merely as a (more or less arbitrary) result of the Soviet occupation, but as a necessity within the context of German history. It is by now a commonplace that memorial art is a central feature of what can be referred to as the ‘politics of memory’.4 Memorials and monuments in general reveal a lot more about the intentions of those who initiate such memorials than about those to whom they are devoted.5 This is one of the reasons why discussions about memorials and monuments are probably more important for the formation of a collective memory than the memorials and monuments themselves.6 However, lengthy and complex public debates such as the one surrounding the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin after German unification were not all that common in the GDR. The GDR was committed to a teleological conception of history which saw the GDR, especially the ruling party, as the rightful heir to all that was progressive in German history.7 Building on the political division of Germany, German history and traditions were likewise split into two: those traditions regarded as progressive and humane were adopted as the national heritage of the GDR, whereas all elements of German history and tradition that were seen as leading up to National Socialism – capitalism, imperialism, and militarism – as well as National Socialism itself were attributed to West Germany. When it came to socialist traditions in Germany, however, the events to be commemorated were not victorious ones: the attempts at revolutions in 1848/49 and 1918 failed, the 267

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fight against Franco’s troops in Spain was lost, and German antifascist resistance did not result in the overthrow of Nazism. Nevertheless, the people of the first socialist state on German soil were meant to identify with those who, despite their actual failure and/or tragic deaths, were presented as the victors of history in the Marxist sense – namely the revolutionaries, communists, and socialists of the past and, in particular, the antifascist resistance fighters, whose legacy the GDR claimed to have fulfilled. Artists therefore had to create sculptures that would manage to eliminate the difference between monuments which are, by common agreement, ‘essentially celebratory markers of triumphs and heroic individuals’, and memorials which, as James E. Young puts it, ‘recall only past deaths or tragic events and provide places to mourners’.8 The present chapter will argue that the adoption of Soviet Socialist Realism in GDR aesthetics went beyond the mere adoption of certain aesthetic principles: it meant adopting, even embracing, the point of view of the victors, trading in the undesirable and painful position of loser and perpetrator for the position of victor and prosecutor. The Soviet position, however, went beyond simply celebrating the victory over Nazi Germany and so-called ‘Hitler fascism’; it also had as its aim to render invisible the massive numbers of Russian soldiers and civilians killed in the course of the war, let alone those killed in the camps. In adopting the Soviet position, artists and ideologues in the GDR therefore did not merely adopt the position of victor in the war, but also took on board the tendency to banish the painful memory of the millions of deaths. This tendency is expressed very unambiguously in the design of the Buchenwald Memorial, by which I mean the memorial site on Ettersberg Hill, a small distance away from the site of the former concentration camp, which is modelled on the colossal Soviet Cenotaph in the Treptow district of Berlin. The Treptow cenotaph, probably the most important model of Socialist memorial art in the GDR, was inaugurated on 8 May 1949,9 and although Major-General Kotikov, in his speech at the dedication ceremony, emphasized that the memorial was meant to testify to the enormous sacrifice that the Soviet Union had had to make in the fight against ‘Hitler fascism’, the design of the memorial itself shows the ‘triumph of victory over death’,10 as Peter Fibich puts it, with a tendency to make the thousands of fallen Red Army soldiers who were buried here vanish into the background.11 For GDR historians, the location of the site – a park which, in the early twentieth century, had served as a site for political demonstrations by workers – supported the view that it was not merely the victory of the Soviet Army over the Wehrmacht that was to be remembered here, but also the victory of the workers’ movement over capitalism.12 The visitor enters the vast memorial ground (it covers an area of roughly 100,000 square metres) through a triumphal arch, passing by the sculpture of ‘Motherland’ (‘Mutter Heimat’), a statue of a motherly figure who is mourning the nation’s sons. Yet the statue also conveys her awareness of the necessity and the greatness of the sacrifice, and the layout of the ground as well as the statue itself show clearly, as the sculptor himself put it, that life and victory were meant to dominate mourning and sadness.13 Leaving behind the figure of the mother, one ascends a path which

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leads upwards to a portal, made of red marble, meant to signify a lowered Soviet flag, with two larger than life-size statues of kneeling Red Army soldiers, one on each side. From this point, the visitor looks down upon a lawn, on both sides of which there are six white marble sarcophagi, with reliefs in the style of Socialist Realism, depicting heroic scenes showing the Soviet people as well as the Red Army fighting Hitler’s Wehrmacht. These sarcophagi, and the large bronze wreaths at the centre of the lawn, are the only visual elements that refer to death, although, ironically, this lawn area, despite appearing more like a burial ground than any other part of the memorial, is precisely not the area in which the more than 7000 soldiers were buried. The actual graves are situated under the trees on the fringes of the memorial ground, without any grave markers as such, and without any indication of the names of the individuals buried there. At the far end, the most dominant and well-known element of the monument towers over the memorial ground: situated on top of a cairn is the famous bronze statue of a Red Army soldier, 12 metres high, weighing 70 tons, who is crushing a huge swastika with his left boot, wielding a sword in his right hand, and holding a child on his left arm.14 Victory – for this is the unambiguous message – may have been paid for with a massive sacrifice, but the result made it worthwhile. There is no room for the idea of victims in this memorial: it unequivocally interprets the death of thousands of soldiers as a meaningful sacrifice. Accordingly, the space of the memorial was used by Soviets as well as Germans celebrating 8 May as the day of liberation from ‘Hitler fascism’, with torchlight processions or wreath-laying ceremonies. In doing so, Germans in the GDR were imagining that liberation from fascism meant, on the surface, that East Germans had been liberated from the fascist regime just as the countries occupied by the Germans had been; but at a more hidden level, they were able to celebrate their deliverance from being associated with German National Socialism in the first place. While in West Germany the ambivalent and conflicting character of this date, 8 May, was highly visible in the long and heated discussions about whether the end of the war was to be regarded as a collapse (Zusammenbruch) or, indeed, as a day of liberation,15 this ambivalence was rendered invisible in the East German context. Another example of this ideological exploitation of the dead and memorials devoted to them, a strategy implemented by the Soviet forces, is a memorial for the Red Army in the former town of Stalinstadt, now known as Eisenhüttenstadt. In the course of building the ironworks (Eisenhüttenkombinat Ost) in 1950, workers discovered mass graves with the bodies of about 5000 Soviet soldiers, prisoners of war in the camp at Fürstenberg who had died of hunger, disease, or violence. According to the High Command of the Red Army (order No. 270, 16 August 1941), Russian soldiers who found themselves surrounded were meant either to fight to the death or, if they were able to break out, to rejoin their regiment by any means possible. Those who ‘preferred’ to be taken prisoner were supposed to be ‘eradicated’.16 The victory over Germany did not alter the Russian attitude towards Russian prisoners of war, who were basically seen as traitors. According to Stalin’s order of 11 May 1945, former Russian prisoners of war were to be taken to camps and eradicated through work. However, in Stalinstadt, the dead Russian prisoners

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of war were buried as soldiers ‘killed in action’, with a simple cenotaph in the centre of the usual Square of Friendship (Platz der Freundschaft) found in every town in the GDR. It bore the inscription, in Russian and German: ‘Eternal glory to the heroes who were killed in the fight for freedom and independence of our homeland – 1941-1945.’17 By being turned into the heroes that they should have been, these dead Russian soldiers – in reality victims of the National Socialists – were thereby being sacrificed twice, as it were.18 The first genuine GDR antifascist monument, the Buchenwald Memorial (Mahnmal Buchenwald) on Ettersberg Hill in the vicinity of the former concentration camp, was inaugurated in 1958 and combines the spirit, aesthetics, and ideology of both Treptow and Stalinstadt. It was overseen by the central GDR Ministry for Culture as part of the first national memorial (Nationale Mahn- und Gedenkstätte) in the GDR, and was therefore significant far beyond its local meaning for the camp of Buchenwald as such. However, the fact that Buchenwald was chosen as the site for this monument was significant in the context of the creation of a foundation myth, based on the liberation of the camp, which served the function of affirming, even legitimating the East German state.19 Buchenwald had a particularly high percentage of political prisoners, and it also happened to be the site where Ernst Thälmann was murdered. Thälmann was another figure in GDR historiography whose memory confronted the officials of the GDR with significant problems, partly because it was not quite clear whether Thälmann’s life could have been saved through Stalin’s intervention. In the official memory discourse of the GDR, Thälmann became a mythical figure whose life, despite his tragic death, was meant to serve as a glorious example for the victory of the socialist cause. But even so, the plan to create a monument in his memory was, after a number of failed attempts, carried out only as late as 1986, possibly precisely because of the difficulty surrounding the question of whether Thälmann should be represented as a hero or as a tragic victim. Thomas Flierl has given a lucid account of the plans for the Thälmann monument.20 Notwithstanding the particular treatment of Thälmann, because at Buchenwald some significant resistance was mounted against the SS guards, the myth was created that the Communist resistance in the camp had been successful in liberating it more or less single-handedly, essentially overlooking the awkward fact that Buchenwald was liberated by the US Army – definitely the wrong ally in the context of the political future of the GDR. After a long period of discussion as to the design and contents of a memorial at Buchenwald (a discussion documented by Volkhard Knigge), the decision was taken to use the site of the former Bismarck Tower on Ettersberg Hill, which had been used as a mass grave, for a memorial whose motto would be ‘Through death and combat to victory’. By analogy with the Soviet memorials in Treptow, the Buchenwald memorial was meant – paradoxical as this may seem – to be a monument to the victory of German antifascism. Buchenwald can therefore be seen, as Knigge put it, as ‘a combination of Golgatha and Easter for the German workers’ movement’.21 The references to the Treptow Memorial are clearly visible, in terms of sheer size as well as of the layout of the site, which is designed as what one might call a ‘path

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of learning’ or processional path that the visitor has to follow through death back to life, as it were.22 As in Treptow, one enters the site through a gate, although this Roman-style gate is not designed as a triumphal arch. Having entered the site, the visitor has to descend a long set of steps down towards the graves, passing seven steles bearing reliefs by GDR sculptors René Graetz, Waldemar Grzimek, and Hans Kies, as well as texts by the former expressionist poet and later GDR Minister for Culture, Johannes R. Becher. The reliefs, like those on the sarcophagi in Treptow on which they are modelled, depict the seven years of the camp, focusing in particular on scenes of cruelty committed by SS guards, but even more so on acts of solidarity on the part of the prisoners, and eventually on the victory achieved by the Communist resistance in the camp. The spectator is meant to believe that this resistance received support, so to speak, from the spirit of Ernst Thälmann, support symbolized by a portrait of the Communist leader at the back of one of the reliefs, an echo of the portrait of Lenin on one of the Treptow sarcophagi, where Lenin’s face is shown in the background, on a flag behind the Soviet troops. Having descended all the way, the visitor reaches the level of the mass graves – in this case actual graves, in which the SS hastily buried thousands of bodies and the ashes of others. The Street of Nations joins the three graves, which are laid out in the shape of large funnels or circles. From the last grave, a broad, steep set of stairs leads up to the Tower of Freedom, at the base of which lies the most important element of the memorial site: Fritz Cremer’s sculpture, a group of figures depicting resistance in the camp. Again, visitors perform a movement, this time an upward movement. Leaving death, suffering, and the past behind and beneath them, they lift their gaze up (to the future), to Fritz Cremer’s figures and the impressive tower, and, having finally reached the last step at the foot of the sculpture, eventually experience a sense of relief after a rather strenuous ascent.23 Cremer’s first draft – based on Rodin’s sculpture The Burghers of Calais – was rejected by the ruling party because of its alleged stylistic closeness to Expressionism and/or Naturalism. My thesis, however, would be that the first draft did not gain approval because of the ambivalence that the spectator can perceive in the figures: the facial expressions, positions, and postures can be interpreted as determination, but they could also be read as signifying helplessness in the face of unspeakable pain and suffering.24 The third draft, which was finally accepted, showed a significant increase in the number of gestures and dynamics in the group of figures; but it is also far less ambiguous. Cremer has chosen as the ‘pregnant moment’ (a term from G. E. Lessing’s famous essay ‘Laokoon’) the moment of the allegedly victorious uprising in the camp. Moreover, the figures in the final version do not look anywhere near as emaciated and weakened as the prisoners in the famous photos taken of Buchenwald survivors in 1945,25 but rather amazingly robust, strong, and healthy. The spectators are not supposed to turn away in horror or fright, nor are they supposed to experience empathy, sympathy, or pity – which would be the range of emotions triggered by the films and photos of the camps shown and published after May 1945, especially by the American forces. The work of art in fact appeals to the spectator, who is supposed to feel uplifted, but also committed

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Figure 22 Sims)

Fritz Cremer’s Buchenwald sculpture (photo reproduced here courtesy of Gregory

to the antifascist ideal as it was expressed in the Buchenwald Oath (Schwur von Buchenwald) on 19 April 1945. The former director general of the state museums in East Berlin, Eberhard Bartke, summarized this desired effect from a Marxist historical perspective, saying that Cremer’s focus on the moment of the uprising was in accordance with the historic truth. The artist, according to Bartke, had made visible the forces – namely the forces of the working class – which were the only ones superior to fascism. The sculpture, in Bartke’s words, powerfully conveys the conviction that these forces are invincible, and that history, the powers of morality, humanism, mankind, indeed life itself are on their side; the future belongs to them (Figure 22).26 Ironically, the spirit of the Buchenwald Memorial seems to owe a lot not merely to the Soviet influence, but also to the spirit that is normally associated with the national monuments of the nineteenth century, a time when monuments – such as, most prominently in the German context, the pantheon of Walhalla near Regensburg – were assigned the task of guiding people’s memories and leading the way in creating a common (positive) view of history, as well as of the political present and future: generally this meant an affirmation of the nation.27 The other tradition that, surprisingly, is extremely important for GDR memorial art is the genre of the war memorial, which is far more ambivalent. Certainly, at least before the First World War, war memorials commemorating the wars of the years 1813, the 1860s, and 1870/71 unambiguously celebrated the death of the soldiers

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as heroic, and – after victorious wars – they attributed meaning to death. Nevertheless, war memorials also provided a place for mourning the dead – even though, up to the First World War, the soldiers who fought in these wars and survived were frequently also included. On many memorials to the wars of liberation, as well as the wars of unification, Prussian and German subjects would read the lines ‘In memory of the fallen soldiers, in acknowledgement of the accomplishment of the living, and as a model for future generations’.28 It was after the First World War that commemoration of the dead became the central focus of war memorials, and it was in this context that the aesthetics of memorials became a topic of discussion. Bruno Taut, for example, referring to Ernst Barlach’s war memorial in Magdeburg, doubted whether it was possible to find an appropriate artistic form because he suspected that the German people had no common perception of the war – one part of the population wanted to present the war as a heroic, glorious event despite the outcome; others wished for visual reminders of the unspeakable horrors of the war.29 In the context of the First World War, the process of heroizing the dead soldiers in war memorials has been interpreted as an expression of a powerful desire to suppress the painful realities of a lost war and the horrible and painful deaths of many thousands.30 It is not difficult to see how this same reading can be applied to the heroic representations of antifascist resistance fighters and the elimination of the notion of (helpless) victims in the visual arts of the GDR. The positive feelings that were needed from a political point of view in order to create a new state led to an instrumentalization of memorial art that is reminiscent precisely of those political and ideological traditions that the GDR, in theory, meant to have left behind for good.

Notes 1. For the significance of plastic art in particular, see R. Hoffmann, ‘Denkmalskunst in den 1950er Jahren und das kollektive Gedächtnis der DDR’, in C. Gansel (ed.), Gedächtnis und Literatur in den ‘geschlossenen Gesellschaften’ des Real-Sozialismus zwischen 1945 und 1989 (Göttingen, 2007), pp. 121–36. 2. See U. Goeschen, Vom sozialistischen Realismus zur Kunst im Sozialismus (Berlin, 2001), pp. 49–65. 3. In his foreword to a GDR publication on memorials, Walter Bartel writes: ‘Hence, this handbook demonstrates the leading role of the working class, which, fully aware of its historical mission, made enormous sacrifices, never doubting the victory of the working class and the working people. [. . .] The memorials and monuments are a lasting expression of the socialist character of our German Democratic Republic.’ See A. D. Miethe, Gedenkstätten. Arbeiterbewegung, Antifaschistischer Widerstand, Aufbau des Sozialismus (Leipzig, Jena, and Berlin (GDR), 1974), p. 10. (All English translations are my own). 4. P. Reichel, Politik mit der Erinnerung. Gedächtnisorte im Streit um die nationalsozialistische Vergangenheit (Munich and Vienna, 1995). 5. U. Köpp, ‘Das Gedenken wird zur nationalen Aufgabe erklärt. Das Kuratorium für den Aufbau nationaler Gedenkstätten und die Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen’, in G. Morsch (ed.), Von der Erinnerung zum Monument. Die Entstehungsgeschichte der Nationalen Mahnund Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen (Berlin, 1996), pp. 133–47. 6. P. Reichel, ‘Die umstrittene Erinnerung. Über Ursachen der anhaltenden Auseinandersetzung um die öffentliche Darstellung der NS-Vergangenheit’, in B. Asmuss and

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7.

8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

Monuments and Memorials in the GDR H. M. Hinz (eds), Zum Umgang mit historischen Stätten aus der Zeit des Nationalsozialismus (Berlin, 2000), pp. 21–36. This point of view was to be found in the party programme of the SED, still valid at the time the GDR ceased to exist: ‘the SED inherited all that was progressive in German history. [. . .] The party has fulfilled the legacy of those who were fighting against fascism.’ Quoted in W. Wippermann, ‘Geteilte Geschichte – Antifaschismus und Widerstand im Geschichtsbild beider deutscher Staaten’, in A. Eggert et al., Denkmäler zum Denken. Geschichte zum Begehen und Verstehen – antifaschistische Gedenkstätten in den östlichen Bezirken Berlins (Berlin, 1991), pp. 11–12. J. E. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven and London, 1993), p. 3. For the inauguration ceremony, see H. Wagner, ‘8. Mai 1949: Ehrenmal in Treptow eingeweiht’, in Berlinische Monatsschrift 5 (1999), 84–5. P. Fibich, ‘Der Triumph des Sieges über den Tod. Das sowjetische Ehrenmal in Berlin Treptow’, Die Gartenkunst 8 (1996), 137–52. Also available online at http://www. zeitgeschichte-online.de/zol/_rainbow/documents/pdf/russerinn/russerinn_fibich.pdf (accessed 12 February 2009). Photos and detailed descriptions of the memorial can be found online: in German, on the homepage of the city of Berlin: http://www.stadtentwicklung.berlin.de/ umwelt/stadtgruen/friedhoefe_begraebnisstaetten/de/sowjet_ehrenmale/treptowerpark/ index.shtml; and in English, on the homepage of the Swedish project ‘The Polynational War Memorial’, http://www.war-memorial.net/mem_det.asp?ID=98 (accessed 12 February 2009). See Fibich, ‘Der Triumph des Sieges über den Tod’, p. 140. J. W. Wutschetitsch, quoted in B. Braunert, Ehrenmal für die gefallenen sowjetischen Helden Berlin-Treptow (Berlin (GDR), 1984), p. 13. See http://www.war-memorial. net/mem_det.asp?ID=98 (accessed 12 February 2009). This image served as a symbol of the relationship between the Soviet Union and the people of the GDR and was omnipresent on GDR stamps; on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of the end of the war, on the Day of Liberation in 1989, the GDR published a poster showing a young Soviet soldier who is holding a small German child. See B. Asmuss, K. Kufeke, and P. Springer (eds), Der Krieg und seine Folgen. 1945: Kriegsende und Erinnerungspolitik in Deutschland (Berlin, 2005), p. 213. J.-H. Kirsch, ‘ “Befreiung” und/oder “Niederlage”? Zur Konfliktgeschichte des deutschen Gedenkens an Nationalsozialismus und Zweiten Weltkrieg’, in Asmuss et al., Der Krieg und seine Folgen, pp. 60–71. On this background see J. Schütrumpf, ‘Wo einst nur Sand und Kiefern waren. “Vergangenheitsbewältigung” im Eisenhüttenkombinat Ost’, in R. Beier (ed.), Aufbau West, Aufbau Ost. Die Planstädte Wolfsburg und Eisenhüttenstadt in der Nachkriegszeit (OstfildernRuit, 1997). Catalogue of the exhibition at the German Historical Museum, Berlin. Also available online: http://www.dhm.de/ausstellungen/aufbau_west_ost/katlg15.htm# anmkg2 (accessed 12 February 2009). ‘Ewiger Ruhm den Helden, die im Kampf für die Freiheit und Unabhängigkeit unserer Heimat gefallen sind – 1941–1945’. When I visited the memorial in Eisenhüttenstadt in 2007, there was no sign anywhere near the memorial that gave a clue to the historical context; only in a small exhibition at the other end of the town were visitors able to find out about it. For the history of the Buchenwald Memorial, see V. Knigge, ‘Opfer, Tat, Aufstieg. Vom Konzentrationslager Buchenwald zur Nationalen Mahn- und Gedenkstätte der DDR’, in V. Knigge, J. M. Pietsch, and T. A. Seidel (eds), Das Buchenwald-Mahnmal von 1958 (Leipzig, 1997), vol. 1. Thomas Flierl, ‘ “Thälmann und Thälmann vor allem”. Ein Nationaldenkmal für die Hauptstadt der DDR, Berlin’, in G. Feist, E. Gillen, and B. Vierneisel (eds),

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21.

22.

23.

24. 25. 26.

27.

28. 29.

30.

Kunstdokumentation SBZ/DDR 1945–1990 (Aufsätze, Berichte, Materialien) (Cologne, 1996), pp. 358–85. ‘Golgatha und Ostern der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung in einem’, in V. Knigge, ‘Zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Nationalen Mahn- und Gedenkstätte Buchenwald’, in Morsch, Von der Erinnerung zum Monument, pp. 101–13, here p. 111. A series of images – more or less documenting a walk through the site – can be found on a private website, designed by a school class after a trip to the memorial: http://www.trekalized.net/hosted/buchenwald/gedenken.htm (accessed 12 February 2009). The idea implicit in the outline of the memorial, namely that the visitor who moves through the site was meant, to a certain extent, to re-enact and to re-experience in a physical sense those feelings of threat, sadness, and also relief and liberation that the prisoners themselves may have experienced, was, as far as I know, never actually expressed in the context of the Buchenwald memorial. Official GDR aesthetics always focused on the power of intellectual insight and learning through understanding. The aesthetic approach, however, seems to be not dissimilar to the idea of the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin as well as the Garden of Exile in Libeskind’s Jewish Museum in Berlin – and is probably as controversial. Illustrations of the first as well as the second draft can be found in Knigge, ‘Opfer, Tat, Aufstieg’, p. 64, p. 67, and p. 70. The photos can be found on the official website of the former concentration camp Buchenwald: http://www.buchenwald.de/fotoarchiv/ (accessed 12 February 2009). E. Bartke, ‘Das Denkmal’, in Deutsche Akademie der Künste (ed.), Das BuchenwaldDenkmal. Mit Beiträgen von Eberhard Bartke, Ulrich Kuhirt, Heinz Lüdecke (Dresden, 1960), pp. 19–24. W. Hardtwig, ‘Der bezweifelte Patriotismus. Nationales Bewußtsein und Denkmal 1786 bis 1933’, in U. Borsdorf and H. T. Grutter (eds), Orte der Erinnerung. Denkmal, Gedenkstätte, Museum (Frankfurt and New York, 1999), pp. 169–88. Schinkel’s national memorial in Berlin-Kreuzberg, erected in 1818–1821, was the first memorial to bear this inscription. B. Taut, ‘Gefallenendenkmal für Magdeburg’, in B. Taut, Frühlicht 1920–1922. Eine Folge für die Verwirklichung des neuen Baugedankens, reprint, ed. by U. Conrads (Frankfurt and Berlin, 1963), pp. 109–13. See U. Linse, ‘ “Saatfrüchte sollen nicht vermahlen werden!”. Zur Resymbolisierung des Soldatentods’, in K. Vondung (ed.), Kriegserlebnis. Der erste Weltkrieg in der literarischen Gestaltung und symbolischen Deutung der Nationen (Göttingen, 1980), pp. 262–74. See also S. Behrenbeck, ‘Heldenkult oder Friedensmahnung? – Kriegerdenkmale nach beiden Weltkriegen’, in Informationsdienst Wissenschaft und Frieden 4 (Marburg, 1989). Also available online: http://www.uni-muenster.de/PeaCon/wuf/wf-89/8941001m.htm (accessed 12 February 2009). Also see C. Saehrendt, Der Stellungskrieg der Denkmäler. Kriegerdenkmäler im Berlin der Zwischenkriegszeit, 1919 bis 1939 (Bonn, 2004).

4.2 Beating Nazis and Exporting Socialism: Representing East German War Memory to Foreign Tourists Lynne Fallwell

The importance of memorials in helping form national identity is well established.1 Constructed and reconstructed according to prevailing socio-cultural trends (themselves a combination of memory, identity, and politics), these commemorative sites provide a sense of shared history by preserving past events for future generations. They serve an internal purpose, coalescing a given population around public displays of specifically constructed collective memories, but also an external one, providing public symbols for export. Consider, for instance, the international recognizability of Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate, symbolizing both divided and reunited Germany. In short, memorials help a population define both who they are and how they want others to see them. One way in which memorials exercise their semiotic function is through tourism. Tourists, both domestic and foreign, include battlefields, cenotaphs, and other edifices of remembrance on itineraries, often after reading about these sites in guidebooks. Travel publications function as a conduit between public narrative and private visitor by informing readers about what to see and why to see it. Their descriptions are not arbitrary: like memorials, guidebooks are shaped by the prevailing social, cultural, and political climate. When those climates traverse an ideological Iron Curtain questions of what gets remembered and how those memories get reported become more complicated.2 This chapter examines intersections of state identity construction, memorialization, and Cold War politics within the framework of East German tourism. Drawing from English-language guidebooks authorized by the official GDR tourist agency and produced between the 1960s and 1980s, it considers how these state-sanctioned publications utilized memorials as tourist locations while constructing an exportable image of the ideal socialist state.

Germany’s tourism industry Following the Second World War the travel industry boomed, growing globally into a multi-million and eventually multi-trillion dollar enterprize.3 During the Cold War, tourism proved a lucrative venture for both western capitalist countries and Eastern Bloc lands. Erich Lutz calculates in his book Ost-Tourismus 276

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that by 1968 the combined tourist revenue of these communist countries was around 450 million dollars.4 In East Germany, citizens’ expectations of leisure travel re-established themselves relatively quickly after the war’s end. Hasso Spode describes tourists returning to the beaches of Rügen and surrounding countryside even before the refugees departed.5 Similarly, according to Petra Krempien, by 1946 the Free German Trade Union (Freier Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund or FDGB) had already begun planning vacations for its members.6 Implementing a tourism infrastructure in East Germany was a government affair. Headquartered in Berlin, the official state travel agency began operations on 1 January 1958. Like similar agencies, its mission involved supporting the broader party message by providing citizens with politically and ideologically appropriate vacations. To this end, the travel office worked in conjunction with other organizations like the Free German Youth (Freie Deutsche Jugend) and German-Soviet Friendship Society (Gesellschaft für Deutsch-Sowjetische Freundschaft), which offered a range of state-sanctioned holiday possibilities.7 Vacations within the GDR were not its only undertaking. One of the main duties of the agency, renamed Travel Office of East Germany (Reisebüro der DDR) in 1963, was international travel. This included addressing requests from GDR citizens seeking to go abroad (restricted to approved ideologically sympathetic countries) as well as foreign visitors wanting to enter the GDR.8 At first glance, the number of foreigners coming to East Germany was not overwhelming, particularly in the early decades. According to one source, by 1970 only about 600,000 foreigners had visited the GDR, of which half were short-term or transit visitors. Of the rest, 130,000 came from non-Eastern Bloc nations, including West Germany.9 Despite relatively limited numbers, the Travel Office was not deterred from expanding into foreign-language publications, including English. Between 1962 and 1983 the agency released no fewer than six English-language countrywide guidebooks, as well as other single-city publications for Berlin, Leipzig, and Dresden.10 Before examining these official GDR publications, I want to say a few words about perceptions of guidebooks generally.

Critiques of mass tourism Modern guidebooks and the broader phenomenon of mass tourism have long faced criticism.11 One major complaint is that guidebooks’ pre-packaged itineraries allow readers to engage passively and uncritically with a given location.12 Critics of mass tourism draw a sharp distinction between ‘travellers’, those who seek out new experiences in different destinations, and ‘tourists’, those who merely engage in hedonistic consumption.13 Recently, scholars including Shelley Baranowski and Ellen Furlough, Rudy Koshar, Alon Confino, and others have questioned such dismissals, arguing that tourists are not ‘herd-like superficial grazers’.14 Indeed, this new research regards sightseers as active rather than passive consumers who interact with their surroundings, seeking out ‘authentic’ experiences in order to understand the extraordinary (new location) and the ordinary (everyday life).15 This approach accepts that it is impossible for a visitor to be everywhere and see

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everything. Guidebooks offer assistance in prioritizing sites by suggesting what ‘ought’ to but not necessarily what ‘must’ be seen.16 Guidebooks thus become an interactive medium intended for use on-site at a given location; readers are free to select and ignore suggestions as they desire.17 This model is predicated upon a capitalist framework where prioritizing is influenced by both producer and consumer interests (a book’s creator can tell readers what to see but if readers are not satisfied they will not buy the next edition). Tourism in the Eastern Bloc operated differently. Tourist itineraries were tightly controlled, making independent travel difficult.18 However, that does not mean Eastern Bloc guidebooks neglect to tailor messages to specific audiences.19 Comparing official English-language GDR guidebooks to their German-language counterparts reveals that the former are not simply a direct translation of the latter.20 The purpose of official GDR English-language guides is to project an image or ideology outward, not to accommodate tourist needs while travelling. While including nominal information on visa regulations and checkpoint procedures, on-site information (accommodation lists, restaurant recommendations, and the mechanics of moving from location to location) is absent. In contrast, the German-language guides, while also conveying a strong ideological message, appear to offer more flexibility and autonomy in making day-to-day travel plans, whereas English-language publications direct readers through the official Travel Agency to book hotels and obtain restaurant information.21 However, the German editions omit customs and checkpoint information, suggesting that their intended readership already resides, and is expected to remain, inside the country. There are other differences between editions. German-language guides name individual socialist countries with which the GDR is aligned, setting a tone of socialist solidarity. English-language guides list how many embassies, consulatesgeneral, and trade representatives it maintains abroad, suggesting competition with the West.22 German-language guides list historically significant individuals without elaboration, suggesting readers are already familiar with these people and their achievements. With English-language editions not only are key dates and people described in detail but the guides employ lengthy narratives articulating a carefully constructed linear history of working class triumphs as a means of explaining East Germany state philosophy to outsiders.23

Constructing East German historical memory Historical narratives serve as the cornerstone of many guidebooks. Usually paired in the general introduction with an entry on contemporary achievements, they help put the destination into context. In both German-language and Englishlanguage GDR guidebooks, constructing the official East German historical narrative involves inverting the paradigm of top-down leadership via aristocracy and showcasing instead protests by socialist fighters against the corruption of individualized wealth. Highlighted dates form a direct line from post-Napoleonic emancipation to the founding of communist philosophy, the revolutionary triumphs of the KPD in 1918, antifascist resistance, and liberation by the Red Army.

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Names like Ernst Thälmann, Karl Liebknecht, and Rosa Luxemburg replace those more familiar to western audiences: Hohenzollern, Bismarck, and Kaiser Wilhelm. By setting the fight against fascism within a long series of struggles against injustice and oppression, the GDR uses activism to absolve itself of responsibility for the Nazi legacy. By coupling the historical narrative with a detailed entry on the country’s current achievements (economic, scientific, medical, educational, industrial, and other), official guidebooks demonstrate both how East Germany was formed and how it thrives. Guides present East Germany as a land of tolerance and openmindedness; the Soviet Union is liberator and saviour, while Anglo-Americans are antagonists whose bombers deliberately destroyed historic buildings and memorials, including cemeteries, during the war, and whose post-war governments continue to support the attempts of West Germany’s surviving ‘fascist-imperialist’ government to disrupt the new socialist state’s harmonious order.24 This narrative of a nation built on foundations of class struggle, antiimperialism, and antifascist resistance is not unique to official guidebooks. Other East German publications such as school textbooks deliver a similar message. However, what makes guidebooks’ presentation particularly effective is the bringing together of history (dates) and memory (commemoration).25 By utilizing interlocking references (themes raised in the general introduction reappear in later sections), guides not only describe key events but also the sites where those events occurred. In addition, guides endeavour to create a sense of continuity between past, present, and future by describing these sites in terms of what I will call ‘participatory memorialization’.26

Constructing key sites of memorialization East German guidebooks include two types of participatory memorialization: passive (sites of contemplation) and active (sites of engagement). Perhaps the best example of a site of contemplation is Berlin’s Neue Wache (New Guardhouse). Constructed by Schinkel between 1816 and 1818 and located on the major thoroughfare Unter den Linden, it is a staple entry and one of the few sites also appearing in post-unification publications.27 Downplaying its function as a royal guard house, GDR guidebooks stress the site’s long history as a location of commemoration from the victory over Napoleon through to its rededication in the 1960s as the Memorial for the Victims of Fascism and Militarism (Mahnmal für die Opfer des Faschismus und Militarismus). The connection to Second World War memory is heightened by vivid language, translated directly from the German, describing the presence of urns containing ‘blood-soaked earth’ from concentration camps and battle fields.28 Despite such dramatic language the memorial requires only passive interaction from the general public in recalling the sacrifice of others: it enjoins them to stand and watch. Active memorialization is undertaken by the East German state. From 1 May 1961 this took the form of a daily changing of the guard of honour. In contrast, sites of engagement demand direct interaction by average visitors. Often sites of engagement are part of a larger park complex combining

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remembrance with recreation.29 Thus, GDR guidebooks encourage picnicking families at Berlin’s People’s Park Friedrichshain (Volkspark Friedrichshain) to visit the Fairytale Fountains (Märchenbrunnen) as well as the cemetery for Berliners killed in the revolutions of 1848 (the so-called ‘March Fallen’ or Märzgefallene), the memorial to the antifascist fighters of the Spanish Civil War, and, after its inauguration in 1972, the German-Polish memorial to resistance fighters in the Second World War, all found within the park grounds.30 Similar sites around Berlin include the Memorial to Soviet Soldiers in Treptow Park, a smaller Soviet memorial in Schönholzer Heide Park (Figure 23), and the Memorial to the Socialists in Friedrichsfelde Cemetery. These sites of engagement, all of which encompass large geographic areas and stress what Koshar calls ‘spectacle and monumentality’, serve a similar purpose.31 Whereas the Neue Wache involves an inclusive remembrance of suffering (ashes of concentration camp victims and fallen soldiers rest together), these sites honour the triumphant resistance of a select few. They function as more than cemeteries, as guidebook descriptions connect past, present, and future by linking generations (or nations). The memorials in Friedrichshain People’s Park, for instance, connect those who died in 1848 with those who gave their lives in 1918. Descriptions of Berlin’s Friedrichsfelde Cemetery link early KPD leaders (Liebknecht/Luxemburg) to the leaders of the GDR (Pieck/Grotewohl). The Soviet Memorials at Treptow and Schönholzer Heide remember communist soldiers who died fighting against fascist forces. In all cases, guidebook narratives connect the struggle and sacrifice

Figure 23

Soviet memorial in Schönholzer Heide Park (photo Lynne Fallwell)

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by those who are buried at the sites with the actions of subsequent generations whose engagement with the locations keeps those memories alive. Where GDR guidebooks best demonstrate a linking of past, present, and future, plus spectacle and monumentality, is in descriptions of concentration camps. Unlike guides to West Germany, which tend either to ignore former concentration camps or bury token references to them in the text,32 East German guides use these memorials as the centrepiece of their national narrative. From the earliest editions the three camps Sachsenhausen, Ravensbrück, and Buchenwald receive lengthy descriptions with accompanying photographs and separate entries in the index. The 1970 edition even contains a full-page advertisement for the memorial at the former women’s camp of Ravensbrück.33 Most striking is their inclusion on accompanying fold-out maps. All three are named and their locations marked, often with reproductions of their individual memorial sculptures. Text entries draw readers along a route of remembrance. Descriptive language evokes the sensation of following prisoners on a journey from suffering to liberation, while the overarching narrative is one of resistance and triumph, as seen in the following entry for Buchenwald taken from an official 1970 GDR English-language guidebook: The [memorial’s] layout is of eloquent simplicity and blends harmoniously with the landscape. A winding, slightly descending road leads the visitor past the reliefs, past the monumental graves and along the straight ascending road leading to the Tower, the whole symbolizing the suffering and the final liberation of the prisoners. Approaching from the ‘Blutstrasse’ (Road of Blood) he enters the Grove of Honour through a low gate supported by four columns. Seven memorials, bearing reliefs typifying life at Buchenwald mark the path to the graves [. . .] The Road is flanked by 18 squat pylons carrying fire-bowls and dedicated to the nations whose citizens suffered and struggled in the camp. High walls surround the three large circular graves, the largest of which opens on to the wide red-porphyr steps, known as ‘Strasse der Freiheit’ (Road of Freedom). Gradually ascending, this road symbolizing the departure of the liberated prisoners leads to the large open memorial square with the 50 metre-high Buchenwald Bell Tower in the centre as the crowning edifice of the entire Memorial [. . .] The Buchenwald Bell tolls to mark the anniversary of the camp’s liberation and at international gatherings of surviving resistance fighters. The sound of the bell is deep and solemn, conveying the simple message: ‘Never Again!’34 Within East German rhetoric the phrase ‘Never Again’ is presented as an actuality rather than a desire. Guidebooks claim that, by building memorials at Buchenwald, Sachsenhausen, and Ravensbrück, the East German state has fulfilled its political obligation, namely honouring the Potsdam Agreement by removing traces of fascism and militarism from Germany.35 Guidebooks also highlight camp memorials as a reminder of the GDR’s ongoing social commitment to other nations ‘still captured by the yoke of capitalism’.36 Finally, these memorials represent the origins of the new state where camp survivors laid the cornerstone for rebuilding the nation.37

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A well-deserved critique of these camp descriptions argues that such rhetoric obscures the Nazis’ primary target of aggression, Jews. While East German guidebooks are certainly guilty of this grievous omission and subsequent distortion of the historical record it is inaccurate to say that they expunge mention of Jews entirely or only include references reluctantly, and relatively late in the regime.38 The narrative of Jewish suffering and sacrifice, as told by guidebooks, plays a very specific role at a very specific stage of East German national identity formation. Unlike West Germany, which inherited the legacy of national legitimacy and therefore Germany’s established historical narrative, East Germany, limited by the Hallstein Doctrine, at least from western perspectives, was required to create a new national agenda and supporting historical narrative. Official GDR guidebooks reflect two stages of this narrative construction. The initial guides published from the 1960s through to the mid-1970s recall a narrative of injustice and victimization, whereas guides published later in the 1970s and through the 1980s promote a narrative of triumph and strength. Guides published from the 1960s through the mid-1970s portray the nation collectively as the victim of military aggression, both during and after the war. In order to legitimize this victim image, references to Jewish persecution are woven into the national tapestry in a manner similar to the West German narratives analysed by Elizabeth Heinemann.39 The ‘notorious Kristallnacht’ of 9 November 1938 during which throughout Germany ‘synagogues and Jewish shops went up in flames . . . (and) the Jewish people were brought to extermination-camps’ is paired directly with the dropping of ‘100,000 t [presumably metric tons] of explosives’ on Berlin by Anglo-American bombers.40 Attacks by the SA and SS on Berlin’s Jewish population and the subsequent deportation of 40,000 Jews from the Grunewald freight-yard is paralleled with the fate of ‘200,000 persons in protective custody’.41 The desecration of Jewish property is conflated with the loss of historical treasures more generally. Significantly, this narrative of Jewish destruction is presented to justify outrage but not to prompt restitution. While the deliberate desecration of synagogues and cemeteries is bemoaned, the East German government appears to have little interest in restoring these locations.42 While guidebooks acknowledge memorial stones erected in Weissensee Cemetery (largely to remember the student resistance group led by Herbert Baum), at the same time it appears to be acceptable that ‘a young forest is growing among the ruins’ of the Jewish cemetery in Schönhauser Allee.43 The suffering of Jews is remembered not because the victims were Jewish but because their suffering should evoke sympathy for how far the nation as a whole has come. It is not only Jewish narratives that become conflated with national suffering. It was the so-called ‘rubble women’, immortalized by the sculptures of Fritz Cremer, who dug the nation free of fascism.44 However, again similar to what Heinemann describes in West Germany, these women were honoured not as women but because their efforts epitomized the ability of the nation to rise from the ashes. Guidebooks are careful to temper this establishment of the nation as

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victimized with abundant references to present accomplishments (advances in industry, technology, and commerce).45 The East German state does not wish to present its whole history as one of suffering because that undermines its claim to a foundation of strength and triumph over adversity. By the 1980s, the framing shifts. Having cleared away the markers of fascist destruction, the rubble women have no further role in the guidebooks.46 Emphasis is no longer on recalling injustice but on active resistance. Focus on key individuals adapts accordingly: the efforts of theoreticians (and Jews) Luxemburg and Liebknecht yield to a focus on the actions of antifascist fighter Thälmann. The Humboldt University is no longer a place to be reclaimed from the Nazi bookburning by commemorating 10 May as the ‘Day of the Free Book’.47 Now, it is a location where ‘outstanding anti-fascists have worked and studied’ (including Baum, whose group ‘set fire to a fascist inflammatory exhibition’ about the Soviet Union) and a place where resistance fighters sentenced to death by the Nazis ‘went on their last walk to the scaffold undaunted, singing the Internationale’.48 In this second stage, guidebooks also highlight East Germany’s connection to the Soviet Union. Existing entries on Soviet-built memorials expand, as do references in the historical introduction to the Soviet liberators’ role in building the GDR.49 References to Jewish sites like Weissensee Cemetery are replaced by Karlshorst, where the Soviet Army forced the ‘unconditional surrender of fascist Germany’.50 The GDR’s sense of its own past also increases. New subsections labelled ‘historical notes’ draw an even firmer connection between history, memory, and national identity, and the listing of memorial sites gains even more prominence.51 Guidebooks from this last phase establish that active remembrance of the activist past is key for the future of the nation. One of the ways in which guidebooks in both phases draw the connection between past and present is through the use of images. Photographs of Buchenwald and the other concentration camps abound. Likewise, shots of the Neue Wache are standard in almost every guidebook. Often the photographs are framed as dramatically as possible. For example, the major monument at the memorial in Treptow features a Soviet soldier simultaneously cradling a young girl and crushing the swastika under foot. In GDR guidebook photographs this image is usually shot from below so that the already larger than life granite figure seems even more gargantuan, a colossus of peace protecting the nation from fascist capitalist evils. The East German use of memorial images stands in sharp contrast to Cold Warera guides for West Germany which appear reluctant to include such pictorial depictions. Even starting in the late 1980s when textual references to the concentration camp memorial at Dachau become more common in West German guides, photographs of the site are almost nonexistent.52 This has to do in part with the fact that, unlike their eastern counterparts, guides to West Germany generally employ far fewer visual images.53 Also, as discussed above, the West German state inherited the mantle of legitimate statehood and with it the existing historical narrative which included a developmental trajectory ending in the Third

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Reich. To depict camp memorials visually draws unwanted attention back to a horrific period of ‘legitimate’ Germany’s past. Images of appropriate memorials include the Kaiser William Memorial Church, symbol of general destruction of war or specific attacks by western Allies, depending on the accompanying text, and the Berlin Air Lift, which remembers the western Allies as saviours. In contrast to their western counterparts, GDR guides reflect the larger state narrative of memorializing triumph over injustice. Again, the focus of this constructed history is on participatory memorialization linking past generations with present citizens. To this end, East German guidebooks commonly included memorials in photomontages of everyday life. For example, in one Berlin guide from 1972 representations of modern technology, older architecture, and fountains at the Town Hall are paired with shots of Treptow, the Socialists’ Memorial in Friedrichsfelde, and the Neue Wache.54 The overall result is that these images of memory are not hidden but are instead woven into the general tourism landscape, becoming part of the tourist landscape in the same way that shots of beer steins, shopping streets, and baroque castles frequently dominate guidebook visuals of post-unification Germany.

Conclusion Official East German guidebooks are not tools in the consumerist sense of assisting vacationers with travel planning. They do not function as a conduit between destination offerings and tourist desires, but rather as top-down devices for disseminating state ideology. Their format, connecting historical narrative with commemorative locations, creates a necessary past upon which to build a future. Participatory language turns antifascist memorials from places strictly of remembrance into those of progression and transition. East German guidebooks portray memorialization as a three-stage process. First is struggle and sacrifice by those who are buried at the site. Second is the struggle of those who initially came to honour the dead only to face beatings and arrests by those in power. Third is the ongoing nature of active commemoration as GDR citizens continue to gather, and remember, at the site. These descriptions can be modified to match shifting needs of the state according to target audience and ideological intent. Foreignlanguage publications, like those in English examined here, serve a dual purpose. They are valuable vehicles for exporting the desired national identity beyond the confines of the national border. Armchair travellers who may never actually venture into East Germany (and indeed, as members of the enemy, are not necessarily desired visitors from the East German state’s perspective) can nonetheless read an official GDR portrait of the state’s glory and achievements. Also, even if such foreign-language publications are never actually sent abroad, they serve an internal propaganda purpose by providing the state with a mechanism for showing its citizens how the state portrays itself abroad. In this sense these guidebooks, and the memorials they describe, help solidify the construction of a complex East Germany national identity from the inside out.

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Notes 1. See, inter alia, J. E. Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning (New Haven, 1993); R. Koshar, From Monuments to Traces: Artifacts of German Memory, 1870– 1990 (Berkeley, 2000); S. Farmer, ‘Symbols that Face Two Ways: Commemorating the Victims of Nazism and Stalinism at Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen’, Representations 49 (Special Issue Winter, 1995), 97–119. 2. For more on the process of public memory and memorialization see A. Confino, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural History: Problems of Method’, The American Historical Review 102:5 (Dec., 1997), 1386–403. 3. H. Spode (ed.), Goldstrand und Teutonengrill: Kultur- und Sozialgeschichte des Tourismus in Deutschland 1945 bis 1989 (Berlin, 1996); S. Baranowski and E. Furlough (eds), Being Elsewhere: Tourism, Consumer Culture, and Identity in Modern Europe and North America (Ann Arbor, 2001). 4. E. Lutz, Ost-Tourismus (Aarau, 1968), p. 10. 5. H. Spode ‘Tourismus in der Gesellschaft der DDR’ in Spode (ed.), Goldstrand, p. 15. 6. P. Krempien, Geschichte des Reisens und des Tourismus: Ein Überblick von den Anfängen bis zur Gegenwart (Limburgerhof, 2000), pp. 143–4. 7. Reisebüro der DDR, Impuls – Betriebliche Mitteilung: 20 Jahre Reisebüro der DDR (no place of publication, 1977). 8. Reisebüro, Impuls, p. 7. 9. Nagels Enzyklopädie-Reiseführer: Deutsche Demokratische Republik (Geneva, 1973), p. 89; Reisebüro, Impuls, p. 11 and pp. 49–50. The agency claims, in 1958, that 10,200 tourists from ‘non-socialist’ countries visited the GDR. Tourist figures increased dramatically after the 1972 visa and transit changes. See also K. Weise, Berlin: Capital of the GDR (Berlin, 1980), p. 7. Weise claims that from 1971–75 the number of visitors to Berlin from socialist countries increased eightfold and from 1971–76 visitors from the ‘capitalist world’ increased 20-fold. 10. I located national guides published in 1962, 1970, 1972, 1973, 1979, and 1983, and at least two city guides each for Dresden, Leipzig, and Berlin published in the 1970s. 11. Regarding mass tourism as a deceptive and fraudulent exercise see H. Enzensberger, ‘A Theory of Tourism’, New German Critique 68 (Spring–Summer, 1996), 117–35. 12. P. Fussell, Abroad: British Literary Traveling Between the Wars (Oxford, 1980). For a summary see J. Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (London, 1997). Both cited in R. Koshar, ‘ “What Ought to Be Seen”: Tourists’ Guidebooks and National Identities in Modern Germany and Europe’, Journal of Contemporary History 33 (1988) 324, note 3. 13. D. Boorstein, The Image: Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (New York, 1972). 14. Baranowski and Furlough, Being Elsewhere, p. 1. See also R. Koshar, German Travel Cultures (New York, 2000); O. Löfgren, On Holiday: A History of Vacationing (Berkeley, 1999); A. Confino, ‘Traveling as a Culture of Remembrance: Traces of National Socialism in West Germany, 1945–1960’ History and Memory 12:2 (Fall/Winter, 2000), 92–121. 15. D. MacCannell, ‘Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings’, The American Journal of Sociology 79 (1975), 589–603. 16. Koshar, ‘What Ought to Be Seen’. 17. Koshar, Monuments, p. 21. 18. Lutz, Ost-Tourismus, p. 20. 19. Compare Reiseführer Deutsche Demokratische Republik (Berlin/Leipzig, 1981) to Guide German Democratic Republic (Dresden, 1979). 20. Compare A. Lange, Berlin: Hauptstadt (Berlin, 1975), pp. 140–54 and A. Lange, Berlin: Capital (Berlin, 1972), pp. 11–25. 21. The Agency often sent foreign tourists to expensive Interhotels, places average GDR citizens could not afford or were not permitted to use. Nagels Enzyklopädie, 89.

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22. Reiseführer Deutsche Demokratische Republik (Leipzig, 1973), p. 19; Guide German Democratic Republic (Dresden, 1970), p. 17. 23. The section ‘Gesellschaftsordnung’ in Reiseführer (1973) is four sentences (p. 15). Its counterpart, ‘Social System’, in GDR (1970) is over a page (pp. 11–12). 24. Commonly quoted evidence includes the ‘fascist attempt at a putsch’ (‘faschistischer Putschversuch’) of 17 June 1953 and plans for ‘military aggression’ against the GDR in 1961, the latter prompting East Germany to build the Berlin Wall as a ‘protective measure’. 25. Koshar, Monuments, p. 9. 26. I use ‘participatory memorialization’ to describe expectations of how average visitors interact with sites of memory. 27. On the controversy surrounding rededicating the Neue Wache post-1989 see D. C. Large, Berlin: A Modern History (London, 2001). 28. Lange, Berlin: Capital, pp. 70–1. 29. Entries for Berlin’s Treptow Park describe the Soviet War Memorial plus an observatory, amusement park, lookout tower, and pleasure boat docks. GDR (1979), pp. 40–1. 30. On the Spanish Civil War’s significance see A. Krammer, ‘The Cult of the Spanish Civil War in East Germany’, Journal of Contemporary History 39 (2004; Special Issue on Collective Memory), 531–60. 31. Koshar, Monuments, p. 214. 32. Some guides reluctantly acknowledge sites like Dachau but seek to separate town from memorial: ‘With the obvious exception of the [concentration] camp [memorial], however, Dachau is actually rather a charming place.’ A. Dutton, Fodor’s Germany West and East (New York, 1985), p. 97. Other guides omit reference to Dachau but include former Nazi sites like Berchtesgaden. Pan American Airline, Complete Reference Guide to Germany (New York, 1962), p. 57 and p. 101. 33. GDR (1970), advertizing section. 34. Ibid., pp. 149–51. 35. GDR (1962), p. 83. 36. Travel Guide German Democratic Republic (Dresden, 1983), p. 154. 37. GDR (1979), p. 157. 38. I disagree with Large’s argument that the GDR began including references to Jews in the 1980s. Large, Berlin, p. 620. 39. E. Heinemann, ‘The Hour of the Woman: Memories of Germany’s “Crisis Years” and West German National Identity’, American Historical Review 101:2 (1996), 354–95. 40. GDR (1962), p. 46. 41. Lange, Berlin: Capital, p. 17. 42. Guides do include the refurbished ‘Temple of Peace’ on Rykestrasse. Finished in 1953, it was intended to replace the synagogue on Oranienburger Strasse. Lange, Berlin: Capital, p. 64 and p. 96. 43. Lange, Berlin: Capital, p. 94 and p. 96. 44. GDR (1962), p. 66; Lange, Berlin: Capital, foreword, p. 19. 45. Historical summary (pp. 10–14) versus contemporary issues (pp. 14–43). GDR (1962). 46. Lange, Berlin: Capital, foreword, versus Weise, Berlin, p. 74. 47. Lange, Berlin: Capital, p. 72. 48. Weise, Berlin, p. 100. 49. Ibid., pp. 140–4; Lange, Berlin: Capital, pp. 89–90. 50. Weise, Berlin, pp. 144–5. 51. Ibid., table of contents. 52. Examples include Frommer’s, Fodor’s, Rough Guides, and Let’s Go. 53. There are exceptions where western guides employ numerous images, albeit almost none of memorials. T. Halliday, Insight Guide Germany (New York, 2002). 54. Lange, Berlin: Capital. Memorials also become part of children’s literature. R. Dänhardt, Alex, Spree, und Ehrenmal (Berlin, 1979).

4.3 Memorializing Socialist Contradictions: A ‘Think-Mark’ for Rosa Luxemburg in the New Berlin Riccardo Bavaj

Since September 2006, dozens of anthracite concrete bars, sunk into the ground and up to 7 metres long, have been loosely scattered around Berlin’s Volksbühne (People’s Theatre), right in the centre of Germany’s capital (Figure 24).1 Each bar carries a single statement, in laser-cut bronze letters, followed by a single name, that of Rosa Luxemburg (1871–1919), socialist revolutionary and co-founder of the German Communist Party (KPD). About 60 statements, taken from speeches, articles, and letters written by Luxemburg between 1898 and January 1919 (the month in which she was murdered by members of the notorious Freikorps militia), can be encountered during a stroll across the very square that bears her name. It was above all Luxemburg’s violent, untimely death which made her a martyr for generations of socialists and communists, but the commemoration of Luxemburg was never uncontested, neither in West Germany nor in the GDR.2 While for many in the West, Luxemburg epitomized a totalitarian experiment doomed to failure, her mythical image was frequently conjured up by those in favour of a socialist democratization of the Federal Republic, however defined. Especially from the late 1960s onwards she served as a popular icon, charismatically supporting attempts to move the Republic’s political culture to the left. However, Luxemburg admirers in West Germany (such as the radical students who named the University of Cologne after her in 1968) had to wait until 1987 for the first significant public memorialization of their heroine. Designed by the architects Ralf Schüler and Ursulina Schüler-Witte, the cast-iron letters of Luxemburg’s name rise up towards the viewer from the towpath of the Landwehr Canal in Berlin’s Tiergarten, near the Lichtenstein Bridge, where Luxemburg’s corpse was thrown in the canal on 15 January 1919.3 The memorial was heavily contested, both politically and aesthetically. In the GDR, the memorialization of Rosa Luxemburg was also far from being uncontested.4 The resolution to erect a great Luxemburg monument on RosaLuxemburg-Platz (either a larger-than-life sculpture placed on a pedestal or figurative reliefs) was passed by the Politburo of the ruling Socialist Unity Party (SED) in 1974, but the monument never materialized. Those keen to commemorate the communist martyr had to turn to the ‘Memorial to the Socialists’ (Gedenkstätte der Sozialisten), created in 1951, at the entrance of the Berlin-Friedrichsfelde 287

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Figure 24 Section of the ‘Think Mark for Rosa Luxemburg’ near the People’s Theatre, Berlin (photo Riccardo Bavaj)

cemetery, where Luxemburg had been buried in June 1919. The ring-like memorial site, which is centred on a porphyry stone carrying the inscription ‘The dead admonish us’, served as a gathering place for the centrepiece of the annual Liebknecht-Luxemburg demonstrations in mid-January (a tradition which was resumed after 1992, with up to 100,000 participants). Constructing a seamless continuity between its own endeavours and those of the co-founders of Weimar Germany’s Communist Party (the inventor of the tradition) the SED harnessed the memorial ceremony to legitimize its own dictatorial rule. Yet, while the SED regime tried to capitalize on Luxemburg’s aura of martyrdom, it actually had a rather ambivalent relationship to its multifaceted ancestor. Her enthusiastic advocacy of mass spontaneity and direct democracy, which went hand in hand with her trenchant critique of the Bolshevik party and any kind of state bureaucracy, made her a slightly more problematic heroine than the ‘LL demonstrations’ usually suggested. Much like the KPD, the SED distinguished clearly between Luxemburg, the communist martyr worth commemorating, and Luxemburg, the political theorist doomed to sink into oblivion (her political thought was commonly discredited as ‘Luxemburgism’). It was the highly selective appropriation of the ‘unorthodox communist’ which would make her an ideal candidate for GDR dissidents expressing their political protest in January 1988. By carrying banners which quoted Luxemburg’s most famous slogan ‘Freedom is always the freedom of those who think differently’, they deconstructed one of the regime’s main icons and turned her

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into a ‘witness of dissent’. By exploiting the ‘ostracised side of Luxemburg’ and making use of the subversive potential of her legacy, they undermined the statesponsored Luxemburg cult and, by extension, the SED regime as a whole.5 It was a case of Luxemburg versus Luxemburg. The contradictory nature of the ambiguous revolutionary and, above all, of her multifaceted commemoration, would become a salient topos in the controversy about a central Luxemburg memorial in post-unification Germany. This chapter will analyse two competing projects aimed at memorializing Luxemburg in the New Berlin, highlighting in particular the contradictory nature of the Denkzeichen or ‘think-mark’ (the neologism is as odd in German as it is in English) created on Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz (and described at the beginning of this chapter), which transcends the norms of both traditional memorials and countermemorials in its methods of aestheticizing the past. I will argue that the creation of an eminently ambiguous ‘non-memorial’ that represents both the irretrievability of and the disconnectedness from the past was the only way of publicly memorializing a socialist revolutionary in post-unification Germany.

Rosa Luxemburg and the PDS: Two ways of memorializing a socialist heroine The driving force behind the new Rosa Luxemburg memorial was a circle of leftwing politicians, scholars, and artists who called themselves the Campaign Group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg (Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg).6 Founded in June 1998 and constituted by members of the post-communist Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS), the Social Democrats (SPD), and the Greens, the campaign group was primarily initiated by Edda Seifert, PDS executive member and expert in cultural affairs, and Thomas Flierl, PDS spokesman for cultural affairs in Berlin’s House of Representatives (1995–98) and district councillor for urban development in Berlin’s Mitte district (1999–2000). The group comprised several prominent figures such as the literary critic Walter Jens, the sociologist Frigga Haug, and the politicians Klaus-Uwe Benneter (SPD) and Christian Ströbele (Greens). By organizing a series of public discussions and conferences which allowed for both affirmative and critical reflections on the socialist revolutionary, the campaign group aimed at building public momentum for a central Luxemburg memorial in Berlin’s public space, which cut across party boundaries. The two initiators, Seifert and Flierl, were determined, for two reasons, to broaden the scope of supporters beyond the ranks of their own party: first, the proposal to erect a Rosa Luxemburg memorial on a public square in central Berlin (as opposed to on private premises) required backing from other quarters of the political spectrum. Second, Seifert and Flierl belonged to a faction of reformers within the PDS who were keen to free the party of its tainted image as the ‘successor party to the SED’ and to show its critical engagement with its own historical heritage, as a means to increasing its political respectability. The faction of modernizers, mainly concentrated in the party’s executive, intended to present the PDS as a truly democratic

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party, committed to the Basic Law (Grundgesetz) and prepared to form alliances with other (left-wing) parties. Against this background, it is hardly surprising that two of the three terms most frequently evoked in the campaign group’s discussions were ‘democracy’ and ‘public sphere’.7 (The third was ‘the contradictory nature’ of Rosa Luxemburg – an aspect which will be explored later.) The ostentatiously inclusive strategy of the campaign group was not without success. In November 1998, the district council of Berlin Mitte decided to allow the installation of a Luxemburg memorial on the Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz. The resolution was the first tangible result of the campaign group. What followed next, however, came as a blow. In mid-January 1999, a life-size bronze sculpture of Rosa Luxemburg was erected in front of the PDS headquarters on RosaLuxemburg-Platz, next to the entrance to the Karl Liebknecht Building (where the KPD had its headquarters from 1926 to 1933, before the Nazi Party renamed it Horst Wessel Building).8 As it turned out, however, the installation had not been approved by the party’s executive, which seemed to have been completely taken by surprise. The putsch-like mounting of the Luxemburg memorial, created by Berlin artist Rolf Biebl, was the outcome of another PDS initiative, known as the ‘Anti-Ice-Age Committee’ (Anti-Eiszeit-Komitee). Comprising no more than seven party members and determined to fight the neo-liberal ‘ice age’ which supposedly followed the breakdown of Soviet Communism, the committee belonged to the large, if dwindling faction of traditionalists who were less willing to compromise with the dominant socio-political order. The driving force within the committee was artist Ingeborg Hunzinger, who had called for a Rosa Luxemburg memorial at a PDS party congress as early as January 1995 – a proposal which would be approved by the regional party congress of Berlin’s PDS two years later. At that time, party leader Lothar Bisky emphasized the PDS’s obligation (Bringeschuld) to build a Rosa Luxemburg monument.9 Why, then, was the party’s executive not amused when it learned about what Hunzinger called ‘a surprise’? The problem lay in the ambiguous resolution the PDS executive passed on 9 February 1998. It supported the idea of erecting a memorial in front of the Karl Liebknecht Building and backed the proposal made by Biebl and Hunzinger10 to erect a Luxemburg statue which would be flanked by two ceramic reliefs showing Karl Liebknecht and Luxemburg’s secretary Mathilde Jacob. At the same time, the executive encouraged efforts to find ‘larger places’ in Berlin’s public space to memorialize Rosa Luxemburg and to make a public bid for such a memorial.11 The compromise was indicative of the transitory process of reorientation in which the party was engaged at the time. Hunzinger’s ‘surprise’ caused uproar amongst the PDS leadership and, of course, the campaign group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg. First, the ‘undemocratic’, putsch-like installation of the bronze statue did little to help demonstrate the democratic reliability and political maturity of the PDS. Second, the proposal for an open competition for a public Luxemburg memorial was jeopardized by the statue, as a prospective rivalry between two Luxemburg memorials on one and the same square was bound to appear nonsensical – politically and aesthetically.12

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Evidently, two rival concepts of Luxemburg memorials were competing with each other. While the statue advocated by the Anti-Ice-Age Committee seemed to appropriate (vereinnahmen) Luxemburg’s heritage by placing a statue right in front of the PDS headquarters, the Campaign Group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg, propagating a ‘democratically appropriated memorial culture’, was in favour of a memorial in the midst of the public space.13 The first approach expressed a political party’s public commitment to the socialist revolutionary, whilst the second approach left room for a more ambivalent relationship to Luxemburg. No wonder that the first group preferred a conventional figurative memorial which would lend itself to glorifying the co-founder of the Communist Party (and which revealed striking similarities to the guidelines set by the SED Politburo in 1974), whereas the Flierl-Seifert circle spoke out in favour of a modern abstract memorial which would follow more recent trends in memorial culture and would avoid the construction of an icon.14 The outcome of the at times somewhat farcical quarrel about the Biebl statue was the decision to move it to the Franz-Mehring-Platz in Berlin-Friedrichshain in October 1999. It was installed in front of the building where the SED newspaper Neues Deutschland used to have its office and where the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation (known for its close relationship to the PDS) has been situated since Germany’s unification.15 The memorial was soon completed there, according to the Biebl-Hunzinger design described above. Like a triptych, radiating an elevated sense of sacralization, the statue is flanked by two ceramic reliefs sculpted by Ingeborg Hunzinger, who, during an ‘LL demonstration’ on 9 January 2000, expressed her delight that many people brought flowers to the new memorial on FranzMehring-Platz.16 This usage of the Biebl-Hunzinger memorial confirmed critics and advocates alike in their fears and hopes respectively that the memorial would lend itself to staging public ceremonies and performing acts of reverence.17

A ‘think-mark’ – not a ‘memorial’ During the first months of 2002, fear of the idolization of Luxemburg troubled political and intellectual elites right across the political spectrum, from Christian Democrats to the more conservative wing of the Social Democrats. The cause of their anxiety was the coalition agreement of the newly formed ‘red-red’ government in the state of Berlin, led by the SPD and the PDS, which, having garnered 22.6 per cent of all votes in the autumn 2001 elections, had entered the Berlin government for the first time. Fully in line with what the campaign group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg had been suggesting for the past four years, the two parties agreed to make a bid for a Luxemburg memorial to be created in Berlin’s public space, on Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz. The seriousness of this agreement was underlined by the appointment of Thomas Flierl as cultural senator. As soon as the agreement was published, it sparked off a wave of protest, within and beyond the realm of politics.18 Strikingly, the opponents of the memorial project argued on the basis of a traditional conception of memorials. At least implicitly, their contributions mainly centred upon the question of whether Luxemburg

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actually ‘deserved’ a memorial, that is, whether she ‘deserved’ to be placed on a pedestal which would radiate eternity and pathos. A typical example of this was the rhetorical question, posed by the social-democratic historian Adam Scharrer, whether honouring a glowing advocate of the ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ was an appropriate task for a liberal-democratic society.19 This traditional conception of memorials, however, was significantly different from what Berlin’s cultural senator Thomas Flierl had in mind. The son of the well-known architectural critic Bruno Flierl made it clear right from the start that his aim was not a reverential commemoration of heroes, a towering solemn monument – far from it. Luxemburg’s ambiguity should be allowed to resonate, not be extinguished, by the memorial. The decades-long quarrel about Luxemburg’s political legacy, which often pitted her commitment to emancipation and freedom against her inimical relationship to parliamentary democracy, was not to be resolved or decided by the memorial. Instead, it was supposed to be anti-monumental and open to various interpretations, deliberately eschewing the task of setting in stone any definitive view of Luxemburg. As he explained in an illuminating interview with the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, modern memorials in public space lacked the affirmative message of traditional memorials. They were not created to generate a positive, unencumbered national identity. Rather, memorial art was supposed to encapsulate and reflect historical contradictions.20 It should be discursive, not glorifying.21 His postmodern leanings notwithstanding, Flierl had to justify why Berlin needed a (further) Luxemburg memorial. Why her and not anybody else? On that issue, his postmodern approach to memorial art was of little help. Interestingly, Flierl felt obliged to mention a whole array of purportedly great ‘merits’ of the socialist revolutionary, unwillingly slipping into rather old-fashioned discursive patterns of how to justify a memorial project. Only in passing did he mention Luxemburg’s opposition to Weimar’s constituent assembly and her dubious role in the ‘Spartacist uprising’, without convincingly integrating her ‘dark side’ into his plea for a new memorial. Time and again, he mentioned the striking ‘contradictions’ of modern German history in general and of Luxemburg’s writings in particular, but more than once he got caught up in contradictions in his own argumentation.22 Evidently, Flierl faced a dilemma: on the one hand, in advocating the need for a central Luxemburg memorial in Berlin’s public space, he was forced to draw on alleged or actual ‘merits’ of a fighter for emancipation and social justice – thereby nurturing fears and hopes of raising a monument to a socialist heroine. On the other hand, he was bound to avoid any conventional memorialization, as he had to ‘adjust’ her to a socio-political order that was very different from the one Luxemburg had once envisaged.23 One way of dealing with this dilemma was to deflate the potential for political provocation aesthetically. Picking up on the discussion initiated by the campaign group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg, Flierl preferred the neologism ‘think-mark’ (Denkzeichen) to the more common ‘memorial’, a word which was loaded with connotations and emotionally charged. Used increasingly since the

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1990s, the term ‘think-mark’ characterizes decidedly modern memorials, which differ significantly from traditional ones in form and function.24 Normally they refrain from constructing a linear continuity between past and present and they do not make any unambiguous statement about a decisive rupture with the past (like the Mahnmal or ‘admonitory memorial’). In a sense, the disconnectedness from, and the irretrievability of, the past is one of the silent assumptions of a ‘think-mark’, which therefore has a far greater artistic autonomy compared to conventional memorials. Often, ‘think-marks’ are not vertical, but horizontal, like so many (counter- or admonitory) memorials which have been scattered across Berlin since the 1990s. One need only think of the demarcation line indicating the former route of the Berlin Wall or the brass ‘stumbling blocks’ (Stolpersteine) which commemorate Jews in front of their former homes. These characteristic features of a ‘think-mark’ were reflected in a two-stage competition for the Luxemburg memorial,25 which was accompanied by public discussions, exhibitions, and conferences.26 In August 2003, Thomas Flierl set up a 12-person jury of artists, scholars, technical experts, and politicians, also including Frank Castorf, manager and director of the People’s Theatre.27 In the first round, the jury reviewed designs from 22 local artists – 23 had been pre-selected from a group of 52, while 120 artists had been initially asked for submissions. Unable to agree on a sufficiently high number of acceptable proposals to make up a shortlist, the judges invited a further group of submissions in summer 2004, based on the suggestions of an independent committee. Those who submitted designs were the international artists Hans Haacke, Michael Clegg and Martin Guttmann, Thomas Locher, and Heimo Zobernig, who were duly shortlisted together with six local artists. Orientated as they were towards conceptual art, many designs played with textual fragments extracted from Luxemburg’s writings, including, of course, her most famous statement on the ‘freedom of those who think differently’. In the end, the jury was split between two proposals in particular: one devised by the German-American artist Hans Haacke, the other by the Berlin-based Argentine artists Miguel Rothschild & Maria Cecilia Barbetta. The latter proposed a marketing plan for producing and distributing a line of T-shirts, caps, bags, and clothes, each affixed with a pink logo sporting Luxemburg’s profile and terse slogans taken from her writings.28 Rothschild and Barbetta wanted to create a label called ‘Rosa de Luxe’ which consisted of a particular ‘brand bible’ and was to be sold to textile companies, in order to create a fashionable icon, a ‘myth of everyday life’ (Barthes), similar to the commercial success of T-shirts showing Che Guevara or motifs relating to the terrorist group the RAF. The artists envisioned ‘guerilla’ marketing initiatives such as designing packages of cream cheese (Quark) with a Luxemburg image and the quotation: ‘The revolution is grand, anything else is rubbish’ (where the German word used for ‘rubbish’ was also ‘Quark’). Other ideas included Luxemburg beach towels and Luxemburg lipsticks (‘We refuse to be muzzled’) or attaching pink speech bubbles to traditional statues in Berlin (‘Anyone who doesn’t move doesn’t feel his fetters’). Instead of creating a permanent memorial, they devised a fluid and transient one, rendering those who would wear

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‘Rosa de Luxe’ products part of the (non-)memorial, according to the motto: ‘I am the public space’. While the jury praised the innovative quality of the proposal, which tried to combine art in public space, fashion, and commerce, the deliberate strategy of commercializing Luxemburg followed the very principles the revolutionary had attacked throughout her life. Also, the jury was unsure about the proposal’s actual validity as a memorial.29 Furthermore, the bid’s intention to avoid any attempt to mythologize Rosa Luxemburg was nothing short of travestied by a proposal which deliberately wanted to capitalize on a widespread sense of nostalgia. Eventually, in January 2005, the jury settled on Hans Haacke’s less provocative approach. While some members of the jury found his design somewhat boring and ‘harmless’, others considered the unpretentious appearance of Haacke’s ‘think-mark’ a great advantage. In fact, Haacke’s Luxemburg memorial is conspicuously unspectacular – certainly one of the reasons why there were hardly any critical reactions to the inauguration ceremony, let alone a debate to match those of 1999 and 2002. Barely possessing the potential to cause irritation,30 Haacke’s ‘think-mark’ is almost invisible to passers-by who cross the triangular Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz. What one notices first is the massive People’s Theatre on the square’s north side. The innocuous nature of the ‘think-mark’ is underlined by the fact that some of the letters appear rather scuffed and worn already, only a few years after the inauguration. Some bronze letters have been rubbed blank by pedestrians; others have darkened and are barely legible. The ‘think-mark’, Flierl said, ‘should not dominate the square like a monument’, but should, in the literal sense of the word, ‘be inscribed in it’, like ‘subliminal barriers’.31 Scattered randomly and cutting across pavements, kerbs, and roads, thereby contradicting the square’s architectural logic, Luxemburg’s words are strewn, as it were, across the public space, criss-crossing the square’s ground.32 Commonly regarded as one of the most significant and provocative conceptual artists of the last decades, winner of the Golden Lion at the Venice art biennial 1993, and perhaps best known in Germany for his controversial Reichstag installation To the Population (Der Bevölkerung),33 Haacke apparently wanted to avoid any grand gesture this time. Indeed, compared with Haacke’s earlier artworks, his Luxemburg memorial seems unusually even-handed.34 As he pointed out himself in an interview with the Süddeutsche Zeitung, he wanted to reveal the contradictory nature of Rosa Luxemburg, making it impossible for any group of Luxemburg interpreters (disciples and critics alike) to claim the ‘think-mark’ for their own purposes. While people would get the chance to move through the ‘complex realm’ of Luxemburg’s thoughts, they would find no signpost and no definitive message.35 Reflecting the iridescent facets of Luxemburg’s private and public life, Haacke’s selection of quotations gives a fairly balanced, if fragmented overview of Luxemburg’s thoughts on political issues such as bourgeois society, militarism, social democracy, Marxism, women’s suffrage, parliamentarianism, and the ‘proletarian revolution’ (‘The workers’ councils shall have all power in the country’ [1918/19]), as well as tsarist and revolutionary Russia, and the Spanish-American war. The

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concrete bars, however, also create public space for private matters like Luxemburg’s desire to have a child (‘Ah, Dziodziu, will I never have a child?’ [1899]), her love of animals, and some of her poetically romantic ideas. Taken out of their historical contexts, some quotations may appear quite topical; others have the air of a bygone era.

Conclusion What began as an East German initiative to memorialize a socialist heroine, advanced by the SED successor party which (at least to an extent) set out to master public space by building a monument in commemoration of its revered idol, ended with a somewhat postmodern ‘think-mark’ which leaves it entirely to the public what to make of the textual fragments embedded in the square. In this guise, the socialist revolutionary can barely do any harm to Germany’s liberaldemocratic republic. Most people will hardly recognize it, let alone feel the need to think about Luxemburg’s ideas. A non-monument like the Rosa Luxemburg Think-Mark, generally open to any thinkable interpretation, neither a traditional nor an admonitory nor a counter-memorial, seems to have been the only way of publicly memorializing a socialist revolutionary in post-unification Germany. The ‘think-mark’ made it palatable for a liberal-capitalist country to devote parts of its capital’s public space to a socialist revolutionary. While some observers may draw on the ‘cutting’ metaphor (rendering the Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz an open wound in the New Berlin), the laser-cut bronze letters will hardly hurt anybody. In many respects, the Rosa Luxemburg Think-Mark is a non-memorial, a contradiction in terms. It is a paradox enclosed in concrete bars, some of them sunk into roads, so that only those who take the risk of getting hit by a cyclist may actually read what Luxemburg thought. Arguably, most people will overlook the ‘subliminal barriers’ anyway.

Notes 1. See for instance I. Ruthe, ‘Trittfeste Sprüche’, Berliner Zeitung, 15 September 2006. 2. For a brief overview see G. Badia, ‘Rosa Luxemburg’, in E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, 3 vols (Munich, 2001), vol. 2, pp. 105–21. 3. Images of the Schüler and Schüler-Witte memorial are readily available via Internet search engines (though it shares the name ‘Rosa-Luxemburg-Denkmal’ with other memorials). 4. See especially B. Könczöl, ‘Auf der Suche nach einer eigenen Tradition’, in R. Bavaj and F. Fritzen (eds), Deutschland – ein Land ohne revolutionäre Traditionen? (Frankfurt am Main, 2005), pp. 61–76; B. Könczöl, Märtyrer des Sozialismus (Frankfurt am Main, 2008); M. Sabrow, ‘Die ambivalente Ikone’, in Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg (ed.), Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg (Berlin, 2000), pp. 33–40. 5. S. Meuschel and B. Könczöl, ‘Sacralization of Politics in the GDR’, Telos (2006), 26–58, here 58. 6. See the important documentation Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg. 7. M. Siemons, ‘Rosa rennt: Viel Ärger um Luxemburg’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 22 January 1999, p. 41; U. Schulz, ‘Warum nicht zehn?’, junge Welt, 23 January 1999.

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8. For a brief history of the Rosa-Luxemburg-Platz, which was a lethal combat zone in the Weimar Republic, see M. Schönfeld, ‘Die Stilisierung des Stadtraums’, in Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg (ed.), Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg, pp. 75–88. 9. Anon., ‘Luxemburg-Denkmal – die Bringeschuld?’, junge Welt, 18 January 1999. 10. Anon., ‘Warum ein Rosa-Luxemburg-Denkmal in Berlin?’, junge Welt, 10 January 1998. 11. U. Schulz, ‘“Am Geld wird Luxemburg-Denkmal nicht scheitern” ’, junge Welt, 11 February 1998. 12. H. Becker, ‘Unwohl wie selten’, junge Welt, 14 January 1999; ‘SPD kritisiert Denkmal an der PDS-Zentrale’, Berliner Zeitung, 13 January 1999, p. 31; V. Müller, ‘Wohin gehört Rosa Luxemburg?’, Berliner Zeitung, 20 January 1999, p. 11. 13. E. Müller, ‘Einleitung’, in Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg (ed.), Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg, pp. 5–8, here p. 8; ‘Zwischen Vereinnahmung und Distanz: Von der Parteivorstandssitzung am 9. Februar’, Pressedienst, 13:7 February 1998. 14. R. Lautenschläger, ‘Rosa nicht ausreichend verankert?’, taz, 5 April 2002, p. 23. 15. Anon., ‘Luxemburg-Denkmal zum Mehring-Platz “umgesetzt” ’, junge Welt, 20 October 1999; Anon., ‘PDS schickt Rosa Luxemburg auf Reisen’, taz, 20 October 1999, p. 20. Images are available at the website of the Rosa-Luxemburg-Stiftung: http://www. rosalux.de/ (accessed 8 January 2009): Rosa Luxemburg, Orte in Berlin. 16. I. Hunzinger in ‘jW-Umfrage: Am Sonnabend zu den Gräbern von Karl und Rosa!’, junge Welt, 12 January 2000. 17. ‘Warum ein Rosa-Luxemburg-Denkmal?’. 18. See in particular H. Hansen, ‘Die Gluthitze der Revolution’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung, 10 February 2002, p. 9; E. Jesse, ‘“Daumen aufs Auge und Knie auf die Brust” ’, Die Welt, 1 March 2002; G. Seibt, ‘Hauptverwaltung Geschichte’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 22 January 2002, p. 13; H. A. Winkler et al., Arbeit am Mythos Rosa Luxemburg (Bonn, 2002). 19. M. Scharrer, ‘Rosa Luxemburg zwischen Demokratie und Diktatur’, in Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg (ed.), Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg, pp. 27–32, here p. 31; see also M. Scharrer, ‘Freiheit ist immer . . .’. Die Legende von Rosa & Karl (Berlin, 2002). 20. ‘Denkzeichen Rosa im Stadtraum’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 3 April 2002, p. BS2 (Berliner Seiten). 21. R. Mohr, ‘Zukunft mit Mehlschwalbe’, Der Spiegel, no. 4 (2002), pp. 152–5, here p. 153. 22. ‘Denkzeichen Rosa im Stadtraum’; see also ‘Was hält die Öffentlichkeit aus?’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 23 April 2002, p. 13; Abgeordnetenhaus von Berlin, Plenarprotokoll 15/7, pp. 382–3. 23. C. Saehrendt, ‘Denkzeichen für Rosa Luxemburg’, hagalil.com, 15 November 2006, http://www.hagalil.com/01/de/index.php?itemid=131 (accessed 5 January 2009). 24. See the instructive article by M. Schönfeld, ‘Handlungsmodell Erinnerung’, in Bezirksamt Pankow von Berlin (ed.), Denkzeichen. Foto/Graphik Galerie Käthe Kollwitz von Pat Binder (Berlin, 2005), pp. 8–31, here pp. 14–16. 25. Senatsverwaltung für Wissenschaft, Forschung und Kultur Berlin (ed.), Denkzeichen Rosa Luxemburg: Zweistufiger Kunstwettbewerb (Berlin, 2006). 26. In May 2003, for example, a ‘weekend of cultural rapprochement’ was organized: Senatsverwaltung für Wissenschaft, Forschung und Kultur Berlin (ed.), Rosa Luxemburg. Ein Platz. Ein Zeichen. Ein Wochenende der kulturellen Annäherung (Berlin, 2003). 27. S. Endlich, ‘Rosa Zeiten – Rosas Zeichen!’, kunststadt stadtkunst no. 52 (2005), http://www.bbk-berlin.de/cms/site/side462.html (accessed 30 July 2008). 28. See the artists’ brochure rosadeluxe: fash (Berlin, 2005), http://www.miguelrothschild.de/ public_rosa_deluxe.pdf (accessed 5 January 2009). 29. B. Kammer, ‘Rosas “Freiheit” am Luxemburg-Platz’, Neues Deutschland, 13 January 2005. 30. C. Saehrendt, ‘Roter Wedding, Rosa und Karl’, hagalil.com, 16 July 2006, http://www. berlin-judentum.de/denkmal/kommunismus.htm (accessed 5 January 2009).

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31. T. Flierl, ‘Ein Textfeld auf öffentlichem Grund’, in Flierl, Berlin. Perspektiven durch Kultur (Berlin, 2007), pp. 110–14, here p. 114. 32. J. Rosenkranz, ‘Rosa im Boden und auf der Brust’, taz, 13 January 2005; G. Sholette, ‘Rose is a Rose Is a Rose’, ArtForum International 45:3 (November 2006), 99–100. 33. See the catalogue M. Flügge and R. Fleck (eds), Hans Haacke. For Real: Works 1959–2006 (Düsseldorf, 2006). 34. I. Arend, ‘Ein undefiniertes Gebilde’, Freitag 03, 21 January 2005. 35. Quoted in Flierl, ‘Textfeld’, p. 114; ‘Keine Überwältigung’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 18 January 2005, p. 15.

4.4 Challenging or Concretizing Cold War Narratives? Berlin’s Memorial to the Victims of 17 June 1953 Anna Saunders

On 9 November 1993, Rita Süssmuth, then President of the German parliament (Bundestag), proclaimed that the end of German division marked the ‘beginning of joint remembrance’.1 Unification clearly brought with it a new chapter for memory culture in Germany, as it freed many historical locations from Cold War narratives, making them available for new types of public commemoration. Inevitably, Berlin, the central stage on which the unified community of Germany is constructed, has experienced the most radical changes, witnessing the erection, adaptation, and demolition of countless monuments, memorials, plaques, and street signs. Contrary to Süssmuth’s claim, however, this urban transformation has often engendered fraught memory contests, marked by divisions not only between former East and West, but also between different generations, political parties, and a large variety of interest groups – each eager to reconstruct the past in their image of the present and future. It is precisely when such competing understandings of the past exist that, as Karen Till claims, ‘the constructed nature of the nation – as an “imagined” rather than a “natural” community – becomes more conspicuous’.2 Negotiating the memorial landscape of unified Berlin is thus revealing, particularly in view of the desire to create a ‘normalized’ national identity following two twentieth-century dictatorships and a divided national past. Indeed, the difficulties of accommodating the legacy of division and the memory cultures of East and West into the united cityscape have been particularly visible in recent debates over the survival of ‘unintended’ monuments from the GDR, such as the former parliament building (Palast der Republik) as well as ‘intended’ socialist monuments of often colossal proportions. The creation of contemporary monuments to the GDR past and its victims, however, proves equally problematic, especially when they are intended to be central sites of national memory. This is partly because, as historical research on the GDR is increasingly showing, the relationship between the ruling SED party and the masses was highly complex. While the daily lives of GDR citizens were influenced and shaped by the Party, the regime was also upheld by a degree of conformity and participation, creating an intricate web of relations, described by Mary Fulbrook as a ‘participatory dictatorship’, which cannot be sufficiently explained by simplistic polar divisions.3 Any centralized monument to this past is thus fraught with difficulty, for it is unlikely to be able to represent the 298

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historical complexities and ambiguities of this period. Furthermore, the temporal proximity of the GDR means that many citizens still have highly varied personal recollections of this period, kept alive through channels of communication and interaction, thus representing ‘lived’ memory or, to use Jan Assmann’s term, ‘communicative memory’.4 However, the current problem in Germany is that many memorial debates are played out on uncertain territory between ‘communicative memory’ and ‘cultural memory’ – a more ritualized form which becomes ingrained into the cultural fabric of a community through elements such as written histories, monuments, and festivals. While communicative memory thus often highlights the contradictions and multiple interpretations of the past, the desire to conclude this difficult chapter of German history in the form of a more durable cultural memory is strong, as it would enable a more self-confident German identity to emerge. Recent calls for a national memorial to the victims of the GDR, as well as a monument to mark the demonstrations of 1989, are indicative of the desire to concretize this period in more durable cultural form – one which also offers, as suggested by Andreas Huyssen, a sense of permanence which is denied in television, the internet, and other virtual technologies.5 Using a case study, this chapter explores how public memory of the GDR has been shaped by contemporary political discourses and conflicting understandings of history. It examines a project which originated in 1994, when representatives of the Christian Democratic Party (CDU) and Social Democratic Party (SPD) in the Berlin House of Representatives proposed a central memorial to honour the victims of the 17 June 1953 uprisings in the GDR. Although a competition funded by the Berlin Senate was duly launched in 1997, it was in fact the design proposed by the second-prize winner which was unveiled in 2000, following public criticism of the winning design, which was deemed too ambiguous. Despite all efforts to promote debate on the 17 June 1953 through symposia and public discussions, and to hold a democratically organized competition with an independent jury, the final decision lay with the Berlin Senate – resulting in a memorial which, I will argue, ultimately aids the construction of a united German identity.

Remembering 17 June 1953 17 June 1953 marks the only major uprising in GDR history prior to 1989, and thus holds an important place in East German history. On this day, approximately 500,000 workers went on strike in East Berlin and many other towns throughout the GDR, angered by a 10 per cent increase in work norms.6 While the initial purpose of the strike was to ensure the retraction of these norms, protesters’ demands escalated, calling not only for the reduction of living costs, but also for free elections and the resignation of the government. The uprising was quashed, however, by Soviet tanks, and it is estimated that between 50 and 250 people lost their lives, with a significant number sentenced to death and thousands subsequently imprisoned. Although the uprisings clearly undermined the legitimacy of the GDR as a ‘workers’ and peasants’ state’ and highlighted its dependency on the Soviet Union, the subsequent effect was ironically one of consolidation of

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SED power in the GDR, and the adoption of more subtle and underhand forms of government control. The official memory of this event was radically different in East and West Germany. In the East, the strikes and demonstrations were interpreted as the work of fascist agents and saboteurs from West Berlin, who had provoked and misguided Eastern workers. The uprising received very little coverage in official histories and schoolbooks, let alone in the memorial landscape and, where it did feature, it was overtly instrumentalized to demonstrate the dangers of the imperialist West. In contrast, 17 June rapidly assumed central importance in West Germany, interpreted as an occasion of mass protest in which the East German people rose up against their government, calling not only for freedom, but also for national unity. Consequently, this date was officially declared German Unity Day (Tag der Deutschen Einheit) in the West, and celebrated as a national holiday until 1990. Numerous monuments were erected to the victims,7 in honour of whom annual ceremonies took place. Yet the ever more distant prospect of unity in the 1970s and 1980s meant that for many West Germans this day lost its relevance. The two memorial cultures could not have been more contradictory, and as the last, freely elected, President of the East German parliament, Sabine Bergmann-Pohl, highlighted 50 years on, this was a day celebrated by West Germans who had risked nothing, while East Germans who had risked everything had little to celebrate.8 The complexity of this divided memory inevitably proves problematic for the public remembrance of this date, and raises significant questions concerning the purpose and form of a memorial. Firstly, what should be remembered: a spontaneous workers’ strike, an organized mass revolt, a citizens’ rights movement, or a campaign for national freedom? There is little doubt that although the demonstrations started as a workers’ uprising, the demands moved far beyond the workers’ initial concerns; school pupils as well as some party officials and even a few Soviet soldiers supported the demonstrators’ cause. Yet at the same time it was not a co-ordinated national uprising, for it lacked any central leadership; nor was it a clear call for unification. At a symposium prior to the launch of the competition in 1997, a number of speakers expressed their doubts that traditional memorial forms could successfully represent these historical ambiguities; some suggested instead a more informative memorial site, while others thought that the existing monuments were sufficient, since they also incorporated the divided memory of the uprisings.9 One indication of these difficulties is the fact that the competition had to find a second jury in 1998, after the first one judged none of the 54 entries to be suitable, declaring: ‘the 17 June 1953 cannot be represented by a self-contained work with a homogenous aesthetic structure and clear-cut semantics.’10 The issue of historical accuracy and form is clearly dependent on a second question: what is the purpose of such a memorial? As a project called into being by the Berlin Senate, the motives of its initiators were to some extent political. Although this was to be a monument in memory of the victims of 1953, it became evident that politicians were keen to construct a positive monument which could be dedicated to ‘national heroes’, especially in light of the recent prominence given to the problematic memory of the Holocaust. For supporters of this view, 17 June 1953

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can conveniently be slotted into a trajectory of popular uprisings in the name of freedom, from 1848 through to 1918 and, most significantly, 1989. While the earlier dates, however, have never found a significant place in public consciousness, and the fall of the Wall on 9 November 1989 proves problematic because this date also marks Kristallnacht of 1938, 17 June holds much emotional potential. As it also marks the first of several significant uprisings within the Eastern bloc (Hungary 1956, Czechoslovakia 1968, Poland 1980/81), its relationship to 1989 appears all the more forceful. Within political circles, 17 June is thus often interpreted teleologically as a precursor of the demonstrations of 1989, and its victims as the cornerstone of a reunified German nation. Indeed, despite historical research which shows few clear links between the two movements,11 this interpretation appears as a leitmotif in political speeches concerning the uprisings. To quote Süssmuth in 1990, for example: ‘precisely the events of 1989 make it strikingly clear to us that the victims of the suppressed uprising of 1953 were not in vain.’12 Other statesmen, such as the former Federal President Johannes Rau, have claimed that it is a proud date in the German and European struggle for freedom, with some even comparing it to the storming of the Bastille.13 Regardless of the historical complexities of the post-1953 years in the GDR, this date clearly lends itself to instrumentalization on the part of contemporary politics, a situation which reminds us of its divided legacy. The fact that the Senate pursued this project, despite the city of Berlin being in debt to the tune of over 40 billion Deutschmark in 1996,14 is sufficient to indicate the political importance of this date. The third and final question is also key to memory politics: where should a memorial to 17 June 1953 most meaningfully be located? The former Stalinallee (now Karl-Marx-Allee) marks the starting point of the demonstration, where building workers of Block 40 were the first to down their tools; a memorial located here would emphasize the original demands of the protesters. In contrast, the square outside the former House of Ministries (Leipziger Straße/Wilhelmstraße) represents the high-point of the protest, where demonstrators placed their escalating demands to ministers. Finally, Leipziger Platz, where the demonstration was brutally quashed, symbolizes the totalitarian aspirations of the GDR regime. As with many locations in Berlin, however, the history of some of these sites is multi-layered. The former House of Ministries, for example, is a National Socialist construction which originally housed the Reich Air Ministry. Following the war it was used temporarily by the East German parliament and it is the building in which the GDR was founded in 1949.15 Now housing the Ministry of Finance, it represents the continuities and ruptures of recent German history, not only emphasizing the nature of Berlin as a palimpsest, but also the complex web of associations facing any potential location for a monument in the city.

Competition controversies In line with the democratic intentions of the project, the competition invitation was conceived to be as ‘open’ as possible, leaving artists to choose the location

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themselves, and urging them to design a monument which ‘commands attention as a thought-provoking stumbling block’.16 Furthermore, entries were also required to help the viewer uncover the ‘multilayered historical events’, and promote the symbiosis of ‘the personal memory of the individual, social memory and historical information’.17 The task given to artists was thus complex, and entries were wide-ranging, some rejecting conventional monumental form. One proposal, for instance, suggested the institutionalization of an annual 5-second power cut in order to provoke memory of the emergency measures of 1953, while another proposed transporting an obelisk in ritual fashion along the route of demonstrators every year, deliberately disrupting traffic flows.18 The second jury appeared less resistant to such entries than the first, and successfully completed a two-stage selection process in 1998, announcing Katharina Karrenberg as the winner. Karrenberg chose the location of Leipziger Platz, where she proposed installing in the ground the sentence: ‘who am I to say: a heroic act’ (‘wer bin ich, dass ich sagen könnte: eine heroische tat’). This was to be written with 467 circular lamps embedded in the ground, with the road through the square dividing the sentence at the colon; the lamps would contain historical material, either in written or photographic form, through which the viewer could piece together the history of the uprisings. Some of the lamps, however, would be left blank, so that the memorial could evolve with time as new documents were found and history revised. The illuminated question was intended to provoke observers to examine their own conscience, and feel humbled by the courage of those who risked their lives for freedom of speech. As Karrenberg stated in her proposal, ‘the tribute lies in negation.’19 The memorial was also intended to challenge the observer’s concept of history, for the division of the sentence would mean that only one half could be read at once. If, for example, ‘a heroic act’ were read first, the viewer’s perception of a heroizing memorial would have to be revised on crossing the road. Karrenberg’s design was thus an attempt to escape the construction of a traditional heroic and static memorial, and to challenge the historical, social, and political consciousness of the observer – elements which found favour with most members of the jury.20 For many others, however, the complexity of the winning design was problematic. One of the first voices to object was, ironically, a member of the jury: Werner Herbig, chairman of the victims’ and veterans’ 17 June Association (Vereinigung 17. Juni 1953). This group strongly opposed Karrenberg’s sentence, claiming that it questioned and trivialized their courageous acts, belittling the terror of that day and mocking the heroes of the uprising.21 Furthermore, Karrenberg’s choice of venue represented the location of ‘defeat’ for the veterans, rather than that of ‘victory’ outside the House of Ministries, where they had presented their demands to ministers. The outrage within the veterans’ group was so great that the association called for a boycott of Karrenberg’s design, and even threatened legal action.22 It was not long before the then Mayor of Berlin, Eberhard Diepgen, and other CDU representatives backed the veterans’ cause.23 The President of the Federal Building Directorate, Florian Mausbach, also saw the monument as indicative of the inability not only to mourn, but also to distinguish between good and evil.24 The press followed suit, fuelling the campaign against Karrenberg’s design, which was

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clearly difficult to swallow for those with a specific agenda as the rhetorical gesture of leaving a question hanging in the air precluded any kind of ‘ritual or cathartic’ function.25 Despite Karrenberg’s efforts to make concessions to the veterans’ cause and move part of the monument to the former House of Ministries, and despite an open letter to the Mayor of Berlin and the Senate signed by a large number of artists, historians, and academics in support of the monument, the Senate did not approve her design. Instead, in early February 1999, it voted for the design of the second prize-winner Wolfgang Rüppel. While his design found apparent favour with Karrenberg’s critics, it disappointed others in its static form. Located in front of the former House of Ministries, it consists of an enlarged photograph (25m × 4m) of workers marching arm in arm at the front of a procession of demonstrators. It is etched into glass which is laid into the ground and surrounded by a stone border, somewhat reminiscent of a gravestone entombing the victims. The photograph is designed to contrast with a mural by Max Lingner on the side of the building, which was commissioned by the SED and inaugurated in January 1953. The mural depicts different sectors of GDR society working together to build socialism (it was considered necessary at the time in order to cover a metal relief on the same wall depicting Nazi Luftwaffe motifs).26 In the background of the mural there is also a mass demonstration of support for the regime and communist party. The two images are the same size, and Rüppel’s memorial is aligned so that the viewer may see both at once (see Figure 25). The position of the photograph as a commentary on the mural is clear, yet the result – the ‘fictive’ image of socialist realist propaganda versus the supposedly ‘objective’ photographic image – represents a polarized image of history. While it may highlight the fact that different regimes promote different heroes, it perpetuates precisely the division between ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ – in this case the demonstrators and the Party – which Karrenberg had sought to evade. Any grey areas of the uprising – and indeed of life in the GDR – are lost between the two images, not to mention the legacy of the post-1953 years and the divided history of remembrance of this date. As some critics have suggested, this memorial prescribes an ‘end to the debate’ rather than providing an impulse for further questions, thus failing to fulfil the competition’s brief.27 The democratic credentials of the competition were clearly damaged by the Senate’s decision, a move which many artists were quick to condemn. In defence of Karrenberg’s design, for example, the Berlin Union for Visual Artists (Berufsverband Bildender Künstler) criticized the direct involvement of politicians, stating that ‘the experience of National Socialism has sensitized the politics of the Federal Republic not to instrumentalize art and culture for political purposes.’28 It was not only the National Socialist past that was brought into the debate, however, but also Germany’s divided history, and the fact that a western interpretation of events had largely prevailed did not escape those who felt that western cultural hegemony had often ignored East German interests. Hiltrud Ebert, for example, claims that ‘a symbolic reintegration of the “victims of Stalinism” into the political context of unified Berlin was more than opportune for the self-stylization of the autochthonous Western CDU as the moral victor of post-war German history.’

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Figure 25 Wolfgang Rüppel’s Memorial to the Victims of 17 June 1953, with Max Lingner’s mural in the background (photo Anna Saunders)

Similarly, she suggests that the construction of a memorial to 17 June 1953, rather than to 9 November 1989 or 3 October 1990 (the date on which the unification treaty was signed), fails to respect East German sensibilities, and demonstrates a lack of political sensitivity.29 While this memorial is dedicated to one specific event, its message concerning the GDR is thus broader, and it clearly says more about the concerns of contemporary identities than historical complexities. Finally, this case study throws intriguing light on the contours of communicative and cultural memory. The fact that Rüppel’s design was backed by an alliance of veterans and predominantly CDU politicians demonstrates that the two types of memory need not necessarily be contradictory. Indeed, the communicative memory of veterans and the desire of CDU politicians to create a more established form of cultural memory clearly overlapped, as both desired a specific interpretation of events. What bound them together was their reluctance to allow an exploratory and critical examination of history in more contentious artistic form. This attitude has resurfaced in an unexpected epilogue to events, for elements of Rüppel’s memorial have apparently also failed to satisfy these groups. For example, its horizontal position, meaning that it is not obvious to the passer-by, and the deliberate distortion of the photograph through the etching process, are seen to be unsatisfactory, as its meaning is not immediately apparent. As a result, members of the CDU and a number of veterans have called for the monument to be made more visible, through extra signage and the reinstatement of three large banners

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of photographs of 1953 which had hung down the walls of the building from 2003 to 2005 (and previously from 1994 to 1996), an installation organized by the Haus am Checkpoint Charlie museum.30 It seems that Rüppel’s design has not, after all, presented an ‘end to the debate’, for 14 years after the original proposal for a monument, this past is still alive.

Conclusion The 17 June memorial highlights, above all, the centralization of Germany’s memory landscape since unification. The fact that it was built on prime land in central Berlin and that political will ultimately overrode the democratic selection process indicates its heightened political relevance in united Germany. Indeed, despite financial problems in Berlin, memorial projects have been given priority where they can aid the building of a new all-German identity. While this inevitably includes the National Socialist past, the attempt to self-consciously stage a new identity based on democratic traditions of civil society and free thought is also evident. Indeed, the shift in discourse from ‘overcoming the past’ (Vergangenheitsbewältigung) to a ‘culture of remembrance’ (Erinnerungskultur) is indicative of this trend, and also of the attempt to ‘normalize’ the identity of the German nation. In former Mayor Diepgen’s view, for example, 17 June 1953 saved the very concept of the German nation,31 a perception which has shaped the form of the final monument. Debates over form have, however, demonstrated the highly problematic nature of centralization, and highlight the extent to which memorials are subject to political instrumentalization and simplification. Despite careful planning, discussions, symposia, and competitions, it seems that the desire for a clear-cut view of history through the eye of the dominant culture prevails. It is interesting that of the monument designs submitted, those which highlighted the ambiguities and historical continuities were largely female. Some critics have suggested that one reason for Karrenberg’s rejection was the fact that her design did not fit with the demands of the male veterans’ group and the largely male community of politicians.32 Similarly, notwithstanding the eventual triumph of the design backed by the veterans, Eastern interpretations have struggled to find a voice in the face of Western dominance, highlighting that centralization may not, in fact, satisfy demands for ‘joint remembrance’. Centrality (conceived in terms of power rather than geographical location) is evidently a problematic concept for memorials, for this endangers a pluralistic exploration of memory, and may rather facilitate amnesia. This is perhaps especially true of the twenty-first century, an age in which ‘the success of any monument has to be measured by the extent to which it negotiates the multiple discourses of memory provided by the very electronic media to which the monument as solid matter provides an alternative.’33 Memorials which are constructed to appeal primarily to our emotions are thus unlikely to provoke a critical engagement with this past, and despite calls for a unified memory culture it seems that unification need not necessarily equal centralization and the homogenization

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of memory cultures. A decentralized memory landscape in which different perspectives and diverse interests are represented is perhaps preferable, for it is the ‘unsatisfactory’ nature of many monuments and the debates which surround them that constitute their real essence.

Notes 1. Cited in A. Kaminsky, ‘Gedenkstätten für die Opfer des Stalinismus als “Stiefkinder” der deutschen Erinnerungskultur?’, in B. Faulenbach and F.-J. Jelich (eds), ‘Asymmetrisch verflochtene Parallelgeschichte?’ Die Geschichte der Bundesrepublik und der DDR in Ausstellungen, Museen und Gedenkstätten (Essen, 2005), p. 103. All translations are my own. 2. K. E. Till, ‘Reimagining National Identity: “Chapters of Life” at the German Historical Museum in Berlin’, in P. Adams, S. Hoelscher, and K. E. Till (eds), Textures of Place: Exploring Humanist Geographies (Minneapolis, 2001), pp. 273–99, here p. 274. 3. M. Fulbrook, The People’s State: East German Society from Hitler to Honecker (Yale, 2005). 4. J. Assmann, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’, New German Critique 65 (1995), 125–33. 5. A. Huyssen, Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia (New York, 1995), p. 255. 6. See C. F. Ostermann, Uprising in East Germany 1953 (Budapest, 2001). 7. See E. Elfert, ‘Bestehende Denkmäler für die Ereignisse des 17. Juni in Berlin’, in Senatsverwaltung für Bauen, Wohnen und Verkehr (ed.), Symposium zum Denkmal für die Ereignisse des 17. Juni 1953 – Dokumentation (Berlin, 1996), pp. 70–80. 8. V. Müller, ‘Juni-Erinnerungen von beidseits der Barrikade’, Berliner Zeitung, 19 June 2003, 14. 9. See Senatsverwaltung, Symposium zum Denkmal. 10. ‘Erklärung der 1. Jury vom 26.2.98’, in H. Ebert, K. Karrenberg, W. Kil, and H. E. Mittig, Verlorene Inhalte – Verordnetes Denkmal. Beiträge zum Wettbewerb ‘17. Juni 1953’ (Berlin, 2000), p. 73. 11. G. Dale, Popular Protest in East Germany, 1945–1989 (London, 2005). 12. R. Süssmuth, untitled speech, in Volkskammer der DDR and Deutscher Bundestag (eds), Gedenkstunde anläßlich des 17. Juni, Schauspielhaus Berlin, 17. Juni 1990 (Berlin, 1990), p. 17. 13. See ‘ “Stolz auf diesen Tag”’, Berliner Morgenpost, 18 June 2003, 3; ‘Einer der “wenigen positiven Tage”’, Neues Deutschland, 13 June 2003, 15; ‘Juni-Erinnerungen von beidseits der Barrikade’, Berliner Zeitung, 19 June 2003, 14. 14. D. Schubert, ‘Warum, für wen und zu welchem Ziele nach 44 Jahren ein Denkmal für den 17. Juni 1953’, in Senatsverwaltung (ed.), Symposium zum Denkmal, p. 95. 15. A. Kaminsky (ed.), Orte des Erinnerns – Gedenkzeichen, Gedenkstätten und Museen zur Diktatur in SBZ und DDR (Leipzig, 2004), p. 87. 16. Senatsverwaltung für Bauen, Wohnen und Verkehr (ed.), Kunstwettbewerb Denkmal 17. Juni 1953: Begrenzter zweiphasiger Realisierungswettbewerb – Ausschreibung (Berlin, 1997), p. 61. 17. Ibid., p. 62. 18. See F. von Buttler, ‘Denkmal 17. Juni 1953 – zur 1. Phase des Kunstwettbewerbs: Ein Zwischenbericht’, kunststadt-stadtkunst, 43 (1998), 13–14; L. Heinke, ‘Stolperstein gesucht’, Der Tagesspiegel, 8 March 1998. 19. K. Karrenberg, ‘Entwurf für ein Bodendenkmal zum 17. Juni 1953’, in Ebert, Verlorene Inhalte, p. 47. 20. ‘Ergebnisprotokoll’, kindly made available by the Berlin office of the Berufsverband Bildender Künstler (BBK archive). 21. R. Stache, ‘ “Verniedlichung des Schreckens” ’, Berliner Morgenpost, 29 November 1998, 6; H. Jähner, ‘Wer bin ich, daß ich denke’, Berliner Zeitung, 3 December 1998, 11.

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22. H. Caspar, Marmor, Stein und Bronze. Berliner Denkmalgeschichten (Berlin, 2003), p. 126. 23. ‘Diepgen kritisiert Entwurf zum 17.-Juni-Denkmal’, Berliner Morgenpost, 8 December 1998, 10; T. Harmsen, ‘Seelenschmerz statt Gedenken’, Berliner Zeitung, 7 December 1998, 11. 24. K. Hoffmann-Curtius, ‘Presserezeption zum 1. Preis der Jury für ein Denkmal zum 17. Juni 1953’, in Ebert, Verlorene Inhalte, pp. 53–60, here p. 56. 25. S. Wenk, ‘Statt eines Vorwortes: Ein Nachtrag zu einem abgebrochenen Denkmalstreit’, in Ebert, Verlorene Inhalte, pp. 7–10, here p. 9. 26. B. Flierl, Gebaute DDR – Über Stadtplaner, Architekten und die Macht – Kritische Reflexionen 1990–1997 (Berlin, 1998), pp. 95–6. 27. W. Kil, ‘Der 17. Juni – ein Erinnerungsdiktat?’, in Ebert, Verlorene Inhalte, pp. 27–32. 28. ‘Pressemitteilung’, Berufsverband Bildender Künstler Berlins, February 1999, BBK archive. 29. H. Ebert, ‘Ereignisse und Opfer’, in Ebert, Verlorene Inhalte, pp. 33–43, here pp. 34–5. 30. M. Braun, CDU, ‘Mahnmal für den Aufstand am 17. Juni 1953 an der Leipziger Straße/Ecke Wilhelmstraße’, Abgeordnetenhaus Berlin, 15. Wahlperiode, Drucksache 15/11656; A. Hildebrandt (ed.), 17. Juni 1953: Ein sichtbares, aussagekräftiges und stolzes Denkmal ist längst überfällig! Arbeitsgemeinschaft 13. August e.V. (Berlin, 2007). 31. ‘Opfer des 17. Juni gewürdigt, Demo ohne Zwischenfälle’, Berliner Morgenpost, 18 June 2000, 33. 32. Wenk, ‘Statt eines Vorwortes’, pp. 9–10. 33. Huyssen, Twilight Memories, p. 255.

4.5 GDR Monuments in Unified Germany Mia Lee

In April 1970, East Germany’s leader Walter Ulbricht unveiled a 63-foot red granite statue of Lenin in East Berlin. The statue commemorated the Soviet leader’s hundredth birthday and symbolized German-Soviet amity.1 Twenty years later, the statue became a new kind of symbol in the process of German unification. After the fall of the ruling Socialist Unity Party (SED), and the beginning of the unification process between East and West Germany, politicians and ordinary citizens debated which objects and legacies of the German Democratic Republic (GDR) had a legitimate place in unified Germany. The Lenin statue and its eventual removal marked the first stage in this debate. The following chapter draws on reports and records from the Berlin Senate and its subcommittees as well as on contemporary accounts to show how GDR monuments, in particular the Lenin Monument (Lenindenkmal) and the Ernst Thälmann Memorial (Ernst-Thälmann-Denkmal), were transformed from state symbols of the GDR to actual physical embodiments of GDR history and everyday life. At these sites, former citizens of East and West Germany, both now citizens of a united Germany, gathered to protect these monuments in order to advocate a post-Wende German identity that continued to reflect East Germans’ lived experiences and their contribution to the identity of a newly united country. In the autumn of 1989, East Germans courageously protested against the SED and effectively claimed their citizenship rights as they brandished banners exclaiming ‘We are the People’. Indeed, across the former Eastern Bloc, citizens dismantled authoritarian socialist regimes and pushed for reforms that would open their markets and establish functioning democratic governments. The singularity, however, of the East German situation was its integration into an already existing western country, the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG), then under the leadership of Chancellor Helmut Kohl and his coalition government. The formal accession of the GDR to the FRG allowed the West German government to disregard the provision of the West German Basic Law (Grundgesetz) that called for a new constitution in the event of unification and thereby to forego cumbersome constitutional procedures in its replacement of East Germany’s political, economic, and judicial systems. 308

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In agreement with legislative decisions in Bonn, the Berlin Senate undertook preliminary steps towards reunifying East and West Berlin – a massive project encompassing urgent matters like traffic, communication, and sewage as well as less pressing but equally weighty issues concerning universities, and art and cultural institutions. In rapid measure, West Berlin authorities also removed markers of East Berlin’s communist past. An early and highly public act was the renaming of streets. In general, imperial or prominent West German figures were favoured. Dorothee, wife of the Great Elector Friedrich Wilhelm, replaced Clara Zetkin on a street parallel to the main thoroughfare Unter den Linden; Chancellor Konrad Adenauer received an honorary street name; and Dimitroffstraße, named after the Bulgarian communist Georgi Dimitroff, reverted to Danzigerstraße amidst complaints from the Polish consulate.2 Aside from the practical problems caused by the changes – the cost of changing business stationery or the confusion resulting from the new names – residents resented the intrusion into their neighbourhoods and the apparent double standard being applied to the East, pointing out that offensive names referring to the First World War and Second World War heroes in the West were not subject to similar re-evaluation. Largely excluded from policy-making, ordinary East Berliners looked on while their institutions lost financial support, their laws and social security system were replaced, and decisions affecting everyday life came under the jurisdiction of West German agencies. The issue was not whether East Berliners were happy to see the symbols of the SED regime torn down. Rather, oppositional voices worried that local wishes were being overrun as the state pursued its vision of integration.3 Although new systems of government have the right to remove the symbolic markers of past regimes, particularly those ideologically opposed to the present system, as was the case with East Germany, the FRG faced the dilemma that East Germans were, in theory, to be integrated into the new nation as equals, not as a defeated people. West German scepticism about equal integration, however, grew amidst fears of increasing Ostalgie (nostalgia for life under the GDR). Although some politicians and activists called for a greater inclusion of East Germans in policy decisions, by and large the government response was to maintain the status quo. It was thus in keeping with the status quo that West Berlin government agencies began to remove the protected status of East German buildings and monuments. Officials in Bonn demanded the complete demolition of East German government buildings. And, in 1993, the Federal government sponsored an international competition to rebuild the East German government buildings surrounding the Marx-Engels Forum in order to remove ‘the blemish on the new capital’. In response, activist and community groups rallied together to demand that the government acknowledge and preserve Germany’s divided heritage.4 Protesters charged that West German authorities meant to eradicate the material reminders of the East German past. International architects remarked upon what they perceived as conscious discrimination against East German architects.5 A diverse set of protestors gradually emerged, which argued that the material legacy of the GDR was integral to the construction of a new German identity.

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In the debates that followed, opponents of preservation argued that these material relics represented a system that had no place in a democracy. SED iconography came under attack for falsifying history and, in particular, for distorting communism’s historical role. Clearly, the GDR had not shied away from manipulating historical narratives.6 The creation of the GDR’s pantheon of heroes coincided with political exigencies. For example, immediately following the German surrender at the end of the Second World War, Prussian generals and military heroes were defamed, but they were then resurrected in the early 1950s, just as the East German army was established. Even Ernst Thälmann, the leader of the German Communist Party during the Weimar Republic, was cast aside in the early years of the Republic for fear that his memory would destroy a possible coalition between the SED and the Social Democrats; not until 1952 was Thälmann upgraded from a victim of fascism to communist hero. In the early 1990s, however, the meaning of these monuments was in flux. Once the GDR ceased to exist, citizens reappropriated these sites, first, as targets of their anger and frustration, and then, in a surprising turn, as material markers of their history. At first, decisions concerning GDR monuments and memorials were left in local hands. Democratically elected neighbourhood councils removed a number of plaques, including all plaques celebrating the East German leader Erich Honecker. But most monuments, including the towering monuments dedicated to Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Thälmann, remained intact. By 3 October 1990, the date of Germany’s official unification, the meaning of these monuments was dramatically shifting. The 63-foot Lenin Monument was periodically doused with white paint. Thälmann’s monolithic bust was covered in graffiti. One sardonic tagger scrawled, ‘Didn’t it come in a larger size?’ And, at the Marx-Engels Forum, someone left the message, ‘Next time everything will be better.’ Efforts were initially made to clean the monuments, but politicians, mainly from the Christian Democratic Union (CDU), gradually increased pressure to remove the monuments completely. Indeed, since the GDR had been successfully challenged and no longer existed, what possible reason existed for the preservation of its historical narratives and heroes? The reason was precisely the changing times. Since the Wende, these monuments no longer merely represented the GDR pantheon but, rather, sites of popular expression, first, as objects of ridicule, and then, amidst threats of removal, as sites of protest against the perceived Western bias of the unification process.7 Protesters insisted that East German identities partially resided in these monuments as ‘material witnesses’ of their past. The term ‘material witnesses’ (materielle Zeugnisse) connoted, on the one hand, the monuments’ inextricable relationship to the SED and, on the other, East Germans’ connection to them as part of their everyday lives. As the latter, the Lenin Monument and Ernst Thälmann Memorial served to rally oppositional voices. These monuments brought Germans together to oppose a one-sided unification and erasure of the East German past from the urban landscape. Those opposed to preservation argued that GDR monuments no longer belonged in a unified Germany. Others insisted that removing the monuments

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would allow East Germans to forget their past (just as the SED had erased the fascist past by changing street signs, removing monuments, and rewriting history to glorify Communist resistance). An early protest group, the Citizens’ Initiative for Political Monuments in the GDR (Initiative Politische Denkmäler der DDR) was composed mostly of West German art students who adopted this position in their arguments for protecting GDR monuments. Together with the Active Museum of Fascism and Resistance in Berlin the group organized an exhibition on East German monuments to showcase their diversity. Yet, the exhibition primarily stressed the necessity of preserving these relics so that East Germans could ‘come to terms’ with their past.8 This heavy-handed approach implied, of course, that East Germans were unaware of their heritage and that removal of the monuments would precipitate mass amnesia. Most West Berliners expressed disbelief that anyone would want to preserve these reminders of the past; and many East Berliners agreed that it would be better to be rid of what they considered ugly and miserable relics. Nevertheless, a sizable coalition of East and West Berliners viewed their removal as a clear case of Western domination and argued that their preservation not only protected East Germany’s cultural legacy but also allowed for the inclusion of disparate voices in the unification process. As a wider assortment of groups amassed, it strove to show how these monuments no longer merely commemorated the failed SED regime or served to educate East Germans on their Communist past. Rather, the monuments remained a part of East Germans’ lived experience and part of their collective heritage. This coalition of protest groups made its first major intervention during the planned demolition of the Lenin Monument. Protesters invoked a long list of grievances: first of all, the monument’s removal from the list of protected monuments occurred without the parliamentary debate that was normally required in the case of contestation. The Lenin Monument had originally been protected under GDR monument protection legislation, but on 10 January 1991, the Senate Committee for Urban Development and Environmental Protection (Senatsverwaltung für Stadtentwicklung und Umweltschutz) removed the statue’s protected status, a decision that was strenuously contested because it contradicted the unification contract. The committee’s justification was: The interest of the landowners in the demolition of the memorial results from the present interests of the public to remove the statue from the street based on the substantial reason that the installation of the statue was for the purpose of honouring the man, Lenin, and that this honour was propagated by the former state and party leadership of the GDR.9 Government officials and critics opposed to preservation repeatedly expressed fears of a ‘Lenin cult’ and thereby considered removal a preventative measure.10 Mayor Eberhard Diepgen wholeheartedly supported the removal and called it the completion of the revolution of 1989 and the end of a ‘despot and murderer’.11 A majority of Berlin residents appeared to agree with the government’s

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demolition plans. By the fall of 1991, the radio station Hundred 6 had collected 42,000 Deutschmark from private donors for the demolition. In ensuing parliamentary debates, CDU and Free Democratic Party (FDP) representatives repeatedly stressed the monument’s unacceptable glorification and legitimization of the SED regime. Particularly worrisome to the CDU and Mayor Diepgen – who proclaimed with finality, ‘Away with the false monuments’ – was the possibility that Germany would be the only country of the former Eastern Bloc where memorials dedicated to socialist heroes would survive.12 In the same vein, Senator Volker Hassemer (CDU) argued for removal because the monument oppressed the city as well as threatening to become a potential cult image.13 Anti-preservationists had no sympathy or patience for the slowness of change. CDU Chairperson Klaus-Rüdiger Landowsky advocated the toppling of all East Berlin monuments from Lenin to Karl Marx – ‘these Stalinist monuments must go’ – and considered it scandalous that their destruction had not yet been completed.14 Undeniably, the GDR had created monuments for ideological and propagandistic purposes. Yet, these senators and officials unreflectively accepted that these monuments continued, after the fall of the Wall, to embody the SED regime and to possess the ability to indoctrinate passers-by.15 Members of parliament – mostly from the Social Democratic Party (SPD), Green Party (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen), and Party of Democratic Socialism (PDS) – artists, and community activists countered pressure to remove the Lenin Monument by drawing attention to the role of public art and to the lack of interest in East Germans’ opinions and wishes. Party members and artists belonging to the Bündnis 90/Die Grünen coalition held a demonstration, raising a banner demanding ‘No Violence’. In parliament, the PDS and Bündnis 90/Die Grünen also counterattacked by calling for the demolition of West Berlin’s Victory Column (Siegessäule).16 Several critical and some ironic counter-proposals for preservation were made in parliamentary sessions during the autumn of 1991. The Bündnis 90/Die Grünen submitted a proposal for the creation of a commission to study political monuments in former East Berlin and evaluate their historical significance.17 A popular suggestion for SED monuments was their removal to a park or hall dedicated to exhibiting Socialist Realism’s ‘material witnesses’.18 SPD MP Irana Rusta argued that ‘monuments encourage reflection’. She pointed out that citizens’ voices were not being heard and that these instances of contradiction provided excellent opportunities for understanding the history of the GDR.19 Senator Wolfgang Nagel (Construction and Housing) proposed two alternatives: one, that the square be turned into a green space overgrown with shrubs, or two, that the statue be sunk in the Müggelsee up to its neck to symbolize Lenin’s present public estimation. He also pointed out that removal was the least intelligent approach to history and that this execution of power resembled the GDR decision to remove the royal palace after the Second World War.20 In the meantime, local residents made a great show of what they considered an unwanted intrusion into their neighbourhood – 24-hour ‘telephone chains’ were set up to keep residents aware of goings-on and guard patrols were organized

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in case the municipal government attempted a night-time removal. As demolition loomed, residents questioned the motives behind the costly endeavour. Critic Matthias Matussek explained that the Lenin Monument, the largest in Germany, was ‘petrified life history, hardened biographies, hated perhaps, but also inextricably part of the whole’.21 Whatever its problems, the monument was deeply rooted in the lived experience of citizens of former East Germany. Local residents expressed ambivalence towards the statue. Many depoliticized the issue and resorted to slightly sentimental reasons for disapproving of the demolition, such as ‘He’s always been there’ or ‘But, he’s never hurt anyone’. Others expressed resentment and bitterness about the statue: ‘All of the misery started with him.’ When they addressed the removal specifically, however, many expressed suspicion and distrust. As one man explained, ‘It’s not about Lenin at all. It’s about how West Germans just don’t want to leave us anything.’22 Clearly, preservation efforts were not aimed at cultivating a new cult of Lenin. Rather, as residents and activists bitterly remarked, popular will had left the statue standing only for the (West) German government to remove it. The controversy surrounding the Lenin Monument successfully brought together ordinary citizens, politicians, and activists in an energetic discussion on East Germany’s heritage. It did not, however, prevent demolition. Crews decapitated the monument at 10 a.m. on 13 November 1991, two hours before officially scheduled, in order to avoid protesters. Those seeking alternatives persevered nevertheless and eventually pushed the government to reassess its plans for remaining GDR monuments. Left with a headless statue, Bündnis 90/Die Grünen proposed making it a UNESCO national heritage site and that the head of a prominent international figure should be placed upon the statue and replaced every ten years.23 Artist Peter Grzan called for a home for unloved works of art or an avenue composed of monuments to Marx. Austrian artist Alfred Hrdlicka suggested that East and West Germany exchange monuments as a means of promoting tolerance and understanding between the two cultures. Artist Manfred Butzmann proposed a green alternative: plant ivy and wild grapevines at the base and allow nature to complete the transformation. SPD Chairperson Walter Momper hoped to employ the talents of Christo and mask the monument instead of destroying it.24 Such recommendations acknowledged the possible transmutation of monumental messages: instead of a stone object with an equally intransigent message, the Lenin statue could reflect changing historical and political conditions, encouraging a critical as well as playful interaction between past and present. In the end, the city refused to allow the monument to remain in the nation’s new capital. When its concrete core proved impossible to disassemble, the first company quit; a second company demolished it completely, dashing any hopes of reassembling the monument at a later date. Demolition was completed in March of 1992 at a total cost of 500,000 Deutschmark. As journalist Dieter E. Zimmer foresaw, Lenin’s removal was like removing the keystone from an arch.25 The empty square, renamed United States Square, stood empty and neglected, mirroring the neighbourhood’s subsequent decline.

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In spite of this defeat, debates on the future of GDR monuments remained alive. After the fiasco over the Lenin Monument, the Berlin Senate agreed to create an independent commission to review all remaining monuments in East Berlin. On 10 March 1992, the Commission for Post-War Political Monuments in Former East Berlin (Kommission zum Umgang mit den politischen Denkmälern der Nachkriegszeit im ehemaligen Ost-Berlin) undertook its mission to document all architectural works, sculptures, statues, busts, and memorials considered political; establish criteria for evaluating these monuments; and conceptualize different methods for handling them. The commission’s members were split between former East and West Germans: Siegmar Faust, writer; Dr Gudrun Hahn, art historian; Gerd Hannemann, member of the Lichtenberg building review board; Prof. Dr Hardt-Walther Hämer, architect (replaced in September 1992 by Dr Hubert Staroste, monument preservationist); Dr Rainer Hildebrandt, director of the House at Checkpoint Charlie; Dr Christine Hoh-Slodczyk, monument preservationist; Prof. Dr Reinhard Rürup, historian; Christine Leer, director of the local history collection in Lichtenberg; and Barbara Teuber, member of the Prenzlauer Berg education and culture review board. The commission’s final report was released on 15 February 1993.26 In the report, the commission acknowledged that since a monument conveyed both political and historical messages, the end of a regime meant a subsequent loss of meaning for the regime’s monuments and symbols. Therefore, should these monuments or symbols survive the regime’s demise these monuments would be under the jurisdiction of whatever new system replaced it. In a specific reference to the GDR, the commission firmly stated that monuments whose purpose was the ‘celebration of the communist dictatorship have no place in a democratic society and only serve to provoke victims of the SED regime’.27 It did, however, qualify this statement by emphasizing that In terms of the network of monuments located across Berlin, the Eastern districts with their distinctive history should remain every bit as identifiable as the Western districts. Important traditions of our democratic society were given clearer expression in the districts of the old East and should – once their political instrumentalization by the SED has been overcome – remain on view to future generations.28 In accordance with its evaluation criteria, the commission recommended the removal of very few monuments. Prominent East German landmarks like the Television Tower (Fernsehturm), the Marx-Engels Forum, and the Palace of the Republic (Palast der Republik) were not recommended for demolition. Those recommended for immediate removal were largely uncontroversial such as plaques commemorating East German border guards purportedly ‘treacherously murdered by members of the West Berlin police’. Only one major monument slated for demolition sparked heated debates: the 43-foot bronze bust of Ernst Thälmann. In the GDR pantheon, Thälmann occupied the highest rank as a founding father and leader of the German Communist Party as well as an antifascist martyr.29

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The heroic portrayal of the Communist Party leader dissatisfied the commission. After unification, party members and young people continued to come and congregate at the park to honour Thälmann and reminisce. Like the statue, they greeted each other with the communist salute, fists raised skyward, and cheered Thälmann with beers and songs of communist struggle.30 The commission, however, found fault with Thälmann for his opposition to the Weimar Republic and his support of Stalin. Moreover, the commission argued, the monument’s gigantic proportions dominated and destroyed the residential area. In its conclusion, the commission stated clearly and unambiguously: ‘The heroic, uncritical presentation of his person in the form of a monumental sculpture in no way matches his actual historical significance.’31 Nevertheless, protesters refused to be put off by Thälmann’s mixed history and inappropriateness as a national icon in unified Germany. Activists as well as residents of the surrounding Ernst-Thälmann Park insisted that historical inaccuracy should be mitigated by contemporary identity needs. In 1993, after vehement protest, the city reconsidered its plans to remove the monument and in the end declared that the size of the monument prohibited a cost-effective removal. The successful preservation of the memorial – whether or not acknowledged as such by the government – symbolized an important victory for GDR heritage proponents. The symbolic status of the Lenin Monument and Ernst Thälmann Memorial was varied and contradictory – heroes of the SED, targets of ridicule, platforms for asserting East German rights. Their evolution over time and adaptability to different political contexts imbued them with a presence ‘like an actor on the historical stage, a presence of character endowed with legendary status, a history that parallels and participates in the stories we tell ourselves about our own evolution’.32 They were not static historical markers. In these cases, the aesthetic and political limitations of Socialist Realism were surpassed, and these monuments re-entered public space where they instigated discussions about aesthetics and politics. While these symbols at first glance seemed entrenched in the SED canon, they did shift. Despite their size and ideological weightiness, post-Wall, they transformed into sites for public dialogue about history, identity, and society.33 At the Lenin and Thälmann sites, protestors brought to the foreground the continuing differences between East and West – histories, backgrounds, ways of life, sympathies, and resentments. In other words, their iconic transformation and the protests that followed them opened the unification process and challenged historical narratives dominated by West Germany. These monuments encouraged a reassessment of East Germany’s heritage – its celebration of the working class and communism’s victory over fascism – but they also challenged the newly emerging myths of a unified Germany.

Notes 1. See, M. Azaryahu, Von Wilhelmplatz zu Thälmannplatz. Politische Symbole im öffentlichen Leben der DDR (Gerlingen, 1991), pp. 160–2. 2. For analysis of similar cases, see the chapter by Christian Lotz.

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3. For an introduction to these debates, see B. Ladd, The Ghosts of Berlin: Confronting German History in the Urban Landscape (Chicago, 1997). 4. See Unification Treaty (Einigungsvertrag), 3 October 1990, article 9, paragraph 1: (1); and, Gesetz über die Vereinheitlichung des Berliner Landesrechts, 28 September 1990, Appendix 2, paragraph X, Nr. 1: Gesetz zum Schutz von Denkmalen in Berlin (Denkmalschutzgesetz Berlin – DSchGBln) vom 22.12.1977 (GVB. s. 2540). 5. See, D. Libeskind, ‘Letter from Berlin’, ANY: Architecture New York (May/June 1994), 48–9, and M. Z. Wise, Capital Dilemma: Germany’s Search for a New Architecture of Democracy (New York, 1998). 6. Azaryahu, Von Wilhelmplatz zu Thälmannplatz, pp. 151–204. Critics of demolition also pointed out that the GDR was not the only state to attempt to propagate a questionable political message through its monuments. 7. Ladd, The Ghosts of Berlin; Wise, Capital Dilemma; C. Koonz, ‘Between Memory and Oblivion’, in J. R. Gillis (ed.), Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, 1994), pp. 215–38. 8. Ladd, The Ghosts of Berlin, pp. 194–201. The exhibition catalogue was titled Erhalten – Zerstören – Verändern (Berlin, 1990). 9. A. Burg (ed.), Neue Berlinische Architektur. Eine Debatte, commissioned by the Senatsverwaltung für Bau- und Wohnungswesen in Berlin (Berlin, Basel, and Boston, 1994). 10. M. Diers, Schlagbilder. Zur politischen Ikonographie der Gegenwart (Frankfurt am Main, 1997). 11. ‘Lächelndes Gesicht’, Der Spiegel 41 (1991), 154–5. 12. Ibid. 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid. 15. Gesetz zur Erhaltung der Denkmale in der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik – Denkmalpflegegesetz, Paragraph 1 (19 June 1975). 16. DRS 12/782 and DRS 12/783 (17 October 1991), 1311–12. Here and in subsequent notes DRS (Drucksache), followed by the identifying number, refers to materials submitted to parliament; transcripts of parliamentary debates are indicated by the date of session; and responses and advice from the ministries of culture, environment, and building are identified by the ministry. See also, L.-B. Keil, ‘Die Abrißbirne schwingt’, Die Zeit, 25 October 1991, p. 23. 17. DRS 12/667 (25 September 1991). 18. DRS 12/357 (28 May 1991). 19. Ausschuss für kulturelle Angelegenheiten, identifying no. Kult 12/12, 30 September 1991, pp. 3–9. 20. Abgeordnetenhaus von Berlin, plenary protocol, identifying no. Plenarprotokoll 12/16, Session 16, 17 October 1991, pp. 1263–5. 21. M. Matussek, ‘Lenins Stirn, fünfter Stock’, Der Spiegel, 11 November 1991, 341–3. 22. Ibid. 23. DRS 12/965 (28 November 1991). 24. ‘Lenin heim ins Lager’, Der Spiegel, 9 December 1991, 265; ‘Lächelndes Gesicht’. 25. D. E. Zimmer, ‘Was tun mit Lenin?’, Die Zeit, 18 October 1991, 93. 26. Kommission zum Umgang mit den politischen Denkmälern der Nachkriegszeit im ehemaligen Ost-Berlin, ‘Bericht’, Abgeordnetenhaus von Berlin, DRS 12/2743 (15 February 1993). 27. Ibid., p. 5. 28. Ibid., p. 6. 29. The Ernst Thälmann Memorial in Berlin, designed by the Soviet sculptor Lev Kurbel, was completed in April 1986 to commemorate Thälmann’s 100th birthday. See Azaryahu, Von Wilhelmplatz zu Thälmannplatz, pp. 149–55.

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30. P. J. Winters, ‘Auf der Müllhalde der Geschichte’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 18 February 1993, 29; J. Leithäuser, ‘Herzliches Wiedersehen vor Fahne, Kopf und Faust’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 19 August 1994, 4. 31. Kommission zum Umgang mit den politischen Denkmälern der Nachkriegszeit im ehemaligen Ost-Berlin, ‘Bericht’, p. 10. 32. W. J. T. Mitchell refers to Wittgenstein’s ideas about the reciprocity and interdependence of physical and mental images to explain that images are not exclusively visual. Mitchell, Iconology: Image, Text, Ideology (Chicago and London, 1986), pp. 9–17. 33. For related discussions see H. Haacke, ‘Und Ihr habt doch gesiegt, 1988’, October 48 (Spring 1989), 79–87; D. Berdahl, ‘Voices at the Wall: Discourse of Self, History and National Identity at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial’, History and Memory 6:2 (Fall/Winter 1994), 88–124; K. A. Hass, Carried to the Wall: American Memory and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1998); and A. Huyssen, Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia (London and New York, 1995), pp. 258–60.

4.6 Memorialization of the German-German Border in the Context of Constructions of Heimat Gerd Knischewski and Ulla Spittler

In the public discourse on the various forms of ‘coming to terms with the GDR past’, two arguments prevail. Firstly, there is a continuing Left-Right debate on the nature and scope of the GDR Unrechtsstaat (‘dictatorship’ – a word deriving from its opposite, the Rechtsstaat or ‘state under the rule of law’), and whether and to what extent parallels can be drawn to the Nazi dictatorship. Secondly, it is claimed that, as united Germany integrates the GDR into its history, a western perspective dominates which sidelines, marginalizes, or even colonizes East German memories and experiences. This western perspective has also been traced in the field of GDR memory projects (such as memorials, monuments, and museums),1 which form the focus of this chapter. By analysing four paradigmatic German-German border memorial projects, we argue that a more complex presentation of the GDR border regime is emerging. Depending on who initiates, curates, and funds them, they may well both encapsulate and intensify political conflicts along the Left-Right divide. However, at the same time, appeals to shared traditions or a common future, in other words variations on the concept of Heimat, are used to construct competing identities in post-unification Germany.

The second German dictatorship When the GDR, in the shape of five newly created federal states (Länder), joined the FRG in 1990, west German remembrance culture was dominated, albeit not unchallenged, by a liberal-left milieu of opinion-makers. The focus of an everexpanding memory landscape on the National Socialist past, and the Holocaust in particular, had developed since the late 1960s and had pushed the previous preoccupation with German suffering, as refugees, expellees, and war victims, into second place. In the liberal-left view, early post-war West Germany had failed both to punish perpetrators adequately and to remember appropriately the victims of National Socialist atrocities.2 Following unification, the conservative-led government claimed that this historical failure must not be repeated with the ‘second German dictatorship’. The GDR past was therefore tackled on several levels. The unification treaty of 1990 318

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stipulated the screening of all GDR civil servants and new political personnel, as well as the prosecution, in the criminal courts, of high-ranking party officials. Federal legislation created special offices, both at national and regional level, with the task of administering the Stasi files. Two parliamentary commissions assembled documentation, eye-witness testimony, and expert accounts which shed light on the nature of the GDR dictatorship and its medium-term consequences for the process of inner unification.3 In this general climate of reckoning, it comes as little surprise that the most repressive symbols of the GDR regime, the Berlin Wall border fortifications, were demolished swiftly and vanished almost entirely. A similarly radical approach was applied to the almost 1400 kilometres of German-German border installations4 which, as a symbol of repression and division, were destined to be destroyed. That there might be a cultural need for documentary conservation, a political need for education, or indeed a social need for mourning and remembrance, was initially felt only by a minority. However, while only a few original remnants of the Berlin Wall survived, to be restored and later integrated into an emerging memory landscape of the GDR past, the sheer length and width of the German-German border, including the border crossing control points, meant that substantial parts of the original installations remained. Although dismantling started soon after 9 November 1989, two factors slowed down the process considerably: the removal of about 1000 remaining landmines, which had been deployed by the GDR in the 1960s and 1970s, was not completed until 1995 and the return to its previous owners of property that had been confiscated by the GDR proved more complicated than anticipated.

Border projects It took a considerable time for the confrontation with the GDR past to extend to the memorialization of the remaining border fortifications. It was not until 1998 and 1999 respectively that Berlin completed its Wall Memorial (Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer) and the adjoining documentation centre.5 The transformation of the remnants of border installations into museums, memorials, and monuments (for which we use the umbrella term ‘border projects’) is an ongoing process. The website of the Association of Border Museums (Arbeitsgemeinschaft Grenzmuseen) lists a total of 39 such initiatives outside of Berlin in 2008, as compared to 33 in 2005 and 25 in 1998.6 The status and character of these border projects vary greatly. Many owe their existence to early personal or private initiatives and are run today by private organizations, partly in co-operation with local and regional authorities. Only two projects outside of Berlin have so far been included in the Federal Government’s ‘Memorial Plan’ (Gedenkstättenkonzeption), a plan that lists memorials and memory initiatives of national importance and grants them state funding. The two projects are: the Marienborn Memorial Site to the Division of Germany (Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung), which is managed by the federal state of Saxony-Anhalt, and the German-German Museum at Mödlareuth (Deutsch-deutsches Museum Mödlareuth).7

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Border projects have the potential to both embody and contest historical interpretations of the German-German border. In many interpretations, the border represents, and is a physical embodiment of, communist repression and the most visible sign of the moral failure of the idea of communism. Seen from this perspective, the border regime, along with the infamous Stasi activities and the multiple breaches of the rule of law, invites comparisons of the GDR with the Nazi regime under the concept of ‘totalitarianism’. Similarly, the border may also be perceived as the most visible signifier of an unnatural and unjustifiable separation of the German people into two states and, by the same token, as a constant reminder of the aim of national unification, an aim which was upheld by the political Right but had been abandoned by wide sections of the political Left. This division may also be viewed on a micro-level; that is in terms of the impact it had on the everyday life of ordinary people by separating relatives and friends and severing historical economic and cultural ties within evolved regions and local communities. Alternatively, however, the border may be seen as the material dividing line between two ideologically antagonistic blocs. Here, the border symbolizes the military stalemate of the Cold War period and a delicate instrument of world peace in the nuclear age. In a wider sense this perspective focuses on geopolitical and historical developments from the end of Nazi Germany to the Cold War and détente policies up to unification. For obvious reasons all these perspectives have political implications, that is, they apportion blame or bring gains for political actors, in particular along the Left-Right divide. If, for instance, the border is seen as a symbol of repression, this not only disqualifies the GDR’s ruling party, the Socialist Unity Party (SED), and its successor, PDS/Die Linke, but it can also cast a shadow on the détente policy of the West German Social Democratic Party (SPD) in the 1970s and 1980s which was, allegedly, too soft on the GDR government.8 If, on the other hand, the focus is on the Cold War division of the world into two military blocs, the same détente policy might be regarded as a peace-keeping measure which even contributed to the eventual downfall of the GDR. The Left also reject any attempts by the Right to construct parallels between the GDR and the Nazi regime as these would challenge the remembrance focus on the Nazi past and the Holocaust in particular. Heimat Heimat is a word that does not easily translate into English or, come to that, any other language. As a working definition, it could be said to describe a special affective relationship with a particular geographical area. Historically, the term referred to ownership of land and the legal titles attached to it. This original, premodern meaning was preserved in its bourgeois adaptation during the romantic period, despite the onset of industrialization which undermined its agrarian basis. Heimat became an idealized concept, designed to value what was endangered if not destroyed by industrialization and urbanization: rural tradition, rooted identity, working and living off the land, in harmony with nature. As the process of modernization in Germany was accompanied by the parallel process of nationstate building, culminating in the foundation of the second Reich in 1871, German

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Heimat concepts became strongly politicized, too. Accelerated nation building was, in an orchestrated top-down approach, furthered by the exclusion of ‘the other’, the internal as well as external enemies. This formed part of the aggressive nationalism which culminated in two World Wars. Moreover, as Elizabeth Boa and Rachel Palfreyman point out,9 in the notion of the Heimatfront that was developed in the First World War, Heimat became ‘gendered as a place of security associated with the mother and sweetheart back at home in contrast to the Fatherland for which men fight and die in foreign fields’. Thus ‘Fatherland and maternal Heimat increasingly coalesced in the myth of the nation’.10 Despite its historic delegitimization, in particular because of the Nazi regime, the anti-modernist, bourgeois, and regressive concept of Heimat never lost its appeal entirely after 1945, when it was resurrected in the escapist and nostalgic Heimat movies of the 1950s. However, in the wake of the West German students’ movement and New Social Movements (Neue Soziale Bewegungen), in particular ecological and feminist grass-roots initiatives of the 1970s, an alternative version of Heimat emerged and gained popularity. In redefining Heimat, the focus was now less on the nostalgic longings of the individual for an idealized and idyllic imagined past and more on the collective, active efforts of local communities to create an environment worth living in with a strong emphasis on environmental issues, applying Bloch’s Prinzip Hoffnung, and turning Heimat into a project for a better, democratically legitimized future.11 In addition to the political interpretations mentioned earlier, border memorial projects can therefore refer to different concepts of Heimat which, in turn, have political implications of their own. In the following, we discuss four projects which reflect paradigmatically different approaches to the German-German border and their inherent concepts of Heimat.12

The border in national perspective: The reconciliatory potential of Heimat The Marienborn Memorial Site to the Division of Germany, which opened in 1996, is exceptional in that it tries to bridge political divides and embrace competing perspectives on the border. The memorial uses the vast site of the authentic GDR border control facilities. Buildings now house a documentation and information centre with exhibitions, a library, and seminar rooms. Owing to its central location and, more importantly, its previous status as the main border control point on the transit route to West Berlin, Marienborn regards itself as the central GermanGerman memorial to German division. Because of its historical function, it appeals to older visitors from the former West who may have personal memories of endless anxious waits before being allowed to drive through the GDR. The East German experience is present through the documentation of the border regime, including the role of the Stasi, and attempts to escape from the GDR, which forms the centre of the exhibition. According to its own publications, the memorial site sees its function as a documentary and information centre that ‘documents the division of Germany,

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Europe, and the World into two antagonistic military power blocs in a historical site’.13 The positioning of German division in its global context is reflected in the provision of guided tours and programmes targeted at an international audience. Within its eight exhibition sections, the museum establishes a causal and chronological link from the war instigated by Nazi Germany and Germany’s subsequent defeat to German division, the Cold War, and détente policy – a link that is missing or neglected in many other border museums. The centre also offers talks, discussions, seminars, and project weeks. The thematic range of its programme is politically ambitious, as it tries to embrace both the perspective of the victims, that is GDR dissidents and escapees, and of the perpetrators (those in charge of running the border regime), for instance as eyewitnesses in seminar talks. It also does not shy away from an evaluation of Deutschlandpolitik (the policy towards German division) in the 1970s and 1980s.14 In addition, the centre explicitly challenges right-wing youth culture, for instance offering a youth seminar on ‘what it means to be German’ (‘Deutsch sein – was ist das?’) in connection with the national Holocaust remembrance day in 2005. A specifically East German focus, albeit that of a minority group, is provided by giving extensive voice to GDR dissidents and their institutional heirs, the Gauck/Birthler Authority. Although Marienborn clearly defines itself in national terms as the central memorial site to German division ‘where Germans meet Germans to tell them their story’,15 it also provides meeting space for regional and local initiatives which focus on their more immediate Heimat. These range from groups organizing public discussions on controversial and politically divisive environmental issues such as a disposal site for nuclear waste in the vicinity, to a Workshop for Lace-Making without Frontiers (Arbeitskreis Grenzenlos Klöppeln), a group that utilizes classic folk traditions as a means of improving German East-West cross-border communications.

The border in regional perspective: Heimat as a cultural space Similar cross-border approaches, transcending 40 years of global and national East-West divisions but with a stronger emphasis on a unifying regional Heimat concept, can be found in many border projects. A prime example is the BorderCountry Museum Eichsfeld (Grenzlandmuseum Eichsfeld). Its exhibitions are housed in the buildings of the former border crossing control point at WorbisDuderstadt. The museum claims that the Eichsfeld region in the centre of Germany is an area ‘with relatively close and stable inner ties and a distinct regional identity in which the post-Second World War division of Germany was particularly painfully felt’,16 and it describes itself as a ‘documentation and memorial site of the division of Germany and of the Eichsfeld as an example of the separation of an economically and culturally evolved region’.17 This strong regional identity has its roots in the religious divisions following Luther’s Reformation when the Eichsfeld became a Catholic pocket surrounded by

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a Protestant majority. During the Cold War, the Eichsfeld was divided into a Western part in Lower Saxony and an Eastern part in Thuringia. The religiously based regional identity of the Eastern part was even further strengthened by the atheist policy of the communist state, against which it served as an act of defiance. Thus, the number of youths partaking in the Jugendweihe, the socialist rite of passage ceremony, was lower in the Eichsfeld than in many other parts of the country and religious confirmation and first Holy Communion ceremonies prevailed. It is the inner tension between the physical division by a brutal border regime and the ostensibly intact cultural, religious, and emotional cross-border ties that gives this border project its unique character. In the museum’s self-representation, the rather impressive 300-metre long remnants of the border in close proximity to the museum and the circular walk, the Grenzlandweg, which could potentially focus attention on the geo-political border and the powers that built it, seem to play a secondary role to the lost and then regained unity of the region. The main exhibition depicts the oppressive effects of the border regime on the Eichsfeld’s inhabitants, obviously particularly on those living in the East. However, a specifically western perspective is also provided in the documentation of the economic decline of the border area. Finally, the Catholic religion as the defining characteristic of the Eichsfeld’s regional identity is a running theme throughout the permanent exhibition as well as the museum’s in-house publication The Border – in the Heart of Germany (Grenze – mitten in Deutschland).

The border in local perspective: Heimat as the locus of world history The smallish Heinersdorf-Welitsch Memorial Site (Gedenkstätte HeinersdorfWelitsch), which can only be visited after advance booking, also displays remnants of the border fortifications. Due to the proximity of Heinersdorf in Thuringia to the Western border, and in order to prevent visual contact with the West, a Berlin-style wall was erected to serve as a screen. Today, the open-air museum is jointly run by a private association with members from the villages of Heinersdorf and Welitsch. This border project is noteworthy for the information it provides via its website about the 1989 opening of the border and the tenth anniversary celebrations in 1999. More than a week after the fall of the Berlin Wall on 9 November 1989, the local border, closed off by a lockable iron gate, had still not been opened. Nevertheless, contacts had been established between East and West via a nearby, already opened border control point in Neustadt and a joint action plan had been drawn up. On 19 November, ten days after the events in Berlin, delegations from both sides marched towards the wall, accompanied by their local brass bands, and successfully demanded the opening of the border gate. However pro-active and courageous the demonstration may have been, the speeches held by CSU politicians on the tenth anniversary of the opening of the border, which are quoted on the website, were surely overstating local events and inflating the roles of local players: ‘They [the citizens of the adjoining villages] have contributed to the fact

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that there is peace in central Europe and we have been liberated from the burden of a forty-year long East-West conflict’ and ‘You have written German history. What happened back then has changed the world.’ Equally as important as the formation of a joint East-West identity forged through local heroism is the partisan instrumentalization of commemorative events by the local and regional conservative party representatives of the CDU (Thuringia) and CSU (Bavaria), who form the majority of the private association running the site18 and who also provide the main speakers at commemorative events: ‘It was particularly the CSU and CDU who held on to the aim of reunification. Never again must there be socialism and communism on German soil.’19 This claim was further underlined by the erection of a memorial stone and the planting of a lime tree in memory of the charismatic CSU politician Franz Josef Strauss.20 In its permanent exhibition, the site draws parallels between the Nazi regime and the GDR. Its own book is entitled Wider das Vergessen (We Must not Forget)21 and thus explicitly borrows from the discourse of remembrance of National Socialism. The appropriation of the events for party-political ends, paired with references to local peculiarities and folklore traditions, are indicative of an exclusive and regressive Heimat concept.

The border in a universalist perspective: The healing powers of nature The project Green Ribbon (Grünes Band) aims for the complete, uninterrupted preservation of the 1400 kilometres long stretch of ‘untouched nature’ along the old border. This stretch of land is to serve as a backbone linking 150 existing nature reserves. According to the nature conservationist pressure group BUND (Bund Umwelt und Naturschutz Deutschland), the organization behind this project, the potentially lethal border with its restricted accessibility had the unintentional effect of creating unique habitats for endangered plant and animal species. The introduction in 1952 of a 5 kilometres wide area with restricted access and a 500 metre no-go area by GDR authorities led to a ‘nature-friendly’ development in close proximity to the border. Although these refuge habitats to the West and East of the previous border vary considerably in width, the enormous North-South extent of this nature reserve gives it a unique dimension. As early as the winter of 1989, GDR and FRG conservationists and ecological activists met to hammer out plans for their new project. The BUND has pursued a dual strategy for creating a continuous nature reserve. On a political level, it has been lobbying the private and public owners of the individual stretches of land to ensure a conservationist use of their property, while at the same time purchasing valuable private or communal property along the border, thus building up a ‘string of pearls’.22 The BUND’s lobbying activities were successful in getting the support of the federal government. However, the legal situation with regard to the property rights is complicated. The border fortifications became the property of the German state as a result of unification. Previous landowners in the former East whose land had

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been confiscated by the GDR authorities were given priority right of purchase. In 2005, two thirds of the land was still owned by the state. Since 2003, the federal government has been willing to pass on the property and, by implication, the responsibility for realization of the Green Ribbon project to the Länder.23 The BUND uses a discourse strategy which combines romanticist notions of nature protection with an eco-friendly, sustainable ‘soft tourism’ (sanfter Tourismus) approach and a presentation of German national history. This combination allows for an appeal to various, if heterogeneous, concepts of Heimat and ideological and economic interests. The conservative nature lover and the left-leaning environmental activist can unite behind the idea of providing refuges, asylum, habitats, indeed almost Heimat to endangered species. In another romantic, even organic, sense the Green Ribbon connotes the power of nature to heal the rift that goes through the world, and to overcome the injuries and wounds inflicted by human conflict. Reference is often made to the transformation from death-strip to life-line (‘Vom Todesstreifen zur Lebenslinie’).24 It is this special link with soft tourism which garners support for the Green Ribbon from local interest groups, which range from tourist boards, hoteliers, and local politicians to bureaucrats. There is evidence of a strong local and regional commercial line of argument. Local ramblers’ associations and conservationists also benefit from an ever-extending and elaborate system of accessible and ‘usable’ nature. There is, furthermore, a wider and growing community of supporters of ‘soft tourism’, in particular cyclists, who appreciate nature wherever it is geographically located as long it can be erfahren (in its double meaning of ‘experienced’ and ‘travelled’). This community constructs nature as an aesthetic and spiritual experience not reserved for local residents and lobbies for the preservation of travel routes, mainly in the form of the old, paved Kolonnenweg along the fenced border which now serves as a cycle path. Finally, the combination of nature with border history trails (Geschichtslehrpfade) is winning the Green Ribbon support from more historically and politically oriented quarters. For example, the privately run cycling and soft tourism initiative Projekt Lebensstreifen refers to the Green Ribbon as an ‘ecological memorial to the most recent German history’.25 In July 2004, this duality of Heimat as nature and nation was appropriately echoed by the German Bundestag. In a joint motion, the parliamentary parties that then formed the government, SPD and Bündnis 90/Die Grünen, proposed that measures be taken to protect the former German-German border ‘as a cluster of biotopes and a memorial site to the German division’, within which cycling and rambling should also be promoted.26 This positive sanctioning from the political elite has been readily taken up by initiatives on the ground, be they commercially or educationally driven, or oriented primarily towards nature or history. What stands in their way are the eastern German Länder, in particular Berlin, which fear the loss of revenue if the sale of property to private landowners should stop.27 A major step was taken on 13 May 2008, when an agreement was finally signed that declared the Green Ribbon to be part of the nation’s natural heritage (Nationales Naturerbe). However, the modalities of signing over the property rights still need to be negotiated with most of the affected Länder.28

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This highlights the fact that it is difficult to predict whether a memory strategy will be successful or not. Nineteen years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, no interpretation of the GDR has yet achieved hegemonic status. This might be one of the reasons why a large-scale visionary project such as the Green Ribbon, with its universal appeal, has to grapple less with controversy over its aims and more with rather mundane material interests (which, ironically, serves as a reminder that the term Heimat originally referred to legal ownership of land). Projects remembering the German-German border thus do not fall neatly into categories along the lines of Left versus Right, East versus West, top-down versus bottom-up approaches. The sheer extent of the former border allows many regional and local initiatives to emerge and construct their versions of history, with their own unique focus, more or less unchallenged. The complicated network of responsibilities and financial arrangements within a decentralized, federal political system is a further contributing factor to a diverse, ever evolving memory landscape. Where, in this context, Heimat is invoked to forge or reinforce regional identities and reconnect ties that had been severed by division, this quite often entails exclusion of ‘the other’, for instance of non-Catholics in the Eichsfeld or non-conservatives in Heinersdorf-Welitsch. In Marienborn, on the other hand, where the national and global dimensions of division are stressed, great efforts are being made to provide multiple perspectives and allow for the expression of diverging views and different kinds of experiences. With its universalist but potentially depoliticized appeal, the Green Ribbon provides the most inclusive and reconciliatory offer.

Notes 1. M. Ullrich, Geteilte Ansichten. Erinnerungslandschaft Deutsch-Deutsche Grenze (Berlin, 2006). 2. N. Frei, Vergangenheitspolitik. Die Anfänge der Bundesrepublik und die NS-Vergangenheit (Munich, 1996); P. Reichel, Politik mit der Erinnerung. Gedächtnisorte im Streit um die nationalsozialistische Vergangenheit (Frankfurt am Main, 1999). 3. A. J. MacAdams, Judging the Past in United Germany (Cambridge, 2001). 4. R. Lebegern, Mauer, Zaun und Stacheldraht. Sperranlagen an der innerdeutschen Grenze 1945– 1990 (Weiden, 2002). 5. G. Knischewski and U. Spittler, ‘Remembering the Berlin Wall: The Wall Memorial Ensemble Bernauer Straße’, German Life and Letters 59 (2006), 280–93. 6. Arbeitsgemeinschaft Grenzmuseen, http://www.grenzerinnerungen.de/grenzmuseen1. htm (accessed 5 January 2009). 7. The village of Mödlareuth was known as ‘Little Berlin’ after a wall of 770 metres in length was built in 1966 to separate its Bavarian from its Thuringian part. From early on, this wall became a magnet for tourism on its Western side. 8. See J. Hacker, Deutsche Irrtümer. Schönfärberei und Helfershelfer der DDR-Diktatur im Westen (Berlin, 1992). 9. E. Boa and R. Palfreyman, Heimat. A German Dream: Regional Loyalties and National Identity in German Culture 1890–1990 (New York, 2000). 10. Boa and Palfreyman, Heimat, p. 5. 11. R. Piepmeier, ‘Philosophische Aspekte des Heimatbegriffs’, Heimat. Analysen, Themen, Perspektiven (Bonn, 1990), pp. 91–108. 12. The four examples were chosen after field trips to border projects in 2005.

Gerd Knischewski and Ulla Spittler 327 13. Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung Marienborn (ed.), Die Grenzübergangsstelle Marienborn. Bollwerk, Nadelöhr, Seismograph (flyer for the permanent exhibition, no date). 14. Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung Marienborn (ed.), Jahresprogramm 2005 der Gedenkstätte (Halle (Saale), 2005). 15. R. Herzog, former President of the FRG, in a speech in 1998, quoted in Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung Marienborn (ed.), Von der Grenzübergangsstelle Marienborn zur Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung Marienborn (flyer, no date). 16. Bildungsstätte am Grenzlandmuseum Eichsfeld (ed.), Grenze – mitten in Deutschland (Heiligenstadt, 2002), p. 7. 17. R. Rohrbach, ‘Kurze Geschichte des Grenzlandmuseums’, in Grenze – mitten in Deutschland, pp. 9–12, here p. 11. 18. This was confirmed in an e-mail from the chairman to one of the authors, 17 October 2008. 19. Förderverein Gedenkstätte Heinersdorf-Welitsch e.V., ‘Gedenkstätte “Ehemalige Grenze” ’, http://www.heinersdorf.com/gedenkstaette.html (accessed 5 January 2009). 20. Ibid. 21. Förderverein Gedenkstätte Heinersdorf-Welitsch e.V., Wider das Vergessen. 10 Jahre Grenzöffnung Heinersdorf-Welitsch (Kronach 1999). 22. BUND (ed.), Das WestÖstliche Tor. Ein Projekt für Deutschland. Tagebuch 1996 bis 2002 (Flyer, 2003). 23. G. Rüschemeyer, ‘Der wahrscheinlich längste Grünriegel der Welt’, Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung, 21 August 2005, 60–1. 24. See, among others, R. Cornelius, Vom Todestreifen zur Lebenslinie. Natur und Kultur am Grünen Band (Niederaula, 2005/2007). 25. K. Buchin, RadWandern. Am Grünen Band, vol. 2: Harz – Vogtland (Kiel, 2002), p. 4. 26. Pressedienst des deutschen Bundestages, Umwelt/Antrag: Ehemalige Grenze als Biotopverbund sichern, 1 July 2004. 27. Rüschemeyer, ‘Der wahrscheinlich längste Grünriegel’. 28. Bundesministerium für Umwelt, Naturschutz und Reaktorsicherheit, ‘Hintergrundinformationen zum Nationalen Naturerbe’ (2008), www.bmu.de/files/pdfs/allgemein/ application/x-download/nationales_naturerbe.pdf (accessed 5 January 2009).

4.7 The Fight in the Prison Car Park: Memorializing Germany’s ‘Double Past’ in Torgau since 1990 Andrew H. Beattie

As Germany’s leading news magazine Der Spiegel observed in 2004, the Saxon town of Torgau ‘is a place where German history is concentrated’.1 During the Second World War, Torgau became the epicentre of the Wehrmacht’s brutal system of (in)justice. It held two of Nazi Germany’s eight military prisons, at Fort Zinna and Brückenkopf, and, from 1943, the Reich War Court (Reichskriegsgericht), which handed down approximately 1400 death sentences, some 1200 of which were carried out. The entire Wehrmachtjustiz (military judiciary) passed approximately 30,000 death sentences, of which 20,000 were enforced. At least 170 prisoners were executed in Torgau, while thousands suffered there under brutal conditions or were sent to the front in probationary battalions (Bewährungsbataillonen) or convict units (Feldstrafgefangenenabteilungen). Sadly, Germany’s defeat in 1945 did not halt incarceration, death, and suffering in Torgau. Within months, the Soviets were using Fort Zinna and the nearby Seydlitz Barracks as Speziallager (‘special camps’) for internees, ostensibly for de-Nazification, and for German and Soviet citizens convicted by Soviet Military Tribunals (SMTs). Between 1945 and 1948 at least 800 inmates died in Soviet custody. In the German Democratic Republic (GDR), Fort Zinna remained a penitentiary, housing political prisoners, amongst others.2 This manifold legacy of Nazi and communist incarceration exemplifies what is often called Germany’s ‘double past’, even if it encompasses three eras: the Third Reich, the Soviet Occupation Zone (SBZ), and the GDR. Memorializing these regimes and their victims has provoked fierce debate since 1990. The central questions were whether they should be memorialized collectively or separately, whether one era was more important than another, and whether all victims should be commemorated, or only those considered politically and morally worthy.3 This chapter’s first aim is to explore that debate through a case study of Torgau’s Fort Zinna, which neatly encapsulates the struggle over the ‘double past’. The second aim is to test and complement prevailing understandings derived from more prominent places. Like scholarship on German remembrance generally, where any efforts to look ‘beyond Berlin’ (at least before the present volume) have tended to focus on other major cities and famous memorials on their outskirts, the limited scholarship on the ‘double past’ largely ignores the provinces.4 National debates have been investigated;5 Berlin attracts 328

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attention;6 and beyond the capital, the famous cases of Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen dominate.7 This is unfortunate, because in some ways provincial places like Torgau are more representative than their well-known counterparts whose international character and ‘third’ past as antifascist monuments in the GDR arguably distorted developments there. In contrast, post-Wende memorialization in Torgau began from a relatively clean slate and remained largely a German affair. Consequently, certain tendencies developed there that could not develop at Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen, tendencies common across provincial Germany and at national level.8 Studying Torgau thus promotes a better understanding of the memorialization of the ‘double past’ more generally. Yet the case is also worth examining in its own right. Torgau gained notoriety for the duration of its memorial debate and for a perceived tendency to equate communism and Nazism and to rehabilitate Speziallager inmates. Memorialization at Fort Zinna caused consistent controversy after 1992, developed haltingly, and remains incomplete in early 2009. More significantly, the mode of memorialization there differed from Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen where, to use Bill Niven’s terms, a ‘principle of hierarchy’ emerged, with the Nazi past paramount. In Torgau, in contrast, a ‘principle of equation’ appeared to develop.9 Several factors contributed, including regional politics and the specific victims’ groups involved. However, the fundamental differences arose from Fort Zinna’s continued use as a prison by the GDR until 1990 and by Saxony thereafter, which created opportunities and challenges. Memorialization began, post-GDR, from a relatively clean slate but, confined as it was to a car park outside the prison, that slate was small. As rival communities of memory sought to inscribe their readings of history onto the site, conflict became inevitable. For much of the 1990s, the victims of communism appeared ascendant, but ultimately the outcome was more balanced than initial appearances suggested. The following sections explore four phases in the fight over the prison car park: the initial scenario in 1990 (I); the erection of a controversial memorial dedicated to a unitary totalitarian past in 1992 (II); an abortive attempt, in the late 1990s, to distinguish three pasts (III); and a more successful attempt at twofold memorialization in the new millennium (IV).

Broken taboos – opportunities and challenges The history of Torgau’s sites of incarceration was taboo until 1990, when the discovery of mass graves of Speziallager inmates at Sachsenhausen and elsewhere broke the East German taboo that had surrounded the camps since their closure in 1950 and ended West Germany’s post-1950s ‘repression’ of the topic.10 In Torgau, as elsewhere, debate about the camps and efforts to commemorate their victims preceded detailed research.11 Myths abounded, ranging between two poles: on the one hand, the view that they contained Nazi criminals and constituted a legitimate effort at de-Nazification; on the other, the belief that they contained innocent victims of Stalinist despotism and were effectively concentration camps.12

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Torgau’s role in the Third Reich had also been taboo in post-war Germany. Only a memorial stone in the local cemetery from the immediate post-war years commemorated 160 ‘resistance fighters’ killed by the Wehrmachtjustiz.13 The struggle to overcome this ‘last taboo’ about the Nazi past and to rehabilitate and memorialize convicted deserters, traitors, and ‘those who undermined military spirit’ (Wehrkraftzersetzer) lasted into the 2000s. The history of memorialization at Fort Zinna is thus in part the story of the efforts of a marginalized group of the Nazis’ victims to gain recognition and a permanent memorial.14 The commemorative field in Torgau was remarkably level in 1990. The taboos over Fort Zinna’s Nazi and SBZ pasts and the GDR’s continued utilization of the prison – itself unsurprisingly taboo until 1989 – meant that no memorial existed there. In contrast to Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen, therefore, no group of victims felt that it, or a rival group, owned the site.15 Moreover, the victims’ organizations were relatively evenly matched. The Wehrmachtjustiz victims’ organizations – the Federal Association of Victims of Nazi Military Justice (hereafter Victims of Nazi Military Justice), formed in 1990, and the Luxemburg Association of Torgau Veterans, representing forcibly enlisted soldiers – were weak compared to the Nazis’ victims’ organizations at Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald. The Torgau Association of Victims of Stalinism (hereafter Victims of Stalinism), founded in 1990, was thus relatively strong. Additionally, both sets of victims were pursuing legal and moral rehabilitation and confronted widespread belief in the rectitude of their punishment and incarceration, either for breaching military discipline or being a ‘Nazi’. If such factors engendered optimism about the possibilities for memorialization, Saxony’s continued utilization of Fort Zinna created both opportunities and challenges. On the positive side, questions about preserving the site’s authenticity were absent, contributing to the cleanliness of Torgau’s slate.16 Additionally, ‘enlightenment’ was necessarily separated from ‘commemoration’, a step regarded as essential for successful memorials in contemporary Germany, especially those with multiple pasts.17 While the victims insisted that commemoration occur at Fort Zinna, leading to the development of memorialization in the prison car park examined in this chapter, there was insufficient room there for extensive exhibitions. Enlightenment therefore occurred off-site, at the Torgau Documentation and Information Centre, which was established in the town centre after a 1991 initiative of western scholars gained local, regional, and federal support.18 On the negative side, whereas the expansive Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen sites permitted ‘decentralized’ memorials for various victims’ groups – an approach widely deemed necessary for success – in Torgau the victims had to share the car park.19 Moreover, numerous stakeholders were involved. Commemorative policy was determined by the Saxon Ministry for Science and Culture, whereas the car park belonged to the Ministry of Justice. A Foundation for Saxon Memorials in Memory of the Victims of Political Tyranny was established in 1994–95. The early absence of a single authority allowed multiple interests to assert themselves, with ambiguous results.

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An enduring attempt at unitary memorialization The Victims of Stalinism seized the initiative in 1991, proposing a memorial ‘To the victims of Stalinism and the SED [Socialist Unity Party of Germany] regime’. The prison governor suggested the Nazis’ victims be included, so ‘To the memory of the victims of tyranny [Gewaltherrschaft] in Fort Zinna’ became the revised proposal.20 The Victims of Stalinism gained in-principle support from the Victims of Nazi Military Justice, the Federation of Stalinist Persecutees, and local politicians, including Social Democrats.21 The district administration agreed to provide funding and the prison administration approved the memorial, with the backing of Saxon Minister of Justice Steffen Heitmann of the Christian Democratic Union (CDU).22 The memorial was to comprise a 3-meters high wooden cross inscribed with ‘The dead admonish us’ and three plaques: one on the cross’s stone base dedicated in accordance with the revised proposal, and two subordinate plaques dedicated separately to the victims of communism and Nazism respectively.23 Torgau was thus about to achieve the collective anti-totalitarian memorialization that, although rejected at Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen, was supported by German conservatives throughout the 1990s, implemented, controversially, by Chancellor Helmut Kohl at Berlin’s Neue Wache, and achieved in many provincial localities.24 In fact, what eventuated was more anti-communist than anti-totalitarian. Without consulting or including other victims’ groups, the Victims of Stalinism distributed invitations to the memorial’s dedication, whereupon the Victims of Nazi Military Justice withdrew its support.25 The dedication went ahead regardless, with considerable backing. In November 1992, Torgau Mayor Wolfgang Gerstenberg (CDU), Saxon Secretary for Justice Klaus Hardrath (CDU), and Victims of Stalinism chairperson Rudolf Hinrichs, among others, spoke before around 300 people, and the heads of Torgau’s Roman Catholic and Lutheran churches consecrated the cross.26 The Nazis’ victims’ organizations did not participate; their plaque was not installed. While nominally dedicated to all victims of totalitarian imprisonment at Fort Zinna, the memorial was effectively only for the victims of communism. Accordingly, a fence subsequently erected around the ensemble bore the dates 1945 and 1989.27 The memorial and the dedication event not only highlighted the totalitarian regimes’ shared usage of Fort Zinna, but also rehabilitated the Speziallager inmates. The subordinate plaque installed next to the cross read ‘In commemoration of those innocents murdered, interned, and imprisoned under communist despotism [Willkürherrschaft]’. The term ‘murdered’ offered a forthright answer to the controversial question of the intentionality of the inmates’ deaths, while the inscription left unclear whether only innocent victims were included in the memorial gesture or whether all inmates were considered innocent. The latter was the prevalent interpretation at the ceremony. Mayor Gerstenberg averred that all three regimes had incarcerated dissenters; Federation of Stalinist Persecutees leader Jörg Büttner argued that everyone imprisoned at Fort Zinna came into contact with a tyrannical regime ‘because they prioritised individualism and human dignity’;

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and Torgau historian and Victims of Stalinism member Gertraude Winter claimed that ‘every victim of the two past violent dictatorships was a victim in the cause of human rights and freedom’.28 Any connection to de-Nazification was ignored, and the Speziallager inmates were uniformly lionized as martyrs for democracy and liberty. Anyone seriously concerned with remembrance of Nazism deemed this situation unsatisfactory, and relations between the victims’ groups subsequently soured. The Luxemburg veterans declared their opposition to being memorialized alongside those convicted by SMTs.29 The historian Eberhard Jäckel – an initiator of the Berlin Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe and chairperson of the committee of experts charged with redesigning Buchenwald – was among those to object to the cross and to call for greater sensitivity to the presence of perpetrators among the Speziallager inmates.30 Once erected, though, the memorial proved hard to alter.

An abortive attempt at threefold memorialization Cognisant of such concerns, in 1994 the Saxon government announced plans for a competition to design a new memorial. It declared the Nazi period the ‘central topic’, largely due to the internationality of the Wehrmachtjustiz crimes.31 The Victims of Nazi Military Justice and the Luxemburg veterans soon rejoined the fold.32 However, their presence in May 1995 at the laying of a symbolic foundation stone for the memorial marked the zenith of conciliation, from which the situation deteriorated, while the Saxon government demurred over funding.33 An additional initiative by the Victims of Stalinism – commemorating a doctor with a dubious Nazi background, who had been convicted by an SMT, was rehabilitated in 1996, and was remembered fondly by surviving fellow inmates – renewed concerns about the rehabilitation of Nazis, reducing the likelihood of consensus over Fort Zinna.34 Indeed, division between the victims’ groups deepened in the late 1990s. Ludwig Baumann, the chairperson of the Victims of Nazi Military Justice, insisted the Fort Zinna cross be removed, while Hinrichs insisted it remain.35 The competition was not held until 1998, and the Foundation for Saxon Memorials announced the results in 1999. The winning design by Hanover sculptor Klaus Madlowski was deemed most successful for creating separate commemorative spaces for the three eras while addressing their shared locality. It foresaw four free-standing glass panels on descending levels, starting with the present and proceeding with the GDR and the SBZ, and ending with the Third Reich, closest to the prison.36 The victims’ groups were dissatisfied, while lingering uncertainty over the cross’s future alarmed the Victims of Stalinism.37 Local CDU politicians were sympathetic to the concerns of the latter group and lobbied for the cross’s retention.38 The Victims of Nazi Military Justice simply rejected the design. Baumann and Professor Manfred Messerschmidt – the leading expert on the Wehrmachtjustiz – raised numerous objections. Treating the SBZ and GDR periods as a single era, they complained that the Nazis’ victims were accorded a smaller space with one

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panel than the post-1945 victims who received a larger space and two panels; they also complained that the design did not distinguish the periods spatially or architecturally, that Nazi perpetrators would be commemorated, and that the cross might remain.39 They protested further that ‘it is not we who were persecuted first who will get the first commemorative space, but the GDR persecutees’, and that ‘only the last space . . . is foreseen for our victims’, a space that the cross would literally overshadow. They declared their determination to fight the proposal.40 The Foundation for Saxon Memorials had little alternative but deferral.41 A stalemate ensued. In May 2004, the Foundation unveiled an information board at the car park that highlighted the Wehrmachtjustiz victims’ persecution and long fight for justice, declaring – hopefully – that a commemorative space for them would ‘come into being here’.42 At the accompanying ceremony, Baumann expressed his frustration at the continuing lack of a memorial.43 Around this time, some of Germany’s leading opinion writers endorsed such criticism.44 Baumann’s repeated lamentation that ‘we don’t even have a place [in Torgau] where we can lay flowers for our dead’ was gaining traction.45 Emboldened by a scandal about the Foundation’s alleged relativization of Nazism, he called for a larger space for the Nazis’ victims than for the post-1945 victims.46

Tentative success with twofold memorialization Faced with continuing disagreement, the Foundation decided that the cross would stay, but that two distinct commemorative spaces were necessary. It thus sacrificed the proposed identification of three distinct periods, but differentiation nevertheless characterized its new plans. First, the car-park site would be divided into separate spaces for the pre- and post-1945 periods. Second, undifferentiated commemoration of all inmates in either era would be avoided. Foundation director Norbert Haase stressed that only those whose imprisonment would be unwarranted in a constitutional democracy were to be commemorated, because, he insisted in relation to the post-1945 period, ‘A democratic society commemorates neither those who participated in crimes, nor those who made themselves henchmen of the Nazi system’.47 The Foundation’s proposed dedications encompassed (only) those victims of the Wehrmachtjustiz who had been convicted unjustly or suffered ‘because they did not want to become guilty’ (of unspecified Nazi crimes), and (only) those post-1945 victims who had not ‘become guilty’ (of what was not stated) or who were convicted unjustly by Soviet or GDR courts. Third, separate panels would provide more detailed information.48 While distinguished from it, commemoration was thus linked to, and supported by enlightenment. In 2005, a new competition to design such a memorial was won by Stuttgart architects Berthold Weidner and Martin Bennis, whose entry faithfully encapsulated the Foundation’s vision. The two commemorative areas – separated by a hedge – would have different shapes so as to obstruct direct comparison of their sizes, while their ground cover would be of different materiality and geometry. Their substantive content would be identified by glass information panels at their

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entrances, with the commemorative dedications inscribed on blocks of differing stone further inside. The post-1945 victims’ block would stand before the cross, while space existed behind the pre-1945 victims’ block for a sculpture or other commemorative component to be determined by the victims.49 In early 2006, Baumann condemned the plan. He objected specifically to the allegedly more sympathetic portrayal on the information panels of the suffering of the Speziallager inmates than the Wehrmachtjustiz prisoners. He also objected to the statement that most of the latter had been convicted for offences against military discipline and other crimes, which excluded them from commemoration. Declaring that such a ‘stigma’ would prevent the last remaining victims from visiting the site, he demanded a memorial ‘without any connection’ to the post-1945 victims and that his organization be consulted over its design and texts.50 He would, he said, rather have no memorial than this one.51 Such strident opposition did not stand the test of time. In early 2007, the victims’ groups assented to the memorial as proposed.52 Work finished in October, albeit without the sculpture for the Wehrmachtjustiz victims. Although yet to be officially opened, the Fort Zinna memorial was thus all but complete, 16 years after the first proposal. What had begun as a joint memorial to all victims of tyranny at Fort Zinna, but had become a memorial only to the victims of communism and was subsequently prevented from being rededicated to a threefold legacy of persecution, was now a ‘two-part unity’ (zweigeteilte Einheit), dedicated to the innocent victims from before and after 1945.53

Conclusion The struggle over the Fort Zinna car park exemplifies the controversial and hazardous nature of memorializing Germany’s dictatorial twentieth century. First, it demonstrates the difficulties of periodization. While conservatives and victims of communism viewed 1933–89 as a single totalitarian epoch and most memory professionals discerned three distinct eras, the binary division of before and after 1945 proved simplest and most compelling. Second, it shows the divergent approaches of various communities of memory to the relative significance of these eras. Generally speaking, conservatives and victims of communism prioritized anti-communist or collective anti-totalitarian commemoration while progressives and victims of Nazism insisted on the pre-eminence of the Nazi past. Third, it indicated the hazards of insisting on, or ignoring distinctions between worthy and unworthy victims. Conservative politicians and victims of communism had few qualms about commemorating Nazi officials who suffered under communism. In contrast, most experts and victims of Nazism vigorously opposed their inclusion, but were less forthright about comparable distinctions between deserving and undeserving victims of Nazism. In these and other respects, the story of memorialization at Fort Zinna also tests prevalent assumptions – derived primarily from the cases of Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen – about the course of, and the ingredients of success in, memorializing the ‘double past’. First, although talk of the ‘double past’ has been

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criticized for levelling differences between Nazism and communism and relativizing the former, in Torgau the Wehrmachtjustiz victims insisted on a binary division in preference not only to a unitary totalitarian past, but also to a more differentiated approach that left the Nazi past as only one of three eras to be memorialized.54 The implications of such attempts to frame memorialization thus vary according to context. Second, Fort Zinna indicates the perils of separating, and the benefits of connecting commemoration and enlightenment. Commemoration without information runs various risks, from banality and opacity to the distortion of history and the rehabilitation of bystanders, collaborators, and criminals.55 Instead, the information panels at Fort Zinna grounded commemoration in (some) historical detail. Indeed, rather than sacrificing influence over commemoration by leaving it to the victims’ groups, the (much maligned) Foundation for Saxon Memorials made commemoration more discriminating by linking it with enlightenment. Third, the case of Torgau challenges the conventional account that those who prioritized Nazism quickly and easily defeated those who accorded greater weight to communism.56 Their struggle was a more evenly matched affair, whose course differed at various sites; moreover, disagreement persists, even nationally and at places such as Sachsenhausen.57 Fourth, the mode of memorialization at Fort Zinna – with the communist past prioritized throughout the 1990s and equal weight eventually accorded to the two epochs – was no aberration. It differed from the hierarchization at Sachsenhausen and Buchenwald, but similar examples exist throughout provincial Germany. Furthermore, it conformed to the preference of the Bundestag’s Commission of Inquiry on ‘Overcoming the History and Consequences of the SED Dictatorship in the Process of German Unity’ – which developed a federal memorials policy for post-unification Germany – for joint commemoration and for avoiding hierarchies.58 Yet Torgau’s differences from Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen should not be overstated: the ultimate memorial eschewed prioritization, but still distinguished two pasts within the confines of the single available space. Indeed, the topography at Fort Zinna is crucial for understanding memorialization there. Although other factors played a role, the limitation of memorialization to the car-park site compelled the victims’ groups to share a single space. This created confusion among memory professionals who otherwise insisted on distinctions and the prioritization of Nazism but here seemed torn between joint and separate memorialization.59 Given the limited space, the victims of communism were in a strong position following the fait accompli of the cross, which had to be accommodated in subsequent revisions. Unsurprisingly, Speziallager victims did not complain about their second-class status as they did elsewhere.60 Such complaints came instead from the Wehrmachtjustiz victims. Eventually, a solution was found with which both sides could live. This tentative consensus challenges the notion that the only viable course at sites with a ‘double past’ is the Nazi past’s prioritization and complete separation from the communist past. While many observers will find this outcome disturbing, it indicates the complexity, diversity, and contingency of German efforts to memorialize the ‘double past’.

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Notes 1. D. Freudenreich, ‘Gedenkstättenstreit. Eisiges Schweigen in Torgau’, Der Spiegel, 25 September 2004. 2. Stiftung Sächsische Gedenkstätten zur Erinnerung an die Opfer politischer Gewaltherrschaft (StSG) (ed.), Spuren Suchen und Erinnern. Gedenkstätten für die Opfer politischer Gewaltherrschaft in Sachsen (Leipzig, 1996), pp. 67–76. 3. N. Haase and B. Pampel (eds), Doppelte Last, doppelte Herausforderung. Gedenkstättenarbeit und Diktaturvergleich an Orten mit doppelter Vergangenheit (Frankfurt am Main, 1998). 4. G. D. Rosenfeld and P. B. Jaskot (eds), Beyond Berlin: Twelve German Cities Confront the Nazi Past (Ann Arbor, 2008). 5. A. H. Beattie, Playing Politics with History: The Bundestag Inquiries into East Germany (New York, 2008), pp. 194–227. 6. C. Pearce, Contemporary Germany and the Nazi Legacy: Remembrance, Politics and the Dialectic of Normality (Basingstoke, 2008), pp. 125, 214–19. 7. In addition to studies cited below: S. Farmer, ‘Symbols that Face Two Ways: Commemorating the Victims of Nazism and Stalinism at Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen’, Representations 49 (1995), 97–119; T. Lutz, ‘Gedenken und Dokumentieren an Orten von NS- und NKWD-Lagern in Deutschland’, in P. Reif-Spirek and B. Ritscher (eds), Speziallager in der SBZ. Gedenkstätten mit ‘doppelter Vergangenheit’ (Berlin, 1999), pp. 249–65; H. Zimmer, Der Buchenwald-Konflikt. Zum Streit um Geschichte und Erinnerung im Kontext der deutschen Vereinigung (Münster, 1999). 8. A. Kaminsky (ed.), Orte des Erinnerns. Gedenkzeichen, Gedenkstätten und Museen zur Diktatur in SBZ und DDR (Leipzig, 2004). 9. B. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past: United Germany and the Legacy of the Third Reich (London, 2002), pp. 46, p. 53. 10. N. Haase and B. Oleschinski (eds), Das Torgau-Tabu. Wehrmachtsstrafsystem, NKWDSpeziallager, DDR-Strafvollzug (Leipzig, 1998); P. Haustein, A. Kaminsky, V. Knigge, and B. Ritscher (eds), Instrumentalisierung, Verdrängung, Aufarbeitung. Die sowjetischen Speziallager in der gesellschaftlichen Wahrnehmung 1945 bis heute (Göttingen, 2006), p. 7. 11. F. Boll, ‘Todeserfahrung und Gedenken. Lebensgeschichten von Häftlingen sowjetischer Speziallager und aus Zuchthäusern der frühen DDR’, in Reif-Spirek and Ritscher (eds), Speziallager, p. 241. 12. P. Haustein, Geschichte im Dissens. Die Auseinandersetzungen um die Gedenkstätte Sachsenhausen nach dem Ende der DDR (Leipzig, 2006), p. 32. 13. Haase and Oleschinski (eds), Das Torgau-Tabu, pp. vii–ix, xiv. 14. W. Wette and D. Vogel (eds), Das letzte Tabu. NS-Militärjustiz und Kriegsverrat (Berlin, 2007), pp. 60–3; D. C. Peifer, ‘The Past in the Present: Passion, Politics, and the Historical Profession in the German and British Pardon Campaigns’, Journal of Military History 71 (2007), 1107–32. 15. A. H. Beattie, ‘The Victims of Totalitarianism and the Centrality of Nazi Genocide: Continuity and Change in German Commemorative Politics’, in B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany (Basingstoke, 2006), pp. 147–163. 16. G. Morsch, ‘Concentration Camp Memorials in Eastern Germany Since 1989’, in J. K. Roth and E. Maxwell (eds), Remembering for the Future: The Holocaust in an Age of Genocide (Basingstoke, 2001), pp. 367–82. 17. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 39 and pp. 53–5. Cf. S. Le Grand, ‘Die Verwaltung der Gedenkstätten in den neuen Bundesländern seit der Vereinigung. Bewährungsprobe für den bundesdeutschen Föderalismus?’, GedenkstättenRundbrief 114 (2003), 3–11. 18. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 53. 19. Ibid., pp. 38–9. Cf. M. Azaryahu, ‘RePlacing Memory: The Reorientation of Buchenwald’, Cultural Geographies 10 (2003), 1–20, here 16. 20. E. Pieper, ‘Gerangel um Gedenkstätte am Fort Zinna’, Neues Torgauer Kreisblatt (NTK), 6 July 1992.

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21. The Federation, representing GDR political prisoners, was a largely Eastern organization founded in the early 1990s; the Victims of Stalinism, representing mainly Speziallager inmates, had existed in West Germany since 1950. 22. Vereinigung Opfer des Stalinismus Torgau (VOS) (ed.), Verzeihen heißt nicht vergessen (Torgau, 1992), p. 59; E. Meisel, ‘Kann es überhaupt neutrale Gedenkstätten geben?’, NTK, 24 November 1993. 23. E. Pieper, ‘Ein Kreuz und drei Tafeln’, NTK, 17 August 1992. 24. Beattie, Playing Politics, pp. 194–6, 213–18; Kaminsky (ed.), Orte des Erinnerns. 25. ‘NS-Opfer fühlen sich brüskiert’, NTK, 6 November 1992. 26. VOS (ed.), Verzeihen. 27. B. Oleschinski, ‘Das Dokumentations- und Informationszentrum (DIZ) Torgau’, in Haase and Pampel (eds), Doppelte Last, pp. 175–9, here p. 177. 28. E. Meisel, ‘Die Würde des Menschen ist unantastbar’, NTK, 9 November 1992; VOS (ed.), Verzeihen, p. 16. 29. K. E. Müller, ‘Brief aus Luxemburg’, NTK, 13 March 1993. 30. E. Meisel, ‘Kann es überhaupt neutrale Gedenkstätten geben?’, NTK, 24 November 1993. 31. E. Meisel, ‘Da könnte man auch einen Gartenzwerg hinstellen’, NTK, 21 October 1994. 32. ‘Das Gefängnis der Europäer’ and ‘Kein gemeinsames Gedenken’, NTK, 27 April 1995. 33. K.-U. Brandt, ‘Torgauer Gedenkstätte “Fort Zinna” ist in Gefahr’, Torgauer Allgemeine (TA), 2 April 1998. 34. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 47. 35. E. Meisel, ‘NS-Opfer wollen aktiv mitplanen’, TA, 15 January 1999; ‘Für Erhalt des Mahnkreuzes’, NTK, 27 March 1999. 36. N. Haase and W. Oleschinski, ‘Gedenkort für die Opfer politischer Gewaltherrschaft am Fort Zinna in Torgau. Ergebnisse eines Realisierungswettbewerbs der Stiftung Sächsische Gedenkstätten’, GedenkstättenRundbrief 90 (1999), 13–19. 37. P. Melzig, ‘Wird das Holzkreuz zum Zankapfel?’, NTK, 10 April 1999. 38. N. Fliegner, ‘Kreuz als Streitobjekt’, NTK, 16 July 1999. 39. L. Baumann and M. Messerschmidt, ‘Stellungnahme der Bundesvereinigung Opfer der NS-Militärjustiz zum Wettbewerb für eine gemeinsame Gedenkstätte in Torgau Fort Zinna’, GedenkstättenRundbrief 91 (1999), 32–4. 40. L. Baumann and M. Messerschmidt, ‘Mahnmalprojekt in Torgau. Anmerkungen zu den Beiträgen in den GedenkstättenRundbriefen Nr. 90 und 91’, GedenkstättenRundbrief 92 (1999), 21. 41. StSG, Tätigkeitsbericht 1999/2000 (Dresden, 2001), p. 41. 42. ‘Gedenkort am Fort Zinna’ (author’s photograph, 16 June 2006). 43. A. Brenssell, ‘Torgau streitet um das richtige Gedenken’, Die Tageszeitung, 11 May 2004. 44. C. Dieckmann, ‘California Dreaming. Eine Stadt versucht, sich zu freuen: Ein Millionär aus dem Silicon Valley will in Jena den Opfern des Kommunismus ein Denkmal setzen’, Die Zeit, 26 June 2003; H. M. Broder, ‘Deserteure. Die vergessenen Opfer der Nazis’, Der Spiegel, 7 May 2005. 45. ‘Sächsische Daueraustellung in Torgau macht NS-Täter zu Opfern’, Antifaschistische Nachrichten 21:6 (2005), 12. 46. Freudenreich, ‘Gedenkstättenstreit’; Beattie, ‘The Victims of Totalitarianism’, p. 147. 47. StSG (N. Haase), ‘Memoriale Gestaltung vor dem Fort Zinna in Torgau’, 20 July 2005, p. 6. Unpublished paper archived in Dokumentations- und Informationszentrum Torgau Archiv (DIZ-TA). 48. Ibid., pp. 8, 9. 49. B. Weidner, Atelier, and M. Bennis, ‘Memoriale Gestaltung in Torgau-Fort Zinna. Konkurrierendes Gutachterverfahren: Erinnerung an die Opfer der NS-Wehrmachtjustiz – Erinnerung an die Opfer der sowjetischen Internierungspraxis und Militärjustiz sowie der SED-Strafjustiz’. Stuttgart, 2005. Unpublished paper archived in DIZ-TA. 50. ‘ “NS-Täter sollen zu unschuldigen Opfern gemacht werden”. Stellungnahme der Bundesvereinigung Opfer der NS-Militärjustiz zur geplanten Gedenkstätte in Torgau am

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51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60.

Germany’s ‘Double Past’ in Torgau Fort-Zinna und zur Gedenkstättenpolitik der Stiftung Sächsische Gedenkstätten vom 01. März 2005’, available at http://www.nrw.vvn-bda.de/texte/0135_baumman_I.htm (accessed 25 November 2008). ‘Täter beim Namen nennen! Sächsische Gedenkstättenstiftung weiter auf skandalösem Kurs’, Leipziger Neue 3 (2006), 7. ‘Aussicht auf Einigung’, TZ, 3 January 2007. ‘Gemeinsame Gedenkstätte ist Realität’, TZ, 16 January 2008. Haustein, Geschichte im Dissens, pp. 34–5. V. Knigge, ‘Zweifacher Schmerz. Speziallagererinnerung jenseits falscher Analogien und Retrodebatten’, in Haustein et al. (eds), Instrumentalisierung, pp. 258–64. J.-W. Müller, ‘East Germany: Incorporation, Tainted Truth, and the Double Division’, in A. B. De Brito, C. Gonzalez-Enriquez, and P. Aguilar (eds), The Politics of Memory and Democratization: Transitional Justice in Democratizing Societies (Oxford, 2001), p. 268. Beattie, ‘The Victims of Totalitarianism’; Haustein, Geschichte im Dissens, pp. 470–2. Beattie, Playing Politics, p. 217. DIZ Torgau (ed.), Spuren des Unrechts: Zur Arbeit des Dokumentations- und Informationszentrums (DIZ) Torgau (Torgau, 1996), pp. 5, 6. Niven, Facing the Nazi Past, p. 50.

Section 5 Memorializing Germany’s Ambivalent Legacies

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5.1 Martin Luther – Rebel, Genius, Liberator: Politics and Marketing 1517–2017 Ulrike Zitzlsperger

The American artist Brad Downey argues that Martin Luther was the first street artist. One of Downey’s paintings shows Luther at the door of the church in Wittenberg. But instead of the 95 theses, Luther writes ‘Beauty is the process itself’, while he is monitored by video cameras and God asks for his autograph.1 Aside from providing a critique of the current status quo of street art, this artwork focuses on what is considered as the defining moment of the Reformation: bold public resistance against the all-embracing powers of the Catholic Church. Equally, it captures the decisive turning point in Luther’s life which shapes any Reformation narrative – in writing, in exhibitions, or in films: as Downey’s work highlights, in 1517 a personal quest turned public. From this point on, Martin Luther was depicted in a wide variety of ways: his followers propagated an image of him as an increasingly saintly figure, his opponents portrayed a seven-headed Luther who collaborated with the devil in plotting the end of Christianity. While the twentieth century refrained from such extreme polemics, there was – and is – still scope for diverse interpretations. The 1520s were the formative years of the Reformation, with the movement taking shape, new factions coming to the fore, the so-called ‘common man’ or lay person striving for involvement, and issues of principle such as the marriage of priests being debated. While Luther remained the focal personality for the Reformation throughout this time, the decade was also shaped by new conflicts – such as the Peasants’ War – and by other influential reformers, theologians, and leaders: Philipp Melanchthon, Martin Bucer, and Thomas Müntzer. By the time Luther died in 1546, a second generation of reformers had established itself and had begun to promote an image of Luther that fitted its cause and its opposition to the Catholic Counter-Reformation. These reformers saw Luther as a triumphant liberator, a prophet and apostle; their perception marks the beginning of a commemoration process in which depictions of Luther are determined by changing contemporary religious, national, and political needs and, therefore, by competing narratives.2 Wittenberg, the place where Luther lived and worked the longest, where he set up home and which draws visitors in search of the reformer (and the Reformation), is just one part of the ‘Luther trail’ that reflects his life and career. 341

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Accordingly, today the brochure Wege zu Luther (Paths to Luther), distributed by the local tourist offices and museums, offers information on Eisenach (with its Luther House and the Wartburg),3 Erfurt (where he lived and worked in the local monastery), Schmalkalden (the Luther House), Eisleben (where Luther was born and died), Wittenberg, and Torgau (with its memorial for Luther’s wife Katharina). Between 1945 and 1989 all these cities and towns were in the former East Germany. If one extended this trail into the former West Germany, then Worms (where Luther refused to recant) and Augsburg (Diet of Augsburg in 1530) would be among the suitable additions to the trail. But Luther, one might argue, is in fact omnipresent: nearly every city or town has a Martin Luther Street. Dresden, Hamburg, Lübeck, Eisleben, Coburg, and Berlin are among the numerous German cities that boast Luther memorials, the majority originating in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.4 The annual Reformation Day (31 October) remains a public holiday in a number of federal states; and the Reformation is integral to the curriculum in German schools. Luther also appeals to popular tastes: the latest attempt to capture his life on screen dates from 2003 (Luther, directed by Eric Till). Luther, so the trailer promised, ‘dared to speak his mind’ and provided a catalyst for change, feeding the contemporary desire for strong individuals.5 Earlier Luther films showed him as the passionate and fierce preacher, the troubled or sensible reformer, the German hero, or the peace maker.6 It appears that the image of Luther is malleable. It is, then, hardly surprising that the commemorative presentations of Luther down the centuries mirror the history and representational needs of the country, with museums and exhibitions providing the public face for academic and public debates. It is particularly interesting to compare these conflicting interpretations of Martin Luther in East and West Germany after 1945, since each state established its own discourse. On the occasion of Martin Luther’s five-hundredth anniversary, in 1983, academics in both East and West sought to foster a broader understanding of the reformer’s life but, as a comparative reading of exhibition catalogues and related publications from East and West Germany will show, the celebrations also testified to the realities of Cold War politics.7 While in the West the exhibition Martin Luther and the Reformation in Germany was mounted at Nuremberg’s Germanic National Museum, the Museum for German History (MGH) in East Berlin held an exhibition entitled Martin Luther and his Times. A series of East German texts written for, or in the wider context of, this latter exhibition form the initial focus of this chapter. In the second part of the argument I take a closer look at the challenges faced by the curators of Wittenberg’s Luther House (Lutherhalle), the foremost museum of Luther’s life and times, in redesigning the museum’s permanent exhibition in time for the anniversary year of 1983.8 The chapter concludes with an overview of developments in the wake of the fall of the Wall.

The Great Divide In 1983, East and West Germany both – but not collaboratively – celebrated the anniversary of the reformer’s birth. (Remarkably, that same year also saw

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the hundredth anniversary of Karl Marx’s death.) While the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) had to compensate for the fact that not only most of the key locations but also the relevant artefacts were predominantly located in the East, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) was striving at that point for international acknowledgement, both politically and in respect of research undertaken in the Early Modern period. The forewords to the various catalogues and publications that year are revealing about the tensions that accompanied the exhibitions themselves. Jargon aside, the aims of the various exhibitions were in principle comparable: exhibition teams on both sides of the Wall were in agreement that to focus exclusively on any one factor such as church politics or social considerations could no longer be seen as an appropriate way to deal with the Reformation. Writing in the context of the exhibition in Nuremberg, Martin Luther and the Reformation in Germany, the then Federal President Karl Carstens states of the approach in the West: With the help of images and documents, this exhibition aims to bring alive, for a wide public, the most important events of Luther’s life and at the same time to acquaint them with the origins, the development, and the consequences of the Reformation. The full extent of Luther’s achievement as a reformer can be understood only if his life, his work, and also his environment – that is, the contemporary, intellectual, cultural, and social circumstances – are seen together and their interaction understood.9 Meanwhile, with reference to the exhibition shown at the MGH in East Berlin, Wolfgang Herbst explains: The exhibition Martin Luther and his Times seeks to define and present his complicated and contradictory personality and the effect he had on his time and beyond. The exhibition shows the many facets of a powerful historical figure, his roots within his own time, his lasting impact but also his limitations.10 Such agreement on the broad principles – the complexity of the character of Martin Luther, the importance of the times – did not mean, however, that there were no ideological distinctions between East and West. For the GDR the question of Martin Luther became embedded in a wider, political discourse with the aim of repositioning the country internationally. Friedrich Engels’ comment that the sixteenth century needed and produced giants became a reference point in East German academic and popular articles of the time. The GDR’s interest in Luther’s life and work was motivated by an understanding of the sixteenth century as a time of unprecedented and exemplary progress in social developments and the emergence of early forms of capitalism that were to be overcome in due course. In this context, following Engels’ approach, the Roman Catholic Church was seen as the international centre of feudalism. For the German Democratic Republic the political importance of Martin Luther as an agent of change was beyond doubt and Wolfgang Herbst thus highlights the importance of the ‘early bourgeois

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revolution’ (frühbürgerliche Revolution). The view that Luther’s translation of the Bible into contemporary German provided the peasants, who until then had been voiceless, with the crucial tools of argument, reinforced the positive perception of the reformer in the East. A more critical debate about his achievements, however, arose in the context of Luther’s refusal to support the peasants’ cause once they actively rebelled against the authorities. The catalogue of the exhibition at the GDR’s MGH, Martin Luther and his Times, presents the better known images associated with the Reformation, reinforcing the fact that the majority of the most outstanding artefacts and documents of the Reformation period were to be found in East Germany – including, to give but one example, a copy of Luther’s 95 theses with his handwritten annotations.11 Accordingly, the catalogue concludes with a sense of undisguised ownership: Because of this exceptional importance for German and world history and because the majority of locations associated with Martin Luther’s activities are to be found within the territory of the German Democratic Republic, the GDR has a special obligation to preserve and take care of the Lutheran heritage and to celebrate the 500th anniversary of his birth.12 In the GDR, even more than in West Germany, the authorities were involved as patrons of the events: the GDR Martin Luther Committee, overseeing the year as a whole and including as one of its members Erich Honecker, was officially constituted on 13 June 1980.13 Both states sought to make Luther their own, placing him firmly within their understanding of history. This was all the more important since the event had been preceded by the somewhat less successful four-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Reformation in 1967. The West had been wary of that occasion, while the East had begun to promote itself as the guardian of ‘progressive traditions of German history’ – a politicizing of historical issues that would become less polemical in tone later on.14 The introduction to the 1983 West German exhibition catalogue, Martin Luther and the Reformation in Germany, states that it was no coincidence that the exhibition was taking place in the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nuremberg. After all, it was, as the introduction reminded the visitors, dedicated to the whole of the German nation. Without mentioning any details, and relying on the contemporary public’s awareness of the polemics that characterized the ‘Luther Year’, the catalogue carefully differentiates between the exhibition and the politics that overshadowed the celebrations: The remarkable fact that on the occasion of the 500th anniversary of his birth Martin Luther seems to be turning into something of a central figure in German politics had no influence on the planning and preparation of the exhibition, in particular since work on the basic conception of the exhibition goes back to the summer of 1979 when no-one could have guessed the dimensions this Luther jubilee would assume.15

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Something of those ‘dimensions’ can be discerned in the host of popular and academic leaflets and books published in the GDR in preparation for and in the wake of the jubilee. Among them is Max Steinmetz’s edited volume Die frühbürgerliche Revolution in Deutschland. This volume is worth considering not only because its approach can be seen as indicative of the way Luther and his time were treated in the East but also because, in the introduction, it reflects explicitly on processes of memorialization, amongst other things providing valuable information about the MGH’s role in interpreting Luther. While Steinmetz sees the celebrations in 1983 as a high point, he also stresses the long-term engagement with Luther and the Reformation’s popular appeal in the GDR. The author lays claim to an East German tradition of commemorating Martin Luther: The series of major commemorations of the Reformation range from those celebrating the events of the year 1517, the end of the peasants’ uprising in Thuringia and the execution of Thomas Müntzer, to the 400th anniversary of the death of Philipp Melanchthon and the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther’s birth. Between 1960 and 1983 they captured the imagination of both academics and the general public in the GDR.16 Steinmetz looks back as far as 1952 when the new design of the permanent exhibition in the MGH triggered heated debates. While the so-called ‘heroic years’ between 1517 and 1521 and the importance of Luther’s translation of the Bible were widely appreciated, new voices were raised in 1952 calling for Luther’s so-called failings to come to the fore.17 Steinmetz remembers the concerns, in 1952, that a negative presentation of Martin Luther in the MGH might undermine his role in the promotion of a national awareness in the GDR – seven years after the end of the Second World War and three years after the foundation of the Republic. Others, however, argued at the time that Luther’s absolute obedience towards the state (his ‘Knechtseligkeit’) was historically representative of the worst characteristics shown by the Germans. According to Steinmetz, Hermann Duncker even called for this ‘to be spelt out’, arguing that ‘visitors of the museum have to be confronted with this problem’.18 In the light of such debates, as recorded by Steinmetz, it becomes clear that the GDR had long regarded Martin Luther as something of a challenge. However, from the vantage point of 1983, Steinmetz implies, such debates had become part of the GDR’s history, while remaining open to careful reassessment on the basis of new research in the Soviet Union and the GDR. That it was now possible to regard the debates with more equanimity, while embracing the more positive aspects of Luther’s legacy, was a sign of the GDR’s maturity. By 1983, for Steinmetz, a new level of understanding of Luther and his times had been achieved. In Steinmetz’s volume, the discourse with academics from the West is more often than not represented in terms of differences between the (appropriate) Marxist and a (less advanced) non-Marxist approach. The GDR literature accompanying and following the 1983 jubilee is less concerned with the development of two

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churches in Germany (Catholic and Protestant). Instead, two different views of political progression are set against each other. The GDR is presented in terms of a unity between Christians and the socialist society while the West is reduced to the role of aggressor. Luther’s legacy is then one of learning – while in reality he serves as a promotional figurehead: On the basis of democratic relations between church and state, linked by a shared humanistic responsibility, the Christian workers of the GDR have found their role in the development of a humane, peaceful, socialist society. Although West German agencies of the state and the church attempted to disrupt this process, the Christian workers have progressed towards an increasingly close co-operation with Marxism and have become an integral part of the new socialist society of the GDR, which is led by the party of the working class.19 The political agenda of the time would lead us to expect that exhibitions commemorating Martin Luther would turn into propaganda tools. However, the case of the site most closely associated with the reformer, the Luther House in Wittenberg, challenges this assumption, revealing a discrepancy between ideologically conservative publications and a more liberal exhibition display.

Luther on show Since 1938 the official title of the town of Wittenberg has been ‘Lutherstadt Wittenberg’, formally stressing its historic importance, and Wittenberg’s Luther House is the pre-eminent museum of Reformation history. Further attractions include the Melanchthonhaus, Schloss, and Schlosskirche (which, together with the Lutherhaus were designated Unesco World Heritage sites in 1996), and the Cranachhaus. This ensemble of locations includes the homes of those who had joined the Lutheran cause such as the artist Cranach and the theologian Melanchthon. Thanks not least to the religious context, which held little attraction for the National Socialists, only limited adaptations had to be made at the Luther House during the National Socialist era (though Luther was, in other contexts, actively promoted in terms of a heroic national tradition).20 Limited war damage and, as the literature provided by the GDR reiterates time and again, the help of the Soviet Union made possible the reopening of the Lutherhalle in 1946. The year coincided with the four-hundredth anniversary of Luther’s death and gave rise to questions regarding his role in the light of Germany’s recent history.21 Given the German churches’ controversial position between 1933 and 1945 and in view of the post-war damage the occasion remained of limited impact. Later, regular exhibitions followed, the rooms being redesigned from 1960 onwards. It is a sign of Wittenberg’s importance that throughout this time West Germany eyed the developments with suspicion: in 1959, the newspaper Die Welt reported, for example, that the Lutherhalle was in danger of being turned into a museum of communist revolutionary history.22

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Wittenberg’s eminence is the result of a long-term development which was identified by the author Helmar Junghans when, in 1979, he described the city’s changing role. Initially the location for commemorative ceremonies and, from the nineteenth century on, memorials, Wittenberg’s original buildings later underwent refurbishment until, in the twentieth century, the immediate link to historic settings was fostered: In this way, Wittenberg remains the location where ideas connected with the Reformation take shape, and where an attempt is made to make Luther’s legacy relevant to the present. For the city this is a great challenge. As Wittenberg’s role in commemorative ceremonies and in events organised centrally by the evangelical churches grows, so too does the pressure to maintain the historical sites.23 Remarkably, the new permanent exhibition which, after three years of major reconstruction work, opened in time for the jubilee year of 1983 betrayed only a very limited amount of the ideologically driven debate in the GDR discussed above, with one exception: the catalogue that accompanied this exhibition, and in particular its introduction, reflected the ideological motivation at the time. A revised edition of the catalogue with a critical post-unification perspective on the GDR’s approach was then published in 1993. While acknowledging the GDR’s considerable investments in Luther memorials in general and the Lutherhalle in Wittenberg in particular, Volkmar Joestel, editor of the 1993 catalogue, says of the 1983 exhibition that, the intended propaganda effect, which was supposed to present the then GDR world-wide as an independent nation of culture, was of limited impact. This is the reason why the exhibition was not a casualty of the end of the regime, as was the case with other historical museums.24 Then – as now – the most important feature of the museum was the chronological presentation of Luther’s life and work. The lecture theatre (Großer Hörsaal) and so-called Lutherstube – Martin Luther’s study – are still integral to the museum and give visitors an experience of particular immediacy. In the commentaries that accompanied the exhibits in 1983 pedagogical considerations made it possible to reject the expectations of more conservative Marxist historians (who wished to see Luther’s perceived shortcomings foregrounded) – not least since, an approach that proved too critical of Luther and might even be accompanied by a positive reassessment of the ‘revolutionary’ Thomas Müntzer, would scarcely have conformed to the state’s requirement that the museum should be attractive to an international audience. It was also helpful that for the first time in the history of East Germany the experts advising on the plans for revision included theologians who had as much say as the others. The solution was to avoid controversy by means of an extensive use of quotations.25

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While diehard Marxists remained critical and lamented the approach, censorship of the texts accompanying the exhibits was nevertheless limited. The considerable success of the museum proved the concept right: When on 16 April [1983] the renovated Lutherhaus with its new exhibitions was opened ‘chaos’ took over. 170,000 visitors had come by the end of the year and at times order had to be maintained with the help of the police.26

Martin Luther in the twenty-first century Since 1989, changes in the museum’s conceptual approach have focused on exhibits and the development of the location. Today the exhibitions are spread over four floors, including a biographical overview (Martin Luther in Wittenberg); the development of the reformer’s ‘image’ (in both its senses) between 1546 and 1983; the Reformation as a media revolution in respect of preaching, propaganda, and polemics; a treasury of precious objects; the history of the building (from monastery to museum); and a display representing daily life of the time, called ‘At Home with Katharina’ in honour of Luther’s wife.27 The idea that different aspects of the Reformation should be reflected by independent exhibitions goes back to the strategy underlying the layout in 1983. As in the 1980s, the Lutherhalle today presents two things: while the museum reconstructs aspects of Reformation history, the building itself gives an immediate impression of a place where Martin Luther lived and worked. Current debates focus on how particular parts of the building are to be treated appropriately – whether successive changes ought to be visible or whether any one concept should be prevalent.28 Evidently, the ‘political’ Luther, the reformer who seems to be adaptable to the issues and concerns of eras as different as the German Empire and the German Democratic Republic is now less of an issue than the appropriate presentation of his life and times. Meanwhile, the core narrative of the Lutheran cause has hardly changed over time. A special exhibition, Finding Luther: Archaeologists on the Reformer’s Trail (Halle, 31 October 2008–26 April 2009), which explored items related to the daily life of the time, introduces Luther in its advertising leaflet in uncontroversial terms, stating that the posting of the 95 theses in Wittenberg in 1517 triggered the beginning of the Reformation and the establishment of the Protestant Church world-wide.29 The exhibition forms part of the ‘Luther decade’ which, under the motto ‘Luther is coming’ (‘Luther kommt!’) and with over 60 events planned to take place over the course of ten years, culminates in the year 2017. This decade of celebration reflects the time between Luther’s arrival in Wittenberg in the autumn of 1508 up until the beginning of the Reformation in 1517 and therefore its five-hundredth anniversary. But not only does the span of ten years build upon Luther’s personal development, it also allows for sufficient time to (further) establish Wittenberg and other ‘Luther cities’ as locations of commemoration and encounter for visitors with historical or religious interests. It is no coincidence that among the many popular developments there is

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now a ‘pilgrimage’ cycle and walking path for the interested public. The advertizing and marketing for international tourism has substantially widened: at the site where the Reformation unfolded it is now, thanks to a somewhat unholy alliance of religion and tourism, not national identity that can be experienced but world history.

Notes 1. See http://www.welt.de/berlin/article2055731/html (accessed 2 June 2008). 2. An overview of this process is provided by G. Chaix, ‘Die Reformation’, in E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, 3 vols (Munich, 2003), vol. 2, pp. 9–27 and V. Joestel and J. Strehle, Luthers Bild und Lutherbilder. Ein Rundgang durch die Wirkungsgeschichte (Wittenberg, 2003). 3. The Wartburg is another example of diverse political interests impacting upon the process of commemoration. See E. François, ‘Die Wartburg’, in François and Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, vol. 2, pp. 154–70. 4. See Otto Kammer, Reformationsdenkmäler des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts: Eine Bestandsaufnahme (Leipzig, 2004) and Martin Steffens, Luthergedenkstätten im 19. Jahrhundert. Memoria – Repräsentation – Denkmalpflege (Regensburg, 2008). Luther memorials are, like the trees dedicated to him, also to be found outside Germany. Luther’s memorial in Wittenberg, which dates from the year 1821, is the first ever to have been erected for an ordinary citizen. Luther’s ‘omnipresence’ – in terms both of real spaces and of the more abstract ‘idea’ of him – could be compared to that of Goethe. 5. The depiction of him as ‘rebel’, ‘genius’, and ‘liberator’ quoted in the title of this article stems from the affirmative subtitle of this film. 6. Under the heading ‘Filmstar Martin Luther’ the ‘Luther House’ in Wittenberg shows excerpts of films since 1926, including productions from the United States, France, the Federal Republic of Germany, and the German Democratic Republic. 7. For further information about the commemoration of Martin Luther in East and West Germany (and at other times) see B. Moeller (ed.), Luther und die Neuzeit (Gütersloh, 1983); J. H. Brinks, Die DDR-Geschichtswissenschaft auf dem Weg zur deutschen Einheit. Luther, Friedrich II und Bismarck als Paradigma politischen Wandels (Frankfurt am Main, 1997); J. Eibach (ed.), Protestantische Identität und Erinnerung. Von der Reformation bis zur Bürgerrechtsbewegung in der DDR (Göttingen, 2003); L. Müller, Diktatur und Revolution. Reformation und Bauernkrieg in der Geschichtsschreibung des ‘Dritten Reiches’ und der DDR (Stuttgart, 2004). 8. Today more than ever Wittenberg epitomizes the commemoration of Martin Luther – not just in terms of his time in the city but in view of the impact it has on ‘Luther tourism’: ‘It’s impossible to walk through Wittenberg [. . .] without stumbling across reminders of Martin Luther. There’s the “Luther oak”, then Luther Street, which leads to the Luther House. Along the way are restaurants offering a “Luther menu” (choice of meat or fish) and a travel agency touting a tour boat named after the city, which couples can book for their weddings. The bars serve Luther beer; the bakery has Luther bread. There’s a huge memorial to Luther in the main marketplace. And the city is crawling with guides decked out in long frocks à la Luther. The city has been completely Lutherised.’ See http://www.spiegel.de/international/germany/0,1518,druck586439,00.html (accessed 29 October 2008). 9. Der Bundespräsident, ‘Vorwort’, in Martin Luther und die Reformation in Deutschland. Ausstellung zum 500. Geburtstag Martin Luthers (Frankfurt am Main, 1983), p. 5. The exhibition, organised by the Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Nuremberg, in cooperation with the Verein für Reformationsgeschichte, lasted from 25 June to 25 September 1983. Translations of all texts are my own.

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10. W. Herbst, ‘Vorwort’, in G. Henniger and Museum für Deutsche Geschichte (eds), Martin Luther und seine Zeit. Sonderausstellung des Museums für Deutsche Geschichte (East Berlin, 1983), p. 1. The exhibition lasted from 15 June 1983 to 20 November 1983. 11. Ibid., p. 40. 12. Ibid., p. 86. 13. The GDR’s claim on German history included not just efforts to reassess Martin Luther but also Friedrich II. 14. See Joestel and Strehle, Luthers Bild und Lutherbilder, p. 77. 15. Martin Luther und die Reformation in Deutschland, p. 15. 16. M. Steinmetz, ‘Einleitung: Reformation und Bauernkrieg – die frühbürgerliche Revolution’, in M. Steinmetz (ed.), Die frühbürgerliche Revolution in Deutschland (Berlin, 1985), pp. 9–30, here p. 9. 17. M. Steinmetz, ‘Einleitung’, p. 17. 18. Ibid., p. 18. 19. L. Stein, ‘Der geistesgeschichtliche und politische Standort der Reformation in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart’, in Steinmetz, Die frühbürgerliche Revolution, pp. 112–29, here p. 126. But this vision of unity belies internal tensions within the GDR in the course of the Luther Year commemorations of 1983. For example, the triptych Table talk with Luther (Tischgespräch mit Luther) commissioned from the East German artist Uwe Pfeifer shows in its central panel Che Guevara and contemporaries in discussion with Luther. Inspired as this modern approach may have been, the painting, considered to be too ambiguous, was not shown in public until it was finally displayed in Halle University well after the event. 20. As Joestel and Strehle explain, the day preceding Luther’s birthday had been ostentatiously used for the celebration of the victims of the march on Berlin in 1923. Joestel and Strehle, Luthers Bild und Lutherbilder, p. 74. 21. See G. Schwaiger (ed.), ‘Reformationsjubiläen’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 93 (1982); M. Roy, Luther in der DDR. Zum Wandel des Lutherbildes in der DDRGeschichtsschreibung (Bochum, 2000). 22. Anon., ‘Zonenregierung greift nach der Wittenberger Lutherhalle’, Die Welt, 2 June 1959. 23. H. Junghans, Wittenberg als Lutherstadt (Berlin, 1979), p. 179. 24. V. Joestel (ed.), Martin Luther, 1483–1546. Katalog der Hauptausstellung in der Lutherhalle Wittenberg (Berlin, 1993), p. 8. 25. Ibid., p. 12. In 1984, one year after the opening, the first issue of the Schriftenreihe der Staatlichen Lutherhalle Wittenberg appeared, marking the new beginning. The issue (‘Staatliche Lutherhalle Wittenberg – 100 Jahre reformationsgeschichtliches Museum’) is dedicated to the museum’s history from its beginnings and includes an impressive collection of visual material. 26. Joestel (ed.), Martin Luther, 1483–1546, p. 13. On the occasion of a regional ‘Kirchentag’ in the same year a sword was symbolically melted and turned into a ploughshare in the museum’s courtyard – highlighting Wittenberg’s particular position between the state’s desire to achieve international appeal (not least as a promoter of peace) and the church’s involvement at the same time. See P. Findeisen, Baudenkmale und Stätten der Reformation in Wittenberg (Berlin, 1994), p. 75. 27. Four catalogues accompany these exhibitions: I. C. Hennen, Das Lutherhaus Wittenberg. Ein bauhistorischer Rundgang (Wittenberg, 2002); A. Heling, Zu Haus bei Martin Luther. Ein alltagsgeschichtlicher Rundgang (Wittenberg, 2003); M. Treu, Martin Luther in Wittenberg. Ein biografischer Rundgang (Wittenberg, 2006); Joestel and Strehle, Luthers Bild und Lutherbilder. 28. For details compare Hennen, Das Lutherhaus Wittenberg (Wittenberg, 2002). 29. Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt/Landesamt für Vorgeschichte, ‘Finding Luther: Archeologists on the Reformer’s Trail’ (advertizing leaflet).

5.2 Building Up and Tearing Down the Myth of German Colonialism: Colonial Denkmale and Mahnmale after 1945 Jason Verber

In 1967, and again in 1968, West German students attempted to topple a Hamburg memorial to Hermann von Wissmann, founder of the German colonial armed force, the Schutztruppe. These efforts reflected the students’ views on the continuing legacies of colonialism and imperialism in West Germany and around the world. After the second, successful attempt to tear down Wissmann’s likeness, the memorial went into storage, an apparent victory for the students. Yet, despite the attention that the authorities, the media, and the public gave these events, little seemed to change. Indeed, it was not a new understanding of Wissmann or the colonial past that prevented the memorial’s immediate return, but rather pragmatism and political expediency. And Wissmann remained, remembered in other memorials and by streets bearing his name, including one in Hamburg. Moreover, in 2005 the Wissmann statue returned, dragged out of storage by the Africa-Hamburg Project in order again to address the problem of remembering colonialism. However, while students in 1968 tore down a memorial in order to protest against contemporary Western colonialism and imperialism, the organizers of its return hoped to create a new memory of the German colonial past and to underscore Hamburg’s shameful role in that history. Since the Second World War, Germans in the Federal Republic have had an ambivalent relationship with the colonial past. On the one hand, it has served as a vehicle for fantasies and nostalgia, providing a seemingly very different story of the relationship between Germans and peoples perceived of as ‘others’ than that told by the Holocaust. On the other hand, it has also been the target of criticism precisely because, critics argue, the colonial past and the more recent National Socialist past were not so different at all. Although German colonial history may seem rather removed from the concerns of West Germans after 1945, these perceived similarities and differences led some West Germans to take up the colonial past and use it as a means towards other, often unrelated ends. The toppling of the Wissmann memorial in 1968 points not only to West German ambivalence towards the German colonial past but also to a shared referencing of that past in conflicting memories and histories of German relations with ‘others’. Its return in 2005, in contrast, coincides with a significant change in the relationship between history, memory, and the colonial past, and thus the Denkmal that once celebrated 351

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a colonial hero has become a Mahnmal warning present and future generations about the mistakes of the past.1 The story of the Wissmann memorial’s departure from and return to Hamburg has become relatively well known, attracting attention from the media, scholars, and even novelist Uwe Timm.2 It appeals to the small circle of academics interested in German memories of colonialism for any number of reasons; the spectacle of student protestors toppling a memorial and the plot twist that is its return are only the most obvious. While literary scholar Ingo Cornils explores the ways in which the toppling of the monument has been remembered, arguing that the event has become part of Germans’ cultural memory, historian Joachim Zeller looks at the way protests against the Wissmann memorial and other colonial memorials after 1945 were meant to provide commentary on the present rather than the past.3 This article considers both the cultural memory of Wissmann and colonialism and the political instrumentalization of the past, investigating the ways in which colonial memorials have figured in the processes by which Germans have come to terms with the past, colonial or otherwise. The article also considers how Wissmann’s return to Hamburg complicates some notions about the duality of history and memory: a memorial that in the 1960s rather neatly fitted Pierre Nora’s concept of lieux de mémoire – sites of memory – has since 2005 apparently become an ally in history’s battle against memory. Nora describes memory as a primitive, social act of connection to the past, and history as a modern, individual, intellectual endeavour born of discontinuity. Only by taking refuge in certain sites of memory has memory survived, protected there by those who share it.4 Yet Nora’s definitions and differentiation of history and memory do not account for all the ways these two incarnations of the past in the present have evolved and been put to use by Germans. The Wissmann memorial is just one example of how sites of memory can come to have multiple meanings, both simultaneously for different groups and over time, changing as a result of interactions between history and memory. Born on 4 September 1853 in Frankfurt (Oder), Hermann von Wissmann did not attain the sort of fame that led to memorialization in statues and street names through his ‘scientific’ work in Africa, as later apologists would claim.5 His popularity – and his noble title – resulted from his role in building and leading the first German colonial Schutztruppe in German East Africa. This was responsible for putting down revolts and solidifying German control. It was largely in recognition of these accomplishments that he became the colony’s governor in July 1895. Yet, not everybody was impressed with Wissmann. He was known as a brutal commander, massacring enemy troops and employing scorched earth tactics. His treatment of prisoners was perhaps worse, if that can be imagined. Wissmann’s reputation nearly cost him the position of governor: Wilhelm II only grudgingly approved his appointment. Wissmann served in the post less than a year, his administration cut short as much by his failing health as his inability to get along with the new commander of the Schutztruppe, Lothar von Trotha. Brief as his time as governor may have been, however, it did cement his position in the pantheon of Germany’s colonial heroes.6

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After Wissmann’s death in 1905, donations from across Germany – including from the Kaiser himself – led to the unveiling of a memorial in Dar-es-Salaam, which had been the starting point of his first military campaign. The memorial not only depicted Wissmann standing proud atop a tall pedestal, but also related symbols: a lion and a flag-bearing Askari at the foot of the memorial (Askaris – literally ‘soldiers’ in Arabic and Swahili – being the indigenous troops serving in European armies in East Africa and the Middle East). This likeness remained in the colony’s capital considerably longer than Wissmann himself, but like Wissmann’s governorship the German colonial empire was short-lived. After the First World War the Treaty of Versailles stripped Germany of its overseas possessions, thanks in large part to British claims of mistreatment and brutality in Germany’s colonies. This outraged German colonialists, who accused the British of falsifying and exaggerating these claims in order to convince US President Woodrow Wilson to ignore the fifth of his Fourteen Points, which might otherwise have left Germany with at least some of its colonies.7 As they sought ways to restore Germany’s overseas empire, colonialist agitators countered anti-German propaganda with their own vision of what German colonial rule had been like, in the process laying the foundation for the myth of German colonialism. Supporters trotted out commentaries from before the First World War by researchers, British colonial governors, and even US President Theodore Roosevelt praising German treatment of Africans as exemplary. They trumpeted minor successes, such as the vice-president of the French National Assembly’s 1925 defence of Germany’s claims for the return of its overseas possessions. Perhaps most importantly, they sought to counter accusations of brutality and mistreatment in the colonies by pointing to the loyalty of African soldiers and porters during the First World War. This propaganda created a myth that thrived on and reinforced the nostalgia of Germans who had actually lived and worked in the colonies, as well as the imaginations of those who had not.8 Another minor victory for colonialist agitators – and another attempt to appeal to nostalgia and the imagination of Germans – was the return to Germany of the Wissmann memorial, which itself furthered the image of African loyalty to Germans. After the First World War the victorious British took the memorial to London as a trophy, but within a few years a request for Wissmann’s return succeeded in bringing the memorial to Hamburg, where a fitting home was found for it in the grounds of the recently founded University of Hamburg, known until 1919, in its previous incarnation, as the Colonial Institute. Hamburg’s role as a port city in Germany’s former and, many at the time hoped, future colonial empire and the enthusiasm of local organizations and individuals helped to bring Wissmann to the city, and one can well imagine how some in Hamburg might have hoped that Wissmann’s return to Germany might be the first step towards the return of Germany’s colonies. Indeed, a new inscription on the memorial indicated as much by leaving room for the addition of the year when the Wissmann memorial left Hamburg, presumably to return to Africa.9 Nostalgia and the myth of German colonialism survived the Second World War in part because a significant number of individuals and groups involved in

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Germany’s colonial endeavours survived it as well. These included figures such as General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, veterans of the Schutztruppe, and even West Germany’s first chancellor, Konrad Adenauer, who served as vice-president of the German Colonial Society (Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft) from 1931 to 1933. Most, like Adenauer, recognized that the era of colonialism was beginning to come to an end, but even in the 1950s the West German Foreign Office continued to receive letters inquiring about or promoting opportunities for West Germany to reclaim its lost colonies or obtain new ones. Similarly, it was not until 1975 that the West German government liquidated the remaining colonial societies and companies operating in the country.10 Increasingly, however, the collective memory of German colonialism lived on in the minds of those who not only had never been to Germany’s colonies but also had been born after the colonies were taken away. For West Germans who had lived through National Socialist rule, the colonial past seemed to provide a counterpoint to the more recent past. It served as an example of German and non-German relations untainted by the inhumanity of Nazi racial policies, proof that the Holocaust had been a terrible perversion and not an expression of some sort of innate German racism. This understanding of the colonial past became evident when Hamburg students began to protest against the memorial: one letter to Die Welt defending Wissmann described him as a role model for people of all colours and as a man who enjoyed the trust and love of Africans both during his life and afterwards.11 A number of newspaper articles pointed to Wissmann’s role in fighting the slave trade in eastern Africa, with Die Welt going so far as to compare the slave trade, rather than colonialism, with some of the crimes being committed in Africa in the present.12 Germany had been – and West Germany was – acting morally and doing good; Hitler had been an exception. Indeed, when students attacked the Wissmann memorial in 1967 and 1968, recent experience seemed to indicate that the memorial was an accurate reflection of the loyalty that Askaris had felt towards German commanders. In 1964, West Germans and former Askaris alike paid homage at the burial of General LettowVorbeck.13 The loyalty of these Africans, flown to West Germany and received by the Foreign Office as honoured guests, reinforced the belief that German colonialism, far from being as brutal as propaganda once claimed, had forged bonds between Germans and Africans and benefited both. This sense of loyalty worked in both directions: Lettow-Vorbeck’s death came only a few months after a television program entitled Imperial Eagle and Giraffe (Reichsadler und Giraffe) reported on the hardships of Askaris in former German East Africa. White West Germans from all walks of life wrote letters to the Foreign Office and donated money to help these black Africans who had fought for Germany.14 If anything, students’ direct assaults on the Wissmann memorial helped to re-entrench a memory of colonialism nurtured by Lettow-Vorbeck’s funeral as well as by reports from Togo and Cameroon describing Africans’ fond memories of German administration prior to the First World War.15 The generation that came of age in the late 1960s had a very different perception of the colonial past to preceding generations; Hamburg students saw in

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the Wissmann memorial the glorification of an ideology of racism and exploitation that stretched from the colonial period across the Third Reich and into the present. Students criticized Wissmann both for his own misdeeds and as a symbol of a system of Western imperialism that they saw continuing around the world. They certainly had history on their side: Wissmann’s victories often became massacres, and many who opposed the German vision of peace and security were tried and sentenced to death. Still, for Hamburg students the past served as the means to an end – in this case, righting a series of long-standing wrongs summed up in one word: imperialism. Students in Hamburg used the Wissmann memorial as a platform (sometimes literally) from which to express solidarity with the Third World and give expression to their anti-colonialist beliefs. Such was the case on 8 August 1967, when students temporarily toppled Wissmann. Peter Schütt, one of the event’s organizers, climbed the memorial to the cheers of onlookers. He perched himself on Wissmann’s shoulders and began to recite anti-colonialist and anti-militaristic slogans borrowed from Ho Chi Minh, Che Guevara, and Patrice Lumumba, much to his audience’s delight.16 One flyer promoting the August 1967 attempt to tear down the memorial proclaimed that Wissmann’s crimes in East Africa were being reproduced in the present day by mercenaries in Africa and General Westmoreland in Vietnam.17 While a memorial to a revered figure from Germany’s colonial past may have been the object around which Hamburg students tied ropes, their real target was much larger and situated in the present, not the past. Solidarity with victims of Western imperialism motivated initial attempts to tear down the Wissmann memorial, but the memorial also became a vehicle for another branch of student movement politics, one which questioned and criticized the establishment with regards to both shortcomings in the present and possible links to the Nazi past. Indeed, it was not until after members of the Hamburg police – present at the August 1967 demonstration all along – stepped in at the last minute to save Wissmann and arrest 17 students that anti-Wissmann sentiment became widespread.18 The university pressed charges, and when the court refused the defendants’ request for a larger courtroom, they decided not to appear in court on 6 November 1968, the day the trial was scheduled to begin. Instead, they joined hundreds of other students on campus for a trial of their own, one in which the political justice system, the police, the university’s rector, and the Department of Higher Education stood accused.19 The charges: preventing a public trial, glorifying colonialism, injuring the autonomy of the university, and failing to act according to the will and best interest of the student body by bringing charges against the would-be statue-topplers.20 Student outrage, particularly at Rector Ehrlicher’s ‘absolutist and autocratic behaviour’, was part of a larger conflict at the university and across West Germany. 21 Ehrlicher’s defence of suspected Nazi ideologue Professor Hans Wenke and his stance regarding Wissmann suggested an unacceptable pattern to Hamburg students, one in which Ehrlicher stood by Nazis and colonial conquerors. Clearly – to Hamburg students, that is – he had to go. No longer would students ‘allow themselves to be terrorized by an oligarchy of specialist idiots (Fachidioten)’, chief among them Ehrlicher himself.22

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Thus, it was not only solidarity with the Third World and with the victims of Western colonialism and imperialism, but also with the victims of a ‘fascist’ administration and an unjust system that led to the toppling of Wissmann’s statue. On 31 October 1968 the Steering Committee for the university’s Student Parliament addressed the issue of the Wissmann memorial and the impending trial of those arrested in August 1967. While the motion brought before the committee did indeed condemn Germany’s colonial past in no uncertain terms, it once again focused on the memorial’s role as ‘a symbol of colonialist endeavours . . . that we reject in every form, for example in Vietnam and Angola’. This motion was carried by a wide margin; a more contentious issue was exactly how best to express solidarity with those about to stand trial. Indeed, this debate broke down in chaos, leading the meeting to dissolve and resulting, ultimately, in Wissmann’s toppling at the hands of a group of student parliamentarians.23 Wissmann’s return to Hamburg in 2005 was not the first instance of a German colonial Denkmal transforming into a Mahnmal. As with the toppling of the Wissmann memorial in 1968, however, previous examples of such a change had been more focused on issues other than the German colonial past. Thus, for example, in 1988 when the city of Hannover rededicated a memorial to Carl Peters – the founder of German East Africa and at least as controversial a figure as Wissmann – the new plaque focused not on the misdeeds of Peters or German colonial rule, but rather on the meaning of the memorial to the Nazis who erected it in 1935.24 The repurposing of the Wissmann memorial looked quite different. The AfricaHamburg Project not only brought the statue out of storage, it also used signs and a website to provide onlookers with information about Wissmann and about German colonialism in general. Organizers also assembled additional information about the particular links between Hamburg and the colonies. Timed to coincide with the hundredth anniversaries of the Herero and Nama revolt in German Southwest Africa and the Maji-Maji War in German East Africa, organizers hoped to provoke conversation and reflection and to explore the ways in which archaic symbols like the Wissmann memorial are interpreted by present-day observers.25 Similarly, in 2004, the Peace Alliance of Brunswick (Friedensbündnis Braunschweig) staged a demonstration for the remembrance of the victims of German colonialism at a monument commemorating Germany’s colonies and the Germans who died there, unveiling their own tablet and inscription for the memorial and calling on the city to officially rededicate the Denkmal as a Mahnmal.26 Unlike the Hamburg students of the late 1960s, fostering awareness about the reality of Germany’s colonial past and promoting critical thinking about the way it is remembered have been central concerns for the Germans involved in these efforts. The success of campaigns like the one that brought Wissmann back to Hamburg is evident in the public’s response. An estimated 200,000–300,000 citizens saw the Wissmann memorial in Hamburg during its 14-month return, and some 35,000 visited the project’s website. In a poll conducted by the project’s organizers, 95 per cent of respondents indicated the Wissmann memorial should not be put back

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into storage but should remain visible to the public in one way or another, so as to promote further reflection and discussion.27 This reflects a new willingness to face the past – colonial or otherwise – objectively and to consider victims as well as heroes. A number of factors contributed to this willingness. A great deal of the Cold War baggage that saddled any discussion of formerly colonized countries has fallen away: the Federal Republic no longer faces claims of neo-colonialism made by a staunchly anti-colonial German Democratic Republic, and the generation of West German students making similar claims has grown up to officially occupy offices that 40 years ago they might have occupied in sit-ins and other demonstrations. Rightist extremism and even violence in post-unification Germany has created a new sensitivity to issues of race, while the end of apartheid in South Africa created the discursive space necessary to deal with other racial injustices, both in the present and in the (colonial) past. The added impetus provided by two sombre anniversaries was only the trigger for public reflection. Yet, these factors alone may not explain the success of the Africa-Hamburg Project. Indeed, although the repurposing of the Wissmann memorial and others like it represents battles won in the campaign for a more active and critical engagement with the German colonial past, the war is far from over. Even in Hamburg there are those who want to preserve the myth of German colonialism. In the ‘Tanzania Park’ at the Lettow-Vorbeck Barracks in Hamburg, three memorials – one for the German Schutztruppe and one each for Askaris and porters in German East Africa – help perpetuate this myth. The unveiling of the latter two in September 2003 after a lengthy restoration marked the opening of the Tanzania Park. Supporters argue that the memorials honour the porters and Askaris involved in the East African campaign from 1914 to 1918, ensuring their service and camaraderie with white German soldiers are not forgotten.28 Critics, including those behind the Africa-Hamburg Project, have pointed out that remembering only these two small groups of Africans, and only in this way, ignores a considerable portion of the African experience under German colonialism. Success in the face of such staunch, if dwindling, opposition might have come to the Africa-Hamburg Project thanks to their tactics. In 1967 and 1968, Hamburg students violently attacked a symbol of the past, at the same time coupling historical facts with radical politics. As a result, West Germans came to associate these facts with the bad taste that student politics left in many of their mouths. At the time, the Wissmann memorial seemed to neatly fit Nora’s description of sites of memory as strongholds of community and continuity in the face of history’s impersonal and disconnected onslaught. The Africa-Hamburg Project, by contrast, sought to integrate the community into a discussion of memory and history, not alienate it. They accomplished this both in the way they provided historical background and through their focus on Hamburg’s role in that history. The political instrumentalization of the past has given way to real attempts to confront and deal with it; cultural preconceptions little inclined to accept criticism have made room for inquiry, reflection, and recognition. In this process the Wissmann memorial has played a new role; Nora’s ‘history’ has not conquered this place of memory. Rather, a new memory of German colonialism is in the making,

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and its embodiment in sites of memory like the Wissmann memorial ensures that this new memory continues to tie those who share it to the past in a visceral way history so often fails to duplicate.

Notes 1. Both Denkmal and Mahnmal might be rendered in English as ‘monument’ or ‘memorial’ but this belies an important distinction: while the former term derives from the verb ‘to think’, the latter comes from the verb ‘to admonish’ and thus describes not simply a monument but a memorial of reproof. 2. U. Timm, Heißer Sommer (Munich, 1998). 3. I. Cornils, ‘Denkmalsturz: The German Student Movement and German Colonialism’, in M. Perraudin and J. Zimmerer (eds), German Colonialism and National Identity (New York, forthcoming); J. Zeller, Kolonialdenkmäler und Geschichtsbewusstsein. Eine Untersuchung der kolonialdeutschen Erinnerungskultur (Frankfurt am Main, 2000). 4. P. Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire’, trans. M. Roudebush, Representations 26, Special Issue: Memory and Counter-Memory (Spring 1989), 7–24. 5. A. Becker et al., Herrmann von Wissmann. Deutschlands größter Afrikaner. Sein Leben und Wirken unter Benutzung des Nachlasses (Berlin, 1906); R. Schmidt, Hermann von Wissmann und Deutschlands koloniales Wirken (Berlin-Grunewald, 1925); ‘Hermann v. Wissmann’, Mitteilungsblatt des Traditionsverbandes ehemaliger Kolonial- und Überseetruppen 9 (March 1959), 6–12. 6. T. Morlang, ‘ “Finde ich keinen Weg, so bahne ich mir einen.”. Der umstrittene “Kolonialheld” Hermann von Wissmann’, in U. van der Heyden and J. Zeller (eds), ‘. . . Macht und Anteil an der Weltherrschaft’. Berlin und der deutsche Kolonialismus (Münster, 2005). 7. Bundesarchiv Koblenz N1408/105: P. Rohrbach, ‘Der Raub der deutschen Kolonien’. 8. Ibid. 9. K. Hermann, ‘Studentenstreik um Symbolik aus Stein. “. . . Zeichen erbärmlicher Schwäche”. Sind die “Afrikakämpfer” Wissmann und Dominik unzeitgemäß?’, Hamburger Echo, 19 July 1961. 10. ‘Gesetz über die Auflösung, Abwicklung und Löschung von Kolonialgesellschaften’, Bundesgesetzblatt 1975 Teil I, no. 100 (20 August 1975), 2253–4. 11. H. Götze, ‘Aus Briefen an die Lokalredaktion: Was hat Wissmann den Studenten getan?’, Die Welt, 8 November 1968. 12. ‘Denkmäler’, Die Welt, 5 November 1968; ‘Forscher und Offizier’, Hamburger Abendblatt, 7 November 1968. 13. ‘Askaris am Sarg Lettow-Vorbecks. Der ehemalige Kommandeur der Schutztruppe Ostafrikas starb im Alter von 94 Jahren’, Süddeutsche Zeitung, 11 March 1964; ‘Beerdigung General v. Lettow-Vorbecks’, Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 15 March 1964. 14. Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (PAAA) Bestand B 34 (Referat I B 3/307), 527: I. Schulz to Deutsches Fernsehen, ARD – 1. Programm, ‘Betr.: Sendung vom 11.1.1964 um 15 Uhr, Die Reporter der Windrose, “Reichsadler und Giraffe” ’, 15 January 1964; Balken to Troßmann, ‘Betr.: Hilfe für Askaris der ehemaligen deutschen Schutztruppe in Ostafrika’, 19 March 1964; Harting to Auswärtiges Amt Referat I B 3, ‘Betr.: Besuch von zwei Askaris aus Tanganjika’, 14 May 1964. 15. P. Grubbe, ‘Ruheloses Afrika (III). In Kamerun träumt man von der großen Eisenbahn’, Die Welt, 20 January 1960; ‘Junger Afrika-Staat hat große Sorgen. In Togo wartet man auf deutsche Ärzte. Bau eines Krankenhauses wird erwogen. Nach 46 Jahren noch gute Erinnerung an die Deutschen’, Allgemeine Zeitung Mainz, 29 December 1961. See also PAAA Bestand B 34 (Referat I B 3/307), 419: Döring, ‘Betr.: Kulturpolitische Übersicht’, 31 October 1963; and PAAA Bestand B 34 (Referat I B 3/307), 772: von Wistinghausen, ‘Erfahrungsbericht’, 23 January 1970.

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16. P. Schütt, ‘Der Denkmalssturz’, Die Tageszeitung, 7 August 1992. 17. ‘Studenten wollten das Wissmann-Denkmal umwerfen. Kleine Demonstration vor der Universität’, Die Welt, 9 August 1967. 18. Schütt, ‘Der Denkmalssturz’. 19. Staatsarchiv Hamburg (StAHH) Universität II Abl. 1981/02 91-54.3 (4) Bd. 1: ‘Vermerk: betr. Demonstration am Mittwoch, 6.11.1968’, 11 November 1968; Münzner, ‘Auszug aus dem Protokoll über die Sitzung des Universitätssenats vom 8. November 1968’, 8 November 1968. 20. StAHH Universität II Abl. 1973 90-70.11 Bd. 5: SHB, SDS, and Arbeitskreis Justiz, ‘Wissmannprozess. Verhandlung verlegt: Vom Justizpalast ins Audimax’, 6 November 1968. 21. Anonymous to Ehrlicher, 10 January 1968, StAHH ZAS A 144 - Wissmann-Denkmal; also see Cornils, ‘Denkmalsturz’. 22. Ibid. 23. StAHH AStA der Uni./199: König, ‘Studentenparlament der Universität Hamburg Präsidium. Kurzprotokoll der 247. Sitzung am 31.10. 1968’, 31 October 1968, 13–14. 24. ‘Mahntafel soll über Karl Peters aufklären’, Hannoversche Stadtteilzeitung, 20 June 1985, Süd edition; ‘Mahntafel gegen Kolonialismus’, Hannoversche Allgemeine Zeitung, 1 July 1988; ‘Karl-Peters-Denkmal: Neue Inschrift’, Bild-Zeitung, 1 July 1988, section ‘Aus den Stadtteilen’; ‘Karl Peters-Gedenkstein ist jetzt ein Mahnmal’, Hannoversche Neue Presse, 1 July 1988 (accessed 9 August 2009). 25. Afrika-Hamburg Projekt, ‘afrika-hamburg.de, English summary’, http://afrika-hamburg. de/english.html. 26. Friedensbuendnis-Braunschweig, ‘Kundgebung zum Gedenken an die Opfer des deutschen Kolonialismus – Volkstrauertag 2004. Umwidmung in ein Anti-Kolonialdenkmal gefordert’, 14 November 2004, http://www.friedensbuendnis-braunschweig.de/106. 0.html (accessed 9 August 2009). 27. Afrika-Hamburg Projekt, ‘afrika-hamburg.de’, English summary. 28. K. Goebel, ‘Walter von Ruckteschells Askari- und Träger-Reliefs an der Hamburger Lettow-Vorbeck-Kaserne’, Mitteilungsblatt des Traditionsverbandes ehemaliger Schutz- und Überseetruppen/Freunde der früheren deutschen Schutzgebiete e.V., no. 91 (February 2005), 96.

5.3 Remembering the Battle of Jutland in Post-War Wilhelmshaven Georg Götz

Introduction When the city of Wilhelmshaven published an account of its not so long history in 1958, veteran journalist Hermann Ahner identified two heydays:1 the era from 1897 to 1914, when a German navy had first come into being and the era from 1935 onwards, when Germany again expanded its navy. In this post-war account, highlights of Wilhelmshaven’s history coincide with eras of major armament efforts, hinting at Wilhelmshaven’s peculiar collective memory, which revolved around warfare and more precisely around maritime warfare. From May 1916, the naval city had a shorthand term for its collective memory: the word ‘Skagerrak’. The name of the strait between Norway and Denmark quickly came to serve both as a symbol of German maritime strength and of Wilhelmshaven’s contribution to the First World War. What had happened there? On 31 May 1916, north-west of the Danish coast, the German High Seas Fleet (Deutsche Hochseeflotte), which had been stationed in Wilhelmshaven, and the British Grand Fleet had run into one another more or less accidentally. The result was the ‘Battle of the Skagerrak’, known to the British as the ‘Battle of Jutland’. However, the ‘biggest naval battle in history’2 had no significant influence upon the First World War: it did not put an end to the British blockade of the North Sea which cut off Germany’s trade and supply routes; the British navy retained its relative superiority. In this respect, the Grand Fleet correctly maintained that it had won a victory. On the other hand, the German navy had managed to sink twice the amount of tonnage and the British navy had lost twice as many lives. Thus, the German navy fervently claimed victory for Germany.

Celebrations in the Weimar Republic The heart of the narrative that formed around this battle was thus the notion of Skagerrak as a great victory and as an indication of German superiority. As always, memorializing one aspect of the past implies that other aspects are best forgotten. The victory was used to repress the experience of the disastrous end of the German navy, as the epicentre of the German revolution of 1918, and to 360

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reclaim the ‘honour’ of the navy allegedly lost.3 The concepts of comradeship and loyalty – both considered specifically German traits4 and supposedly the source of the victory – counteracted accusations of mismanagement by the navy’s leaders. The battle perfectly fitted the fleet development programme of the Kaiserreich, which had focused on preparation for a decisive battle against the leading sea power, England, in the waters around Heligoland. Thus, the battle was remembered in order to guard against the view that German fleet-building had poisoned British-German relations in the first place and had in this way contributed to the outbreak of war. The comrades who had fought the battle were heroes, and as heroes they served as a model for future generations.5 This account of the battle also provided a framework for interpreting the history of Wilhelmshaven. Just as the battle seemed to be the German fleet’s finest moment, it was also considered the finest moment of the fleet’s home base. The battle had been Wilhelmshaven’s contribution to German war efforts, and the only effort the city of Wilhelmshaven could possibly have provided. It also provided the framework for interpreting the depressing present of the city during the Weimar Republic. Due to disarmament in the aftermath of the Treaty of Versailles, Weimar Germany almost entirely lacked naval forces – a catastrophe for a city exclusively orientated towards the navy. The memory of the glorious battle implied that, as soon as possible, Weimar Germany needed a powerful navy again.6 These ideas were formative for the construction of the city’s history for a whole generation. The Social Democrats’ weak attempts to challenge the dominant narrative failed and were soon abandoned. The form of memorialization began to take shape from 1921 onwards, when many of the elements appeared for the first time. The formalization of festivities was an attempt to turn the living memory into a rite. Veterans’ societies such as the Stahlhelm, ubiquitous during the Weimar Republic, or the multitude of local navy veterans’ associations (Marinevereine) joined forces to perform a torch-lit parade on the evening of the 31 May which was followed by a ceremonial tattoo (Großer Zapfenstreich) and by veterans’ reunions. The navy held a memorial service at Wilhelmshaven’s war cemetery (Ehrenfriedhof ) the following morning. The march of veterans’ organizations to the cemetery, which, at that time, was also known as ‘Skagerrak-Friedhof’ or ‘Heldenfriedhof’ (‘Heroes’ Cemetery’), re-enacted the transportation of the bodies of those fallen in the battle in 1916. Veterans’ associations also frequently joined the official navy parade after this service. Marches and parades firmly inscribed the battle onto the city’s map. Usually, a memorial service in the Navy Garrison Church (Marine-Garnisonkirche) concluded the festivities. An athletics event, the Skagerrak Memorial Games (Skagerrak-Gedächtnisspiele), was held each year. During the celebrations, Wilhelmshaven’s citizens decorated the city’s streets with black, white, and red garlands. Shop windows displayed black, white, and red flags, and navy memorabilia. The local newspapers regularly featured reports of the celebrations and an account of the battle itself on their front pages.7 However, these activities only added to the existing image of the city whose outer appearance was permanently dominated by the remembrance of that day.

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Significant locations were the cemetery and the garrison church. The latter was turned into a major memorial by the two military priests working there, Ludwig Müller (1883–1945) and Friedrich Ronneberger (1886–1968). Both priests collected navy memorabilia and put them on display in the church. Most significantly, the old Imperial War Flag of the Navy Headquarters for the North Sea (Marinestation Nordsee), which had to be abandoned after 1921, was put up opposite the pulpit. The garrison church became widely known in Germany – partly under the unofficial name of Navy Memorial Church (Marinegedächtniskirche) – and, together with the war cemetery, marked the city’s memorial landscape. Both church and cemetery had become a tourist attraction by the late 1920s. While Ludwig Müller went on to become Reich Bishop of the National Socialist German Christians (Deutsche Christen) after 1933, Ronneberger, who had first come to Wilhelmshaven in 1915, stayed in the city and, in 1939, was promoted to the head of the Protestant Pastoral Care Services of the German Navy. The year before he had opened the Wilhelmshaven Naval and Colonial Museum (Marineund Kolonialmuseum), which had on display a multitude of souvenirs from Germany’s former colonies but also featured a room devoted to the ‘Victor of the Battle of the Skagerrak, Admiral Scheer’8 . Ronneberger was the chief memorializer of both the German navy and Wilhelmshaven. In addition, he personifies the continuity of remembrance through the Nazi era. For the new National Socialist leadership, values such as comradeship and trust to be placed in leaders of a nation came in handy. National Socialist organizations such as the HJ, SS, or SA now participated in wreath-laying ceremonies. The National Socialist regime left most of the memorialization unchanged but festivities were abandoned in the later war years.

Celebrations after 1952 In 1952, festivities started again on a small scale, but it was the following year of 1953 that marked a date crucial for the resurgence of the Skagerrak celebrations in Wilhelmshaven. In the course of a Great Navy Convention (Großes Marinetreffen) which was held on Friday, 29 May, the German Naval Association (Deutsche Marinebund or DMB) was refounded as an umbrella organization of all navy veterans’ associations (Marinekameradschaften).9 The DMB demonstrated the significance of the battle for German seamen and officers by choosing this particular weekend for the celebrations and for the foundation of a nation-wide naval organization. On the same weekend, the city of Wilhelmshaven celebrated its hundredth birthday, thereby confirming the battle as the finest moment of the city’s past. The form of the festivities closely resembled those held in the 1920s and 1930s. The torch-lit parade on the evening of Saturday, 30 May 1953 ended on the Adalbertplatz, the same square as in the 1920s and 1930s. The parade and ceremony attracted a total of 50,000 spectators10 and was considered ‘the most impressive rally in post-war Wilhelmshaven’.11 As in the years before, the music was provided by the Stahlhelm band, drums, and fifes.12 The parade was followed by veterans’ reunions. The next day, memorial services were held in churches (though not in

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the garrison church, which had been badly damaged by air raids). Wreaths were laid by veterans’ associations, but also by the city of Wilhelmshaven, at the memorial service at the war cemetery. Once again, the shop windows were decorated with photographs, reproductions of old paintings and other memorabilia, often featuring the colours black, white, and red. Finally, athletics were held again on the afternoon of 31 May. Although the form of remembrance did not change, the speeches that were held, the articles that were published, and the opinions voiced in general during the post-war festivities tried to bring old values into alignment with the demands of the present. A certain ambiguity is thus the most prominent feature of the post-war celebrations. After 1945 Ronneberger had been working with the German Mine Sweeping Administration on behalf of the Allied forces. He remained pastor of the navy garrison church in Wilhelmshaven until his retirement in 1956 but he continued to hold sermons during the Skagerrak festivities until 1959. In 1952, Ronneberger, as the only prominent speaker at the celebrations, proclaimed that the fallen of both World Wars had ‘melted into one entity encompassing all, officers and seamen, the dead and the living’13 . For him, the shorthand term ‘Skagerrak’ now included all those who had died in any of the wars, regardless of the actual occasion. In 1953, Ronneberger stated that all those fallen for their Fatherland had not died in vain, before recalling the days after the battle of 1916 when ‘800 coffins had been buried’.14 He continued to invoke the concept of the ‘honour’ of the soldier after 1945. Now, however, this honour was publicly disputed by claims that Wehrmacht soldiers and officers had committed crimes. Contrary to these claims, Ronneberger declared that ‘our brave seamen’ had ‘always fought a clean, honourable fight’15 which, ultimately, would secure respect for the German navy from abroad. Ronneberger thereby helped establish the myth of a clean Kriegsmarine. He also defended military values such as hierarchy and obedience, stating that ‘We must all do our duty wherever God chooses to put us,’16 or ‘Remain loyal until you die!’17 The concept of the seamen’s comradeship was extended to include seamen of all nations, allowing militarism to be reconciled with internationalism.18 At least from 1957 onward,19 Skagerrak remembrance was officially extended to include the fallen soldiers from all nations, because, as the head of the Wilhelmshaven navy veterans’ association, Walter Frank, stated in 1959: ‘We have learned from history.’20 But even before this, an ‘internationalist approach’ to Skagerrak remembrance co-existed and blended with pre-1945 ideas in often confusing ways. A commentary by former vice-admiral Hellmuth Heye (1895–1970) on the occasion of the foundation of the DMB documents his ability to adapt traditional reminiscence as established in the 1920s and 1930s to the demands of the present.21 In 1953, these demands took the guise of the planned European Defence Community. A German contribution implied that German soldiers and, most importantly to Wilhelmshaven, a German navy would be necessary again. Heye went on to recommend a German navy to potential new allies because it

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had gained experience in fighting Germany’s Eastern neighbours in two World Wars. Not only was this plainly wrong, given that the scope and the strategy of the German navy had always been directed against Germany’s Western neighbours or Britain, but it also demonstrates how the confrontation with the East and the traditional fear of the Bolshevik threat now linked up with an orientation towards Western Europe in the face of the Cold War. This could easily connect with concepts such as de Gaulle’s ‘Europe of the Fatherlands’. Consequently, Heye argued that despite ‘self-evident respect for the values of the past’ all participants ought to look forward and ought to declare their ‘loyalty to Europe’.22 This commitment to Europe is also reflected in the attitude towards BritishGerman relations. Before 1945, the Battle of the Skagerrak had been utilized to demonstrate German superiority over Britain. This could not, however, be maintained after 1945. The supreme spirit of German seamen as compared to British seamen could hardly be celebrated when Wilhelmshaven itself was under British occupation. The concept of two noble nations meeting on equal terms now came in handy. Accordingly, the local newspaper considered the battle to have taken place ‘between two peoples related by blood’23 . This idea of a fight among brother nations had first been voiced by marine officer Georg von Hase in 1920 in his volume The Two White Nations (Die zwei weißen Völker)24 but had not aroused any interest in Wilhelmshaven before 1945. On the occasion of the English Queen’s visit to Germany in 1965, Walter Frank, vice-president of the DMB and head of Wilhelmshaven’s navy veterans’ association, stated that Germany and England belonged together. For him, this was a logical conclusion of the Battle of the Skagerrak;25 in fact, it was a plain reversal of pre-1945 memorialization. Besides its pro-European stance, this train of thought had further implications: if German servicemen essentially were of the same kind as the British, then the conduct of the German and the British navy should be judged in the same way. Consequently, there was no need to deny to German seamen the honour that was attributed to the British and there was no need, either, to imprison the leaders of one of the navies. By the 1960s, this issue had disappeared but in the 1950s the question of the POWs was the source of much popular unease in Germany. Wilhelmshaven had a special commitment to some of these POWs: in 1953 Heye had demanded a ‘solution to the depressing Spandau problem’26 as a tradeoff for a German contribution to a European Defence Community. In front of Wilhelmshaven’s Town Hall, former submarine commander Reinhard Suhren (1916–84) spelled out what was meant by the ‘Spandau problem’ by appealing to the Allied forces: ‘Free our imprisoned comrades! Set free our Fleet Admirals, too!’27 Former Fleet Admirals and Commanders-in-Chief Erich Raeder (1876–1960) and Karl Dönitz (1891–1980), who had of course also been Hitler’s successor, had been sentenced as war criminals and were imprisoned in Spandau. Diverging views on this issue would surface time and again in the years to come, for example when a Federal Navy (Bundesmarine) was set up in 1956. On 16 January 1956, the city of Wilhelmshaven provided the setting for the appointment of the first seamen of this navy. Karl-Adolf Zenker (1907–98),28 at that time the highest ranking officer of the German proto-navy, took the opportunity to introduce

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the seamen to their future tasks in NATO. At the same time, he placed the Federal Navy in the tradition of former German sea forces including the navies of the Kaiserreich and the Third Reich. According to him, Raeder and Dönitz had been sentenced at the Nuremberg trials because of their political role alone, and not because of the command they had held in the navy. By this ‘bizarre attempt to separate the admirals as military leaders from their political function and from their personality’,29 he portrayed them as model soldiers to the new servicemen. Zenker’s speech caused a major parliamentary debate, much to the detriment of the first federal minister of defence, Theodor Blank (1905–72), who stepped down six months later. It should be mentioned, however, that remembrance of the sea war played a less prominent role in post-war Germany because the West German navy was rather small, rendering questions of tradition less important. (Compare this with the problem of creating a suitable tradition for the army, analysed elsewhere in this section by Jörg Echternkamp.) In the end, Dönitz was released from prison in October 1956; Raeder had been released a year earlier. This was just in time to participate in the festivities of the Skagerrak Day of 1957, at which a new monument was unveiled in the now restored garrison church. On this occasion, the church and the adjacent square were overcrowded and ‘as the two Fleet Admirals . . . Raeder and Dönitz . . . entered the church, applause burst forth’.30 With this monument, Ronneberger updated Wilhelmshaven’s memorial landscape to take account of the Second World War.31 The grave of the Unknown Seaman, cast in bronze, forms the centre of the memorial. It depicts the waves of the sea with floating oak leaves and an upright anchor resembling a cross. To the left and right are two chambers. In the left-hand chamber, all the losses of the German Navy from 1914–18 are listed on the back wall and in two remembrance books placed in an extra niche. The right-hand chamber’s back wall lists the ships that Germany lost in the Second World War. In addition, it contains two wooden cases which contain name lists of the dead of the German navy and of the merchant navy. All three compartments are linked by an inscription on the church’s side wall stating ‘They all died for their fatherland’ (‘Sie alle starben für ihr Vaterland’). Officially, the memorial is dedicated to all victims of the First and Second World Wars from the navy and the merchant navy of all nations.32 Ronneberger stated that ‘the memorial is meant to commemorate the fallen of these nations, of those who served in the English, American, French, Italian, or Russian navy, and who died for their fatherland’.33 However, there is a striking discrepancy between the physical appearance of the actual monument and what Ronneberger claimed it stood for. Not a word of the inscription mentions any seaman or soldier from outside Germany. Indeed, both chambers of the monument explicitly mention losses of German ships and of German seamen. Also, the central grave of the Unknown Seaman is covered with oak leaves, a traditional symbol for German soldiers, but not for soldiers – alive or fallen – of other nations.34 The opening of this memorial forms the quintessence of Wilhelmshaven’s ambiguous post-war remembrance. It demonstrates a readiness to include other nations into remembrance and a complete failure to do so. It leaves open the

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question of whether a genuine attempt was made or whether Ronneberger just paid lip service to the demands of the times. Nevertheless, the memorial shares an inclusive approach to victimhood with many other memorials in West Germany of the 1950s: rather than commemorating a particular group of victims, it aimed at encompassing several groups of victims – in this case from Germany and from other nations as well as from the First and the Second World Wars – and thereby levelled potential discrepancies. In this respect, too, ‘Skagerrak’ remembrance was a local version of remembrance of the Second World War in West Germany. The opening was the last undertaking in respect of Skagerrak remembrance. By then, Wilhelmshaven’s Museum of Local History (Heimat- und Küstenmuseum) had been founded. The museum also had exhibition rooms devoted to naval warfare and the battle, but the fact that a museum rather than public space provided the location to commemorate the battle shows that the battle had started to vanish from the everyday life of the citizens and thus from communicative memory. In a way, the same can be said of the church monument.

Decline of the celebrations With the establishment of the museum in 1951 and of the monument in the garrison church in 1957, remembrance reached a high point and memory of the battle seemed firmly rooted. But in 1959, the local newspaper for the first time explained to its readers what this day was about35 – an indication of the fact that the battle was no longer on the mind of all citizens. The festivities were still mentioned in official accounts of the city36 but the city considered expanding the festivities to a High Seas Day (Hochseetag) as Wilhelmshaven was in the course of developing an oil landing stage.37 This plan of updating the festivities was never carried out. Moreover, after 1958, the Skagerrak Memorial Games were discontinued. The end of the 1950s therefore form a turning point as other pillars of commemoration also began to crumble. Participation in the festivities declined to ‘several thousand’ people in 1964.38 In 1966, the number had risen for a multitude of reasons, but this high proved to be short-lived.39 In 1967, ‘several hundred’ participated.40 In 1968, protesters tried to block the route of the torch-lit parade41 and in 1970, the last parade was performed42 . The mayor of the city of Wilhelmshaven ceased to appear in this year, sending minor delegates of the city instead. All this clearly shows that Skagerrak remembrance had ultimately been a generational phenomenon and that – to use J. Assmann’s terminology43 – any attempt to transfer it from the communicative memory of this generation to the universal cultural memory of all Wilhelmshaveners had failed. This consideration is underpinned by the fact that the decline of the festivities coincides with Ronneberger’s withdrawal. Ronneberger retired in 1956 and ceased to speak at the festivities as of 1959; he died in 1968. The new military deacon, von Holst, spoke up against the cult of the hero and stated that ‘war and death cannot be the subject of worship’.44 In 1969 and in 1970 remembrance served as a reminder of ‘tolerance’45 and ‘peacekeeping’,46 something which had nothing to do with the battle at all. Rather, these were standard concepts of remembrance in West Germany. In 1974,

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the last report appeared in Wilhelmshaven’s newspaper. Wreaths were still laid but, from an event that made the front page, remembrance had been reduced to a short announcement.

Conclusion Having asserted that, for many Wilhelmshaveners, the narrative of the battle provided an explanation of their situation during the Weimar Republic, now the opposite can be stated for the Federal Republic: the battle could no longer provide an explanation for the city’s situation in the 1960s and 1970s despite the fact that the navy made Wilhelmshaven the second largest army base in Germany. Hardly any mention was made of the ninetieth anniversary of the Battle of the Skagerrak when the fiftieth anniversary of the Federal Navy was celebrated in 2006. This marked a clear departure from tradition not only for the navy but also for the city of Wilhelmshaven. The memory of the battle had vanished along with the generation carrying it.

Notes 1. H. Ahner, ‘Wie die Großstadt am Jadebusen entstand’, in E. Notholt (ed.), Wilhelmshaven. Stadt und Landschaft am Meer (Wilhelmshaven, 1958), pp. 15–47. 2. A. Dohm, Die größte Seeschlacht der Geschichte (Gütersloh, 1936). 3. The German Revolution of November 1918, which did away with the ancient regime, had originated in uprisings by navy servicemen in Wilhelmshaven and Kiel; and in June 1919 the German fleet, which had been interned at the British navy base of Scapa Flow, had been scuttled by its own men. 4. Wilhelmshavener Tageblatt, 30 May 1928. 5. L. Müller, quoted in ‘Skagerrak-Gedenkfeier in der Elisabethkirche’, Wilhelmshavener Tageblatt, 31 May 1923, and ‘Skagerrak – Gedenken’, 31 May 1927. 6. Deutsche Marine-Zeitung, Organ des Bundes Deutscher Marine-Vereine, Special Issue for Skagerrak Day 1926, Foreword by Admiral Zenker. 7. The local newspapers Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, Wilhelmshavener Tageblatt, and Die Republik form the major sources of the speeches and sermons held on this occasion. 8. This museum was closed down at the end of 1940 and not opened again after 1945. See K. Walter, ‘Das Wilhelmshavener Marine- und Kolonialmuseum’, in K. Walter (ed.), Souvenirs von Fremden Küsten (Wilhelmshaven, 2004), pp. 9–21. 9. ‘Zwei Tage im Zeichen des Marinetreffens’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 30 May 1953. The Association’s statutes were not formally passed until 28 November 1953. 10. ‘Im Geiste der Völkerkameradschaft’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1953. 11. Ibid., 12. ‘Der große Zapfenstreich’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1953. 13. ‘Aus dem Gedenken muss die Tat entstehen’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 3 June 1952. 14. ‘Gefallenen-Ehrung auf dem Friedhof’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1953. 15. Ibid., 16. ‘Aus dem Gedenken muss die Tat entstehen’. 17. ‘Den Seegedanken im Herzen verankern’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1959. 18. The Wilhelmshavener Zeitung of 30 May 1953 carries the headline ‘In a Spirit of Comradeship of Peoples’. In 1966, Walter Frank stated that the dead comrades’ experience of comradeship needed to be extended to both friend and foe. ‘Feierlicher “Großer Zapfenstreich” am Vorabend der Skagerrakschlacht’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1966.

368 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24.

25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

Remembering the Battle of Jutland See the discussion on the new memorial in the garrison church below. ‘Den Seegedanken im Herzen verankern’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1959. ‘Den Blick in die Zukunft richten’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 30 May 1953. Ibid., ‘Vor vierzig Jahren. Die Seeschlacht vor dem Skagerrak’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 30 May 1956. In this article the quote is attributed to Reinhard Scheer, commander-in-chief of the German forces in the Battle of Jutland. G. von Hase, Die zwei weißen Völker. Kiel und Skagerrak. Deutsch-Englische Erinnerungen eines Deutschen Seeoffiziers (Leipzig, 1920). An English translation appeared with publishers Skeffington & Son: G. von Hase, Kiel and Jutland (London, 1920). ‘6000 Menschen beim großen Zapfenstreich’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1965. ‘Im Geiste der Völkerkameradschaft’. ‘Gefallenen-Ehrung auf dem Friedhof’. For this paragraph see D. Krüger, ‘Das schwierige Erbe. Die Traditionsansprache des Kapitäns zur See Karl-Adolf Zenker 1956 und ihre parlamentarischen Folgen’, in W. Rahn (ed.), Deutsche Marinen im Wandel. Vom Symbol nationaler Einheit zum Instrument internationaler Sicherheit (Munich, 2005), pp. 549–64. Ibid., p. 551. ‘Marine-Ehrenmal wurde feierlich eingeweiht’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 3 June 1957. He had announced a memorial to the fallen of the Second World War as early as 1953. ‘Im Geiste der Völkerkameradschaft’. ‘Marine-Ehrenmal wurde feierlich eingeweiht’. Quoted in Gemeindekirchenrat der ev.-luth. Kirchengemeinde Wilhelmshaven (ed.), Die Christus- und Garnisonkirche in Wilhelmshaven. Ein Gang durch das Gotteshaus und seine Geschichte (Wilhelmshaven, 1994), p. 39. A. Demandt, Über allen Wipfeln. Der Baum in der Kulturgeschichte (Cologne, 2002). ‘Der 31. Mai weist auf die hohe See’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 30 May 1959. E. Notholt (ed.), Wilhelmshaven. Stadt und Landschaft am Meer (Wilhelmshaven, 1958), p. 42; D. Hartog, Wilhelmshaven. Junge Stadt an der See (Wilhelmshaven, 1960). Two full-page photographs depict the festivities, no page numbers. ‘Der 31. Mai weist auf die hohe See’ and ‘Trotz strömenden Regens nahmen Tausende am Großen Zapfenstreich teil’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1960. ‘Wilhelmshaven und seine Bevölkerung wird diesen Tag niemals vergessen’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1964. The Federal Navy (Bundesmarine) organized the festivities for the first time; it was the fiftieth anniversary; two US battleships visited Wilhelmshaven during the festivities; many American servicemen voluntarily participated in the festivities; the construction of a new boarding facility for seamen, the Gorch-Fock-Haus, began, named after the Lower German poet Gorch Fock (1880–1916), who had died in the battle of 1916 and who had been a favourite patron for the training ships of German navies ever since. ‘Zerstörer “Beatty” und “John W Weeks” seit gestern zu Gast in Wilhelmshaven’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 28 May 1966, and ‘Feierlicher Großer Zapfenstreich auf dem Adalbertplatz’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1966. ‘Eine Stunde der Dankbarkeit’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1967. ‘Wilhelmshavens Fundament ist die See’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 31 May 1968. ‘Heute Abend: Großer Zapfenstreich’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1970. J. Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich, 2002). ‘Tod und Krieg kann man nicht verehren’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1961. ‘Die Kriegstoten mahnen zur Toleranz’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 2 June 1969. ‘Die Toten mahnen uns, den Frieden zu erhalten’, Wilhelmshavener Zeitung, 1 June 1970.

5.4 The Memoralization of 9 November 1918 in the Two German States Arne Segelke

For about 40 years, the two competing German states, the German Democratic Republic (GDR) and the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG), shared a common past. However, this past was turned into differing histories, told as different stories. The divergent narrations of German history accentuated varying events or presented the same events in a dissimilar, often even conflicting way. This chapter discusses the construction and memorialization of a single event, the revolution that occurred in November 1918.1 The revolution became an essential part of the GDR’s founding myth and was memorialized as a national holiday while it was nearly forgotten in the FRG. The article sets out to spotlight how divergent politics of history led to opposing constructions and memorializations of a single event in the two German states. It focuses on the revolution’s decennial anniversaries in 1948, 1958, and 1968. Research on the anniversaries has been conducted by historians in recent years. Yet, most of these studies have focused either on the FRG or the GDR.2 By contrast, this chapter adopts a comparative approach. The analysis draws partly on published sources from the time of the anniversaries and on archival material from the German Federal Archive (Bundesarchiv) in Berlin.

1918 – 1945: Leftist versus rightist views of the revolution Views of the revolution that swept Germany in November 1918 varied from the start. However, most contemporaries felt unable to describe it as a success. From the conservatives’ and liberals’ points of view, the revolution was nothing but a displeasing side effect of the German Empire’s shameful breakdown at the end of the war. The majority of German historians subscribed to this perspective.3 When Chancellor Max von Baden passed over the reins of office to Friedrich Ebert on 9 November, it was the first time in German history that a Social Democrat was to run the affairs of state. Actually, many members of the Social Democratic Party of Germany (SPD) felt uncomfortable with the fact that Ebert had been brought to power by a revolution instead of regular elections. The Communist Party of Germany (KPD), founded in early 1919, declared the revolution a failure because it had not led to the establishment of a socialist state on German soil. The supposed failure of the revolution became an essential element in the party’s founding 369

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myth.4 In 1923, Adolf Hitler and Erich Ludendorff rather coincidentally held their ‘Beer Hall Putsch’ on 8 and 9 November (it had originally been planned for 29 September).5 Yet both of them described this Putsch as a reaction to the revolution of 1918.6 After the Nazi party (NSDAP) came to power in 1933, the KPD was banned and many KPD members were incarcerated in jails and concentration camps, which many did not survive. A monument that had been erected by the KPD in 1926 to remember the victims of the ‘failed revolution’ of 1918 was demolished in 1933 and from 1933 onwards the rightist view of the revolution prevailed. The 8–9 November became a date of remembrance for the ‘Beer Hall Putsch’. It was yet another coincidence that, in 1938, the pogrom against the Jews came to a head on 9 November. (The pogroms had been pre-planned and the assassination of a German diplomat on 7 November 1938 in Paris was used to justify the launch of the campaign.)7

After 1945: An insecure past and rivalry over German history At the end of the Second World War, narratives of German national history became questionable, even invalid, and had to be revised. It was not only historians who felt confronted with the problem of how to interpret the Third Reich: was it the result of historical developments, or rather of an ‘industrial accident’ (Betriebsunfall) in German history?8 This was more than an academic question; it was also a political one, linked to the main question of that time, namely the future state of Germany. As the emergence of two competing German states was imminent, politicians in both parts of Germany searched for historical foundations to legitimize the path taken. There was a rivalry surrounding some lieux de mémoire in German history, such as the birthday of Goethe and the day of Schiller’s death.9 But it was during the centenary of the 1848 Revolution in 1948 that the differing politics of history became obvious.10 The occasion was commemorated in both parts of Germany, but in conflicting ways. Some contemporaries felt uncomfortable with this rivalry over Germany’s past. A (Western) newspaper article from 1948 identified a similar pattern behind the festivities in the Eastern and Western parts of Berlin. ‘It was a race’, the author claimed, ‘for the symbols. [. . .] Here, they talked about freedom; in the Eastern sector, they talked about unity.’11

1948: Remembering the revolution in the East, overlooking it in the West In comparison to the centenary of the 1848 Revolution, the thirtieth anniversary of the November Revolution played only a minor role in 1948.12 In the West, it passed practically unnoticed. But it was commemorated in the East for political reasons. The ruling Socialist Unity Party of Germany (SED) claimed authority over the interpretation of history. The SED was founded in 1946 by uniting the SPD and the KPD in the eastern sector under the auspices of the Soviet Military Administration in Germany (SMAD). Most of the SED’s members had been former Social Democrats, whereas most of the leading cadre had been members

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of the KPD. The party’s view of German history was based on the ideology of Marxism-Leninism. It focused on the struggle of the German working class, the rise of the KPD and its transformation into the SED. The SED described itself as a successor to the KPD. Consequently, the party’s steering committee in 1948 based their narration of the November Revolution on the one the KPD had provided in the 1920s. The members of the committee declared the SED the legal heir of the unsuccessful revolution, aiming to complete the revolutionaries’ efforts some decades later in close alliance with the USSR.13 The first step towards this goal had been the fusion of the KPD and the eastern SPD to form the SED in 1946. Thereafter, the SED’s dominant role and its transformation into a ‘party of the new type’ by adopting Stalinist patterns were declared as an inevitable second step. To the general public, this narrative implied an audacious retelling of German history as taught in schools and universities until 1945. It formed a bold counter-narrative which had to be disseminated to the public. To achieve this goal, the festivities were backed by a small media campaign in the newspapers.14 The central commemorative event in Berlin was held on the evening of 8 November, the date of the Russian October Revolution. It combined the commemoration of both the Bolshevik and the German Revolution. The central speech given by Anton Ackermann that evening was entitled ‘The lessons of two revolutions’. Ackermann, a member of the SED’s steering committee, emphasized that the German revolution was undoubtedly a consequence of the Russian one. Furthermore, he posited that it had taught the inevitability of the German working class movement’s unification under the leadership of a ‘party of the new type’ as defined by Lenin and Stalin. This argument was visualized by the arrangement of the scene behind Ackermann: ‘the portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin looked down from the stage. In the background a large red flag rose up from among some smoking factory chimneys. Up above, a banner proclaimed: “1918 reminds us: strengthen the unity of the working class on the foundation of the class struggle!” ’15 The festivities held on a local level were of a different character. They followed the tradition of ‘labourers’ ceremonies’ as established by Ferdinand Lassalle in the 1860s.16 Those ceremonies combined festive elements, political agitation, and family celebration. In most cases, they centred round a table covered with red cloth. As the history of the revolution was not too well known among the public, the ceremonies aimed to ‘show the historical development of the November Revolution to the simple and unschooled worker’.17 After 1949, the revolution became part of the GDR’s founding myth and was commemorated as a national holiday. In this way, the anniversary of the revolution was added to the official commemorative calendar.18 In the West, the anniversary of the revolution passed nearly unnoticed. The dramatic turnaround in the conceptualization of history – as initiated by the SED in the East for political reasons – did not occur in the Federal Republic. Historians there continued to adhere to the school of Historicism (Historismus), focusing largely on the nineteenth century. In this way, they avoided confronting the Third Reich. Otherwise they would have had to face the difficulty that the Third Reich could not be integrated into a positively continuous, coherent narrative

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of German history.19 In the Federal Republic, historians tended to focus particularly on a period in German history they knew well and could identify with the founding era of the Prussian Empire in the age of Bismarck. In this context, the revolution was of little interest. Described as part of the Prussian Empire’s breakdown, it tended to disappear in the ‘gap’ between the end of the war and the foundation of the Weimar Republic. From this point of view it was even questionable if such a ‘weak’ event could be referred to as a ‘revolution’ at all.20 (And it can be assumed that most of the historians that had been trained and established during the preceding decades did not exactly favour the revolution.)

1958: The ‘two-choice thesis’ in the FRG, ‘de-Stalinizing’ history in the GDR In 1958, as the fortieth anniversary of the revolution drew near, two competing German states with differing political, social, and economic systems had been integrated into opposing political blocs. The FRG’s parliament decided in August 1953 to commemorate 17 June as a public holiday. This date referred to a strike that had spread across the GDR the same year, and had ultimately been quashed by Soviet tanks. The strike was described as a suppressed struggle for freedom in the eastern part of Germany. Thus, the FRG identified itself not with any date in the difficult past, but as an opponent of the GDR. Reciprocal repudiation was fundamental to the ideologies of the FRG as well as the GDR. The date 20 June had been rejected as another possible candidate for a national holiday. It was on this day in 1944 that the failed coup d’état against Hitler had taken place. The date was discarded for two reasons. Firstly, the 1950s was characterized by a ‘communicative silence’ on the Third Reich.21 This may have been rooted in traumatic experiences but had a more practical aspect as well. After a short phase of ‘de-Nazification’, old ranks had been established again. The ‘consensus of silence’ facilitated the citizens’ assimilation into the newly founded FRG but it complicated the war generation’s collective memory of the past. Secondly, the period from 1933 to 1945 had not lost all of its popularity. It was not until the mid-1950s that in public surveys a majority stated its preference for the present over the past.22 German historians still struggled with the problem of continuity in German history, especially in respect of the transitional phase between the Prussian Empire and the establishment of the Weimar Republic. In the 1950s, a rather schematic view of the revolution prevailed, which was later described as the ‘two-choice thesis’.23 It stated that back in 1918/19, there had been a choice between a ‘red’ republic and a parliamentary democracy. The SPD’s Chancellor, Ebert, had chosen the second, democratic option in alliance with the general of the army, Groener.24 In the GDR, the SED claimed that this alliance had betrayed the working class. By contrast, the West German view of the alliance served to rehabilitate the SPD as a political party – it had been dismissed as an ‘enemy of the empire’ in previous decades – by arguing that it had opted for a ‘western’ democracy instead of an ‘eastern’ Lenin-style republic.25 But in the FRG, there was hardly any talk of a

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‘revolution’. Even if the choice made by Ebert was considered the right one, the whole situation in 1918 was judged as a breakdown and collapse. In 1958, in the GDR, the basic narrative of the revolution as developed in 1948 came under scrutiny. De-Stalinization had caused an ideological problem. The official theses on the revolution as written in 1948 had paid much tribute to the writings of Stalin – but those had been removed from the shelves by 1953. A revised depiction had to be provided, and the Politburo formed a committee to resolve this issue. A controversial debate over redefinition of the revolution emerged amongst historians.26 Most of them expected a definition quite opposite to the one provided in the age of Stalin. Walter Ulbricht, head of the Politburo, used his ‘guideline competence’ (Richtlinienkompetenz) on historical questions to end the debate. His narrative (i.e. the Politburo’s one) was ostentatiously based on the one that was created in 1948. Most of the historians and institutions had expected another outcome, but the Politburo’s theses on the revolution formed a text of utmost authority within the GDR.27 They came late and as a surprise. Being pressed for time, authors, editors, and censors hurried to re-edit the publications in time for the fortieth anniversary of the revolution.28 Actually, Ulbricht’s decision constituted a disciplinary measure, as he stated himself in a letter to Khrushchev.29 The campaign to celebrate the fortieth anniversary had been planned since early 1958. It surpassed the one held in 1948 and included media coverage, books, conferences, festivities, and even a film on the subject. It was implemented across the GDR by central and local institutions of the SED.30 As in 1948, the media coverage merged the central with the local activities. The SED was increasingly able to coordinate and to a certain degree control the efforts of the media in line with those of other institutions.31 Like the campaigns on other memorial days, it aimed to create a ‘community of commemoration’ in order to integrate and enthuse the citizens of a state that had been founded only nine years previously.32 The official texts and form of memorialization emphasized a living heritage and the continuance of the revolutionary spirit in the GDR. Historians asked 250 ‘veterans’ about their memories of the revolution and published some of the interviews.33 To demonstrate the uniformity of the memories and their compliance with the official narrative, the authors carefully selected, revised, and edited the interviews. The publication aimed to pass personal, communicative memories on to younger generations in order to establish a collective memory. Following the same intention, recorded interviews with veterans were played to school classes.34 The rather dull and dogmatic film on the revolution – it centred on the adventures of a comrade named Jupp – was not as successful as anticipated. Early in 1959 the SED’s local cadres were requested to use this movie more often in their political ‘work with the masses’.35

1968: The golden jubilee of a revolution As far as the GDR is concerned, the 1960s have been described as a decade that ‘lived on the promise of reform but ended in torpor’.36 In general, the decade has

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been considered a phase of consolidation. This judgement may be applicable to the historical sciences as well.37 In 1965, the first volume of the History of the German Working Class Movement was published. This impressive volume was the most important publication on the history of the GDR. The depiction of the revolution was based on the Politburo’s theses from 1958. The festivities to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the revolution were as carefully planned as usual. This time, the celebrations had to be coordinated with the golden jubilees of some other key events in the GDR’s history: the Bolshevik Revolution, the founding of the KPD, and – last but not least – the twentieth anniversary of the GDR.38 A founding myth and a common historical narrative intertwined these historical events, and their interdependence had to become manifest in the celebrations of the anniversaries. In fact, the activities and institutions listed in the schedule did not differ much from those in 1958. National celebrations in the GDR had become highly ritualized events.39 The media campaign was even larger than in 1958 and included television as well. In order to pass on the ‘living heritage’ and spirit of the revolution, a special programme focusing on East German youth was initiated. In addition, the SED even tried to ‘export’ its concept of the revolution to the FRG’s ‘progressive’ youth as well.40 The Party’s Department of the West had increased its activities since 1967 when a broader student movement formed in the FRG. The re-admission of a communist party in the West in 1968 facilitated the SED’s work in the other part of Germany.41 Travelling cadres visited the FRG, especially universities, but their reports appeared to be disillusioned. Most of the people they spoke to did not care about a revolution in the past, instead asking questions about the GDR’s participation in the suppression of the Prague Spring in 1968.42 In the FRG, too, the 1960s appeared to be a phase both of consolidation and change. The FRG had consolidated as a state, and Chancellor Erhard claimed the ‘end of the post-war period’ in 1965. There was an interest in the state’s prospects and possibilities. Historians became increasingly interested in new perspectives on the German past. This also affected their view of the revolution. The ‘two-choice thesis’ became outdated and was replaced by a debate on possible developments in 1918/19.43 The academic debate was echoed by discussions held within the student movement on alternatives to the German past and present. Though a few publications on the revolution issued from the students, the majority of young people was not as interested in the revolution, as the SED’s travelling cadres had noted. Instead, contemporary revolutionary endeavours like that in Cuba did strike a chord with the student generation while, with regard to German history, the ‘silenced’ years 1933–45 were of greater interest. The newspapers did not feature the anniversary of the revolution, but some German weekly magazines published essays on it. These described the revolution as a failure. One journalist claimed: ‘German memory does not know of any revolutions that would command respect. [. . .] Up to the present day, the history of revolutionary efforts is connected with memories of defeats.’44

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1968–1990: Ritualized festivities and declining interest in the GDR, scholarly debate in the FRG The fiftieth anniversary of the revolution marked a peak in the scale of commemoration celebrations. The activities in 1973, like the ones five years before, focused especially on young people.45 The sixtieth anniversary in 1978 was celebrated with a festive event and some wreath-laying ceremonies. For the planning of the celebrations in 1983, the Politburo noted: ‘like five years ago’.46 Approaching the seventieth anniversary, the remark was ‘procedure as always’.47 The celebrations had become highly ritualized and the ‘revolutionary spirit’ seemed to have declined. Indeed, Erich Honecker as the successor of Walter Ulbricht had declared in 1972 that the GDR had reached a stage of ‘real existing socialism’.48 Compared with Ulbricht, Honecker downplayed the national aspects of the GDR’s history, highlighting instead the close alliance with the USSR. The founding myth had done its duty. To a younger generation, the existence of the FRG and the GDR seemed nothing but a natural fact. In 1988, for the first time, the commemoration of the pogroms of 9 November 1938 overshadowed the celebrations of the anniversary of the revolution.49 Antifascism had been an essential aspect in the GDR’s ideology from the start, but the Holocaust was memorialized only to a certain degree as this was bound up with political and ideological difficulties. This perspective changed in the mid-1980s when remembrance and memorialization of the Holocaust became an aspect of international relations. In the FRG, the debate on other possible developments in 1918/19 lasted until the early 1980s. As cracks began to appear in the consensus of silence in the 1960s, there was increasing interest in the history of the Third Reich. This interest intensified in the 1970s and 1980s. The date 9 November was primarily connected with the pogroms of 1938. This changed, for some time at least, following the fall of the Berlin Wall on 9 November 1989. But the date was viewed as being too controversial to be commemorated as the united Germany’s ‘new’ national holiday. Instead, Federal parliament agreed on 3 October. It was on this day in 1990 that the unification treaty had been signed. From a legal perspective, unification has to be described as the GDR’s accession to the FRG. Soon, the GDR’s culture and traditions started to vanish. Its academic historiography and narratives became outdated and were replaced by the ones established in the FRG. After the rivalry of the two German states had ceased, the politics of history lost some of its importance. From 1945 to 1989 professional historians in the two German states had struggled to develop differing narratives of one German past. These separate views on German history have become questionable since unification. One task for the historian is to combine the GDR’s and the FRG’s parallel and often intertwined histories. This chapter has set out to analyse the politics of history of the two states and their practices of memorialization from such a comparative point of view, focusing on one particular event in German

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history. By now, the debates on 9 November 1918 have ceased and the revolution has become just another historical event in a rather distant past. Yet the ‘reception history’ of this event may throw some light on the formation and manipulation of German history in the era of the two German states. As a historical date, 9 November still exemplifies the complexity of Germany history in the ‘short twentieth century’.50

Notes 1. In the years after 1918 the term ‘the revolution’ was widely used. In the 1920s, the terms ‘German Revolution’ or ‘November Revolution’ were mainly used by leftist writers. Rightist authors tended to avoid the term ‘revolution’. Instead, they referred to the event as ‘9th November’ and to the revolutionaries as ‘November felons’. After the Second World War, the SED chose the term ‘November Revolution’, not least because this evoked associations with the Soviet ‘October Revolution’. When the revolution became a popular issue amongst West German historians in the 1960s, the term ‘German Revolution’ was used. 2. See J. John, ‘Das Bild der Novemberrevolution 1918 in Geschichtspolitik und Geschichtswissenschaft der DDR’, in H. A. Winkler (ed.), Weimar im Widerstreit. Deutungen der ersten deutschen Republik im geteilten Deutschland (Munich, 2002), pp. 43–84; and S. Lokatis, Der rote Faden. Kommunistische Parteigeschichte und Zensur unter Walter Ulbricht (Cologne, 2003). 3. See K. Fries-Thiessenhausen, ‘Politische Kommentare deutscher Historiker 1918/19 zu Niederlage und Staatsumsturz’, in E. Kolb (ed.), Vom Kaiserreich zur Weimarer Republik (Cologne, 1972), pp. 349–68. 4. On this subject, see for example B. Könczöl, ‘ “Dem Liebknecht haben wir’s geschworen, der Rosa Luxemburg reichen wir die Hand”. Der Wandel des 15. Januar als politischer Gedenktag von KPD und SED (1920 bis 1989)’, Jahrbuch für Historische Kommunismusforschung (Berlin, 2005), 171–88. 5. H. Mommsen, ‘Adolf Hitler und der 9. November 1923’, in J. Wilms (ed.), Der 9. November. Fünf Essays zur deutschen Geschichte, 2nd edn (Munich, 1995), pp. 33–48. 6. A. Hitler, Warum musste ein 8. November kommen? Sonderdruck aus der Monatsschrift Deutschlands Erneuerung (Munich, 1933; originally in Monatsschrift Deutschlands Erneuerung 4 (1924)); E. Ludendorff, Deutschland seit der Revolution (Munich, 1924). 7. See S. Friedländer, Nazi Germany and The Jews, 2 vols (London, 1997–2008), vol. 1, The Years of Persecution 1933–1939 (1997), p. 270. 8. This term was coined after the Second World War to describe a somewhat apologetic view on the Third Reich. From this perspective, the Third Reich had been a singular and isolated event in German history that had just ‘happened’ like an accident in a factory. 9. See A. Assmann and U. Frevert, Geschichtsvergessenheit – Geschichtsversessenheit. Vom Umgang mit deutschen Vergangenheiten nach 1945 (Stuttgart, 1999), pp. 175–8; and E. Wolfrum, Geschichtspolitik in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Der Weg zur bundesrepublikanischen Erinnerung 1848–1990 (Darmstadt, 1999), pp. 175–6. 10. Wolfrum, Geschichtspolitik, p. 39. 11. ‘Das Brandenburger Tor als Barrikade. Wettstreit um die Erbfolge der Revolution in Berlin’, Die Zeit, 25 March 1948, 2. 12. Only eight books were published on this subject in 1948 – not many, compared with the 80 which appeared on the revolution of 1848. 13. O. Grotewohl, Dreißig Jahre später. Die Novemberrevolution und die Lehren der Geschichte der deutschen Arbeiterbewegung (East Berlin, 1948). 14. See for example articles in Neues Deutschland, on 7, 8, and 9 November 1948. 15. Ibid., Berlin edition, 9 November 1948, 1.

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16. E. Marquardt, ‘Feste und Feiern’, in U. Fix (ed.), Ritualität in der Kommunikation der DDR (Frankfurt am Main, 1998), pp. 1–49, here p. 35. 17. Dreißig Jahre 9. November. Mahnung und Aufgabe, Material für Gedenkveranstaltungen, compiled by H. Eckel (East Berlin, 1948). 18. Marquardt, ‘Feste und Feiern’, pp. 31–2; Assmann and Frevert, Geschichtsvergessenheit, pp. 186–8. 19. K. Große-Kracht, Die zankende Zunft. Historische Kontroversen in Deutschland nach 1945 (Göttingen, 2005), p. 23. 20. F. Dingel, ‘Bücher zur Einführung und zum Weiterlesen’, in A. Hallen and D. Kerbs (eds), Revolution und Fotografie – Berlin 1918/19 (West Berlin, 1989), pp. 65–84, here p. 65 and p. 72. 21. Assmann and Frevert, Geschichtsvergessenheit, p. 144. 22. D. Thränhardt, Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland 1949–1990 (Frankfurt am Main, 1996), pp. 107–8. 23. H. A. Winkler, Die Sozialdemokratie und die Revolution von 1918/19 – Ein Rückblick nach sechzig Jahren (West Berlin and Bonn, 1979), p. 12. 24. The ‘two-choice thesis’ is most prominently featured in K. D. Erdmann, Die Zeit der Weltkriege (Stuttgart, 1959). 25. Dingel, ‘Bücher zur Einführung’, p. 73. 26. John, ‘Das Bild der Novemberrevolution 1918’, here pp. 60–6. 27. Lokatis, Der rote Faden, p. 26. 28. Ibid., pp. 106–10. 29. Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganizationen der DDR, Bundesarchiv Berlin (henceforth SAPMO-BArch), DY 30/3739; Lokatis, Der rote Faden, p. 101. 30. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/ IV 2/9.02. 31. J. M. Schulz, ‘Medien und Propaganda’, in D. Vorsteher (ed.), Parteiauftrag – Ein neues Deutschland. Bilder, Rituale und Symbole der frühen DDR (Berlin, 1996), pp. 435–53, here p. 446. 32. H. Münkler, ‘Das kulturelle Gedächtnis der DDR’, in Vorsteher (ed.), Parteiauftrag, pp. 458–68, here p. 459. 33. B. Viemeisel, ‘Das Erinnerungsarchiv. Lebenszeugnisse als Quellengruppe im Institut für Marxismus-Leninismus beim ZK der SED’, in M. Sabrow (ed.), Verwaltete Vergangenheit. Geschichtskultur und Herrschaftslegitimation in der DDR (Leipzig, 1997), pp. 117–44, here p. 119. 34. Ibid., p. 119. 35. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/ IV 2/ 902/ 34. 36. S. Wolle, Aufbruch in die Stagnation. Die DDR in den Sechzigerjahren (Bonn, 2005), p. 11. 37. M. Sabrow, Das Diktat des Konsenses. Geschichtswissenschaft in der DDR 1949–1969 (Munich, 2001), pp. 18–9; G. Lozek, ‘Die deutsche Geschichte 1917/18 bis 1945 in der Forschung der DDR (1945 bis Ende der sechziger Jahre)’, in E. Schulin (ed.), Deutsche Geschichtswissenschaft nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg (1945–65) (Munich, 1989), pp. 199–211, here p. 199. 38. SAPMO-BArch, DY/ 30/ IV A 2/ 9.08. 39. See Fix, Ritualität. 40. SAPMO-BArch, DY/ 30/ IV A 2/ 9.08. 41. J. Staudt, Die geheime Westpolitik der SED 1960–1970. Von der gesamtdeutschen Orientierung zur sozialistischen Nation (Berlin, 1993), p. 246. 42. SAPMO-BArch, DY 30/ IV A2/ 10.02/ 50. 43. On this debate, see H. Grebing, ‘Konservative Republik oder soziale Demokratie? - Zur Bewertung der Novemberrevolution in der neueren westdeutschen Historiographie’, in E. Kolb (ed.), Vom Kaiserreich zur Weimarer Republik (Cologne, 1972), pp. 386–425; R. Rürup, ‘Demokratische Revolution und “dritter Weg” – Die deutsche Revolution von 1918/19 in der neueren wissenschaftlichen Diskussion’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft. Zeitschrift für

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44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50.

Memoralization of 9 November 1918 Historische Sozialwissenschaft 9 (1983), 278–301; Dingel, ‘Bücher zur Einführung’, pp. 65–84. J. Fest, ‘Es gibt hier nichts zu schießen . . . ! Die Deutschen und die Revolution’, Der Spiegel 45 (1968), 105. SAPMO-BArch, DY/ 30/ 9666/ 51. Ibid. Ibid. D. Staritz, Geschichte der DDR 1949–1990, 2nd edn (Frankfurt am Main 1996), p. 281. A. Timm, ‘Der 9. November 1938 in der politischen Kultur der DDR’, in R. Steininger and I. Böhler (eds), Der Umgang mit dem Holocaust. Europa – USA – Israel, 2nd edn (Vienna, 1999), pp. 246–62, here p. 260. See E. Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century (London, 2002).

5.5 A Democratic Legacy? The Memorialization of the Weimar Republic and the Politics of History of the Federal Republic of Germany Sebastian Ullrich

‘Are we living under Weimar conditions, Mister Chancellor?’ ran the headline printed by the German weekly Welt am Sonntag early in 2005 above a long interview with Gerhard Schröder.1 Statistics had just shown a rise in unemployment rates to over 5 million people and right-wing extremism appeared to be steadily gaining support. The comparison of today’s Federal Republic of Germany with the first German democracy of 1918 may seem strange at first sight. However, upon looking into recent political debates, it becomes clear that the Weimar Republic is used quite often as a reference point for comments on current developments in Germany. This presence of the Weimar Republic shows that, for the Federal Republic, the first German democracy is – and has been ever since 1945 – more then merely a bygone historical era. The Weimar past hung over the Republic’s beginnings like a very long shadow. The famous phrase ‘Bonn is not Weimar’ (‘Bonn ist nicht Weimar’), coined by the Swiss journalist Fritz René Allemann as a title for his study of the Bonn Republic, was only beginning to gain acceptance as a legitimate depiction when the book was first published in 1956. Contrary to the GDR, where official propaganda left no doubt that ‘lessons from Weimar’ had been learned through the ‘antifascist-democratic’ revolution after 1945, the Federal Republic was never certain of its ‘otherness’ in relationship to Weimar – even though the urge to learn from the failure of the first German democracy had played an important role in the democratic reconstruction after the collapse of National Socialism.2 The past is a battlefield where different political and social groups struggle to dominate public memory and to legitimize their current political agenda by anchoring it historically. When a society has recently experienced a revolution, a political turnaround, a great victory, or a traumatizing defeat, these struggles tend to be especially intense. It is for this reason that the memorialization of the German past was so heavily disputed after 1945. The national self-image and the narrative of national history had been torn apart by the breakdown of the Third Reich. Revising the conservative image of national history and embedding the crimes of the Nazi regime in public memory became a means of fighting for 379

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Western liberal and democratic ideas. The important role that the memory of the German past played in the intellectual and political debates of the Federal Republic has led to a growing body of historical research on the topic. But these studies mainly concentrate on the post-1945 treatment of National Socialism. The ‘after-history’ of the Weimar Republic, the immediate predecessor of the Third Reich, has not yet aroused the attention of researchers in the same way, despite the fact that the memory of the failed German democracy of 1918 was of vital importance for the political culture of the Bonn Republic.3 In the limited space of this essay, the relation between the Federal Republic and its Weimar predecessor cannot be examined in all its respects. This chapter will therefore concentrate on West German memory culture and leave aside the use of Weimar as political argument, which was of major importance for West Germany’s political discourse.4 Likewise, the treatment of Weimar in the GDR will only be confronted to the extent that it proves necessary for understanding the developments in the Federal Republic.5 When the Western allies and the surviving German democratic elites set out to reorganize German political life on a democratic basis after the breakdown of the Third Reich, there were only a few democratic traditions to rely on. The Weimar Republic clearly counted as one of those traditions. In July 1945, the protestant bishop Otto Dibelius expressed scepticism about the prospects of democracy in Germany, because, as he said in a conversation with an American officer, it was an ideology foreign to the German people.6 That democratic reconstruction was only imposed on the Germans by Allied pressure became a widespread argument among right-wing circles. It was, therefore, of vital importance that the emerging political system not be perceived as an anomaly in German history. One possible way of achieving this goal would have been to anchor the Bonn Republic historically by emphasizing the democratic tradition of its Weimar predecessor. It is the aim of this chapter to examine whether the Weimar past has been used in such a way since 1945. In doing so, it will concentrate on the early years of the Federal Republic. The changes that occurred after 1960 can only be touched upon very briefly at the end of this chapter. Looking at the state symbols of the second German democracy – the flag, the national anthem, and even the seals and the coat of arms – what is striking is that they were simply adopted without adaptation from Weimar times. According to an official internet page of Germany’s Ministry of the Interior (since taken offline), this continuity of state symbols between Weimar and Bonn stems from a deliberate decision to tie the West German state to the ‘democratic legacy of the Weimar Republic’.7 Was this really the case? Was the Weimar past used as a resource to ‘invent’ a democratic tradition for the newly founded German democracy? Contemporary opinion polls reveal that in the immediate post-war period, Weimar was viewed in a very negative light by the majority of the German population.8 In public memory, the years of the first Republic were connected with political instability and economic misery. Upon reading political commentaries of the immediate post-war period, Kurt Schumacher, head of the Social Democratic Party (SPD), even came to the conclusion that the Weimar Republic was

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regarded as a ‘greater political sin’ than the Third Reich.9 Weimar had never enjoyed great popularity. The Nazis began a defamatory campaign against the Republic immediately after their rise to power, in order to emphasize the redemption they claimed to bring to the German people. But even among the opponents of the Third Reich both inside and outside of Germany there was a consensus that Weimar had failed. Fierce efforts would have been required to brighten this picture after 1945. In the immediate post-war period between 1945 and 1949, some politicians and publicists, mainly former adherents of the so called ‘Weimar Coalition’, Social Democrats, Catholics, and left-liberals, attacked the Nazi propaganda against the first German democracy. On the whole, however, these attempts to defend Weimar had little impact. This was mainly due to the fact that in large parts of the population, the Weimar Republic served as a scapegoat to explain and excuse former support for the NSDAP. After 1945, Weimar kept the role of a negative foil which it had played in Nazi propaganda. The democratic reconstruction in the Western and the Eastern parts of Germany alike was, therefore, undertaken from the very beginning with the intention of creating a political system different from Weimar democracy. As Otto Dibelius observed in 1945, the bad experiences of the Weimar Republic had discredited the idea of parliamentary democracy in Germany. In order to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the West German population after 1949, the new parliamentary democracy had to prove that it distinguished itself clearly from the Weimar Republic. Due to the negative image of the Weimar Republic, any attempt to anchor the new democratic state in the tradition of its predecessor encountered great obstacles. To highlight the fact that Germany possessed democratic traditions, commentators were more likely to refer to the failed revolution of 1848. The hundredth anniversary of the 1848 revolution was lavishly celebrated in 1948. The 30-year jubilee of the Weimar Republic, on the other hand, was hardly noticed at all in 1948/49. But why then did the Federal Republic adopt Weimar’s state symbols? Upon analysis of the political debates that led to this decision, it becomes clear that the recent claim of the Ministry of the Interior has to be qualified. In fact, Weimar’s state symbols were adopted not because of but in spite of the democratic traditions of the first republic. The symbolic continuity seemed desirable because West German political elites were vying for political legitimacy with the second German state, the GDR. Both states strove to present themselves as natural heirs of the German nation state and of German political traditions. Had the Federal Republic not taken on Weimar’s state symbols, it would have ceded this potential source of political legitimacy to the GDR.10 The rivalry with the GDR can best be observed in the decision to adopt the coat of arms and the seals of the Weimar Republic. Immediately after Bonn’s democracy came into being, the question of how to design the national emblems made its way onto the agenda of the cabinet. To highlight the provisional character of the newly founded state, the first drafts did without symbols and provided a purely textual solution. But this line of thought was not pursued very long. As early as 21 December 1949 the cabinet decided to go back to the emblems of the first

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republic. Papers produced by the Ministry of the Interior illuminate the backdrop to this decision. Ministerialrat Dr Lüders, the ministry official in charge, wrote in a note dated 25 November 1949 that both the ‘Soviet-German Republic in the East’ and the Federal Republic would claim to be the only legitimate heir to the German Reich and that this identity could best be expressed by adopting the state symbols of the Weimar Republic. This being so, Lüders recommended acting at once to prevent the GDR from laying its hands on the precious emblems.11 A few days later he wrote to Edwin Redslob, the former Reichskunstwart, who had been responsible for the design of Weimar’s state symbols, that the necessity of creating a symbolic identity with the first Republic was so obvious that he expected no serious opposition.12 This assessment proved correct. The intention of the Ministry of the Interior was shared by the Office of the Federal President.13 To prevent the GDR from gaining political legitimacy, and to present the Federal Republic as the only legitimate heir to the German Reich, the symbolic continuity with Weimar had to be tolerated. But a reference to the democratic legacy of the first Republic was never the goal. Rather, the decision was perceived as a burden to the second German democracy. This is best illustrated by the debates of the Parliamentary Council (Parlamentarischer Rat) that led to the decision to return to the former national flag of the Weimar Republic, namely the black-red-gold flag that had already been the symbol of the Revolution of 1848. The recommendations that had been elaborated at Herrenchiemsee and served the Parliamentary Council as a first draft of the new constitution proposed a return to black-red-gold, but not without emphasizing that it was by no means intended to present the Basic Law (Grundgesetz) as a second edition of the failed Weimar constitution.14 The majority of the members of the Parliamentary Council shared this view. Their aim was to come up with a constitution that provided remedies for those deficiencies of the Weimar constitution that had in their view caused its failure. Since the alternative colours, namely the black-white-red of imperial Germany, had been ‘ruined’, as Theodor Heuss put it, by the National Socialists the decision in favour of the colours black, red, and gold was easily made.15 The decision to return to Weimar’s tricolour, on the other hand, was heavily disputed. Particularly in the Christian Democratic Union (CDU/CSU), there were deeply rooted reservations about taking up Weimar’s symbols. Their representatives stressed the negative image of Weimar and warned of a growing tide of nationalist opposition should the new democracy be perceived as a second edition of the failed Republic.16 Not all members of the Parliamentary Council shared this conviction. ‘We are of the opinion that the tricolour is by no means besmirched by the times of the Weimar Republic,’ stated a representative of the SPD.17 And for a left-liberal like Theodor Heuss, the prevailing ‘Weimar-phobia’ still stemmed from the defamatory campaign of the National Socialists.18 But even those who spoke in favour of the Weimar flag had no intention of rooting the new state in the democratic legacy of the first Republic. Instead, they wanted to tie the Federal Republic to the traditions of the Revolution of 1848, because they did not want to leave this national symbol to the GDR. Already on 18 May 1948 the German People’s Council (Deutscher

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Volksrat) in the Soviet Zone of Occupation had proclaimed the Tricolour as the flag of the German Democratic Republic. Concerns that Bonn might be identified with its Weimar predecessor proved unfounded, however, because the state symbols were soon primarily associated with the Federal Republic. Its roots in the Weimar Republic increasingly vanished from public memory. This was due in part to the success story which the second German democracy quickly turned out to be. The political stability and the economic growth of the 1950s diminished the shadow of the failed republic. It was also, however, an effect of the symbolic rivalry with the GDR, which provided the emblems of the Federal Republic with additional legitimacy. The GDR created new state symbols – a national anthem, a coat of arms, and seals with no roots in German history. After 1959, when the coat of arms began to appear on the tricolour, the flag differed as well. The more traditional symbols of the Federal Republic thus gained acceptance even among conservatives. These findings are confirmed by an analysis of acts of commemoration in the early Federal Republic: only to a very limited extent was the democratic legacy of the Weimar Republic used to enhance Bonn’s political legitimacy. Contrary to the GDR, West Germany proved disinclined to celebrate. It was agreed that the excessive state-organized ceremonies typical of the Third Reich would not be continued. Which celebrations to keep and which to drop was, however, an open question. After 1949 the Federal Republic had to decide which traditions and historical events should become part of the official memory culture. In theory, the Weimar Republic would have been attractive for Bonn’s politics of memory. Only between 1918 and 1933 had the goal of the 1848 Revolution ‘Unity in Liberty’ been realized; and the first Republic’s foreign policy was characterized by the attempt to overcome peacefully the consequences of a lost World War – an attempt that had to be renewed after 1945. In practice, however, the Weimar Republic played no important role in official commemorations. The 30-year jubilee of Weimar’s Constitution of 11 August 1919, which had been Weimar’s national holiday, passed almost without notice during the electoral campaign of 1949. No serious consideration was ever given to reintroducing this day in the Federal Republic. It was impossible to celebrate the Weimar Constitution, claimed the Stuttgarter Zeitung in 1955, because it had failed. The newspaper conjectured that 11 August could never be a national holiday again.19 Consequently, Weimar’s Constitution Day was more or less ignored by the West German government in the years that followed. Even in 1959, when the fortieth anniversary of the Weimar Constitution attracted a certain amount of attention in the public sphere, official commemoration was limited to a special edition of the weekly newspaper The Parliament (Das Parlament), which was edited by the government-financed Federal Agency for Political Education (Bundeszentrale für Heimatdienst). Even this gesture was presumably directed mainly against the GDR, where the 40-year jubilee of the 1918 Revolution was celebrated with great energy. ‘After 1945, government officials, and not least Adenauer himself, strove to avoid the impression that the newly founded democracy was simply a continuation of the Weimar era, which was compromised in the eyes of the German

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people’, remembered Hans Schäffer, who had been secretary of state in the German Ministry of Finance under chancellor Heinrich Brüning before he was forced to emigrate to Sweden because of his Jewish descent. Adenauer, Heuss, and leaders of the opposition had uttered this sentiment to him personally, he claimed.20 For West Germany’s political elites, a direct link between Bonn’s democracy and its Weimar predecessor was not a feasible option – this becomes clear when the political discourse of the 1950s is analysed. However, a link of this kind was not the only option for anchoring the Weimar past in public memory. The memorialization of important political figures from Weimar times, in isolation from the defamed Republic as a whole, remained a potential source for establishing a democratic tradition for the newly founded Bonn Republic. It was a precondition, however, that these ‘Weimarians’ not be burdened with the historic failure of the Republic. The Prussian Minister President Otto Braun (SPD), his Minister of the Interior Carl Severing (SPD), and Chancellor Heinrich Brüning (Centre Party) could not, therefore, be considered. Neither could Foreign Minister Walther Rathenau, who had signed the Treaty of Rapallo (1922) and was associated with a foreign policy that sided with the Soviet Union against the West. Rathenau, who was shot by extreme-right fanatics in 1922, was praised in the GDR and was thus not a candidate for official memorialization in the Federal Republic. Only two politicians of the interwar years were potential objects for a democratic politics of memory: the first President, Friedrich Ebert (SPD), who had died in 1925; and Gustav Stresemann, who had served the Republic as Chancellor and Foreign Minister from 1923 until his death in 1929. Because of their premature deaths, neither politician could be blamed for the breakdown of the Republic. Indeed, it was speculated that perhaps the Republic could have been saved if they had lived. Additionally, the commemoration of Stresemann, who had received the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1926, could serve to produce a tradition of democratic foreign policy for the Federal Republic, while Ebert stood for important virtues of democratic politicians. Other political leaders of the Weimar Republic were granted newspaper articles on their major birthdays and obituaries upon their deaths, but only Ebert and Stresemann were honoured by efforts to use their memory for the establishment of a democratic tradition. The memorialization of Ebert and Stresemann had already begun before 1933. The republicans had honoured their dead leaders with monuments and street names. During the Third Reich, however, the memory of the representatives of the so called Weimar ‘system’ was banned from public places. This damnatio memoriae was repealed after 1945. The streets were renamed, the monuments restored. However, this happened mainly in the process of coping with the legacy of the Third Reich. After the founding of the Federal Republic in 1949, further attempts were made to anchor Ebert and Stresemann in Bonn’s memory culture. On 28 February 1950 the twenty-fifth anniversary of Ebert’s hour of death was memorialized with remarkable energy and the substantial involvement of the state. Already in November 1949 Kurt Schumacher had asked Federal President Theodor Heuss to honour his predecessor with a public speech. ‘The new state needs a tradition’,

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he wrote, ‘and a democratic tradition in the political life of Germany cannot do without understanding and honouring Friedrich Ebert.’21 Heuss agreed. The memorialization of the first President provided, in his opinion, a good opportunity to ‘form a democratic tradition of the state’.22 Consequently, there was a joint session of the two houses of the German Parliament (Bundestag and Bundesrat) dedicated to the memory of Friedrich Ebert, at which Heuss delivered his speech. At the same time, Ebert’s monument in front of Frankfurt’s Paulskirche, where the German Parliament of 1848 had deliberated, was restored. In Frankfurt, Carl Severing, Minister of the Interior in Prussia and the Reich before 1933, spoke in front of a substantial audience on 28 February 1950. Some regional parliaments joined in commemorating Ebert as well, and numerous articles appeared in the West German press. These efforts, however, did not succeed in establishing the first president in Bonn’s memory culture. Until today, Friedrich Ebert has not played an important role in Germany’s official and public memory. Similarly, the attempts to link the two German democracies by memorializing Gustav Stresemann had only limited impact.23 On his major anniversaries and the day of his death he was honoured in the German press. Additionally, a committee to rebuild the former Stresemann Monument in Mainz, which had been demolished during the Third Reich, was founded in 1953. Almost the entire political elite of the Federal Republic joined this committee, which finally achieved its goal in 1960. In 1957 German cinemas showed a movie about Stresemann which had been generously supported by the Federal Agency for Political Education, because the government hoped it would serve as an advertizement for Adenauer’s policy of European integration. But the memorialization of Stresemann, like that of Ebert, occurred only to a limited extent. This was in part due to a personal dislike that Adenauer, the former major of Cologne, and Heuss, a former liberal member of Weimar’s Parliament, the Reichstag, had already developed towards Stresemann prior to 1933. More importantly, however, the tradition of Weimar’s foreign policy did not coincide as completely with Adenauer’s position as parts of the government claimed. Stresemann signed not only the Treaty of Locarno (1925), which opened the door to the West, but also the Treaty of Berlin (1926) with the Soviet Union, which confirmed the special relations between Berlin and Moscow that had begun with the Treaty of Rapallo. Adenauer’s opponents, who protested against his policy of joining the West (Politik der Westbindung) and called for serious talks with the Soviet Union in order to foster the prospects of German unity, could refer to the tradition of Stresemann’s foreign policy with greater historical accuracy. Weimar’s foreign policy did not side exclusively with the West but kept both options open in order to achieve as much as possible for the Reich. Adenauer’s Western orientation broke with Germany’s foreign policy tradition of acting as an independent Great Power between East and West. In the early years of the Federal Republic, then, Weimar kept its role as a negative foil.24 The political elites strove to prevent Bonn from sliding into ‘Weimar conditions’. Their ‘lessons from Weimar’ served to produce a feeling of trust in the new

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democracy among the West German population. Consequently, the memorialization of the first Republic’s democratic legacy could not be used for this purpose. The attempt to legitimize the Federal Republic according to the motto ‘Bonn is not Weimar’ prevented the first German democracy from being assessed with historical fairness. The politics of history of the early Federal Republic were not designed to establish a democratic memory culture in Germany. Moreover, they were shaped by the conflict with the GDR and aimed at keeping alive the traditions of the German nation state and fostering anti-totalitarian convictions among the population. The fact that the Federal Republic chose 17 June 1953 – the day on which East Germans protested against their government and the Soviet occupation – as a national holiday named Day of German Unity (Tag der Deutschen Einheit), provides the best example for the priorities at work in this regard.25 The early Bonn Republic did not try to base its historical legitimacy on the democratic traditions of a German past, but on its quest for national unity and its ardent anti-communism. Only in the 1960s, when the Federal Republic started to lose its provisional character and German reunification seemed to recede more and more into the distance, did the absence of a democratic memory culture begin to be perceived as a deficit. In February 1970, the President of the Federal Republic, Gustav Heinemann, urged his compatriots in a famous speech to place more emphasis on Germany’s democratic traditions.26 Only after the ‘refounding’ of the Federal Republic by the social-liberal coalition, which governed West Germany until 1982, was there any serious attempt to bring the image of German history and the democratic form of government into correspondence. Today, Heinemann’s demand has been to a large extent fulfilled. Weimar, however, still plays only a minor role in Germany’s memory culture. The ‘Weimar-phobia’ of the early Republic, which stemmed at least partially from the image drawn by Nazi propaganda, has given way to a more positive picture which leaves room for sympathy with the failed experiment. Nonetheless, the first Republic’s presence in Germany’s public sphere is still determined by its role as a negative foil for the second German democracy. The relation between the two Republics remains strained. In 1998, the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the failed revolution of 1848 was celebrated with an enormous amount of public attention. The eightieth anniversary of the revolution of 1918, on the other hand, was hardly noticed by anybody.

Notes 1. ‘Haben wir Weimarer Verhältnisse, Herr Bundeskanzler?’, Welt am Sonntag, 13 February 2005. 2. See S. Ullrich, ‘Im Schatten einer gescheiterten Demokratie. Die Weimarer Republik und der demokratische Neubeginn in den Westzonen’, in H. A. Winkler (ed.), Griff nach der Deutungsmacht. Zur Geschichte der Geschichtspolitik in Deutschland (Göttingen, 2004), pp. 185–208. For the attempts to learn from Weimar in the German Basic Law, see F. K. Fromme, Von der Weimarer Verfassung zum Bonner Grundgesetz. Die verfassungspolitischen Folgerungen des Parlamentarischen Rates aus Weimarer Republik und nationalsozialistischer Diktatur (Tübingen, 1960).

Sebastian Ullrich 387 3. This gap is filled by S. Ullrich, Der Weimar-Komplex. Das Scheitern der ersten deutschen Demokratie und die politische Kultur der frühen Bundesrepublik (Göttingen, 2009). See this book for further references to literature on the topic. 4. For further information on this topic, see C. Gusy (ed.), Weimars lange Schatten. ‘Weimar’ als Argument nach 1945 (Baden-Baden, 2003). 5. For the memorialization of Weimar in the GDR, see H. A. Winkler (ed.), Weimar im Widerstreit. Deutungen der ersten deutschen Republik im geteilten Deutschland (Munich, 2002). 6. M. M. Knappen, ‘Report on a conference with Dr. Dibelius’, in C. Vollnhals (ed.), Die Evangelische Kirche nach dem Zusammenbruch. Berichte ausländischer Beobachter aus dem Jahre 1945 (Göttingen, 1988), p. 60. 7. See http://www.bund.de/nn_58892/Microsites/Protokoll/Staatliche-Symbole/Bundeswappen/Bundeswappen-knoten.html__nnn=true (accessed 20 February 2009). 8. E. Noelle and E. P. Neumann (eds), Jahrbuch der öffentlichen Meinung 1947–1955 (Allensbach, 1956), p. 126. 9. K. Schumacher, ‘Die Sozialdemokratie im Kampf für Freiheit und Sozialismus (1948)’, in W. Albrecht (ed.), Kurt Schumacher. Reden, Schriften, Korrespondenzen 1945–1952 (Berlin (FRG) and Bonn, 1985), p. 595. 10. See M. Myers Feinstein, State Symbols: The Quest for Legitimacy in the Federal Republic of Germany and the German Democratic Republic 1949–1959 (Boston and Leiden, 2001). 11. See Bundesarchiv Koblenz, B 106/77111: Note by Lüders, 25 November 1949. 12. Ibid.: Letter from Lüders to Redslob, 29 November 1949. 13. Ibid.: Note of 7 December 1949 on the conference between Ministerialdirektor Dr. Klaiber and Ministerialrat v. Herwarth from 6 December 1949. 14. See P. Bucher (ed.), Der Parlamentarische Rat 1948–1949. Akten und Protokolle (2): Der Verfassungskonvent auf Herrenchiemsee (Boppard am Rhein, 1981), pp. 205–6, 352, and 518–19. 15. See E. Pikart and W. Werner, Der Parlamentarische Rat (5): Ausschuss für Grundsatzfragen (Boppard am Rhein, 1993), p. 491. 16. See R. Salzmann (ed.), Die CDU/CSU im Parlamentarischen Rat. Sitzungsprotokolle der Unionsfraktion (Stuttgart, 1981), p. 81; and Pikart and Werner, Der Parlamentarische Rat (5), pp. 465–6, 490. 17. Pikart and Werner, Der Parlamentarische Rat (5), p. 469. 18. Ibid., p. 491. 19. H. Lindemann, ‘Kein Nationalfeiertag’, Stuttgarter Zeitung, 18 January 1955. 20. Institut für Zeitgeschichte (Archiv), Munich: Papers of Hans Schäffer, file no. 45: Letter from Hans Schäffer to Werner Conze, 8 July 1964. 21. Bundesarchiv Koblenz, B 122/615: Letter from Schumacher to Heuss, 21 November 1949. 22. Ibid.: Letter from Heuss to Schumacher, 22 November 1949. 23. See E. Kolb, ‘Das Stresemannbild im Wandel der Zeit’, in D. Klein, K. Hildebrand, and A. Schulz (eds), Historie und Leben. Der Historiker als Wissenschaftler und Zeitgenosse. Festschrift für Lothar Gall (Munich, 2006), pp. 573–85; and A. Körber, Gustav Stresemann als Europäer, Patriot, Wegbereiter und potentieller Verhinderer Hitlers. Historisch-politische Sinnbildungen in der öffentlichen Erinnerung (Hamburg, 1999). 24. See D. Schirmer, ‘Ist Bonn Weimar ist Berlin? Die Weimarer Republik als symbolisches Dispositiv der deutschen Nachkriegsdemokratien’, in F. Balke and B. Wagner (eds), Vom Nutzen und Nachteil historischer Vergleiche. Der Fall Bonn-Weimar (Frankfurt am Main and New York, 1997), pp. 125–46. 25. See E. Wolfrum, Geschichtspolitik in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland. Der Weg zur bundesrepublikanischen Erinnerung 1948–1990 (Darmstadt, 1999). 26. G. W. Heinemann, Präsidiale Reden (Frankfurt am Main, 1975), pp. 127–32.

5.6 Memorializing the Military: Traditions, Exhibitions, and Monuments in the West German Army from the 1950s to the Present Jörg Echternkamp

The pitfalls of military tradition The military needs tradition. It does not take long for Bundeswehr recruits to get this impression. They may, for instance, take up their duties at Graf Stauffenberg Barracks in Sigmaringen, Generaloberst Beck barracks in Sonthofen, or Henning von Tresckow barracks near Potsdam. As part of the political education they are given, they will certainly visit a touring exhibition or a memorial which, just like the names of the premises at which they serve, reminds them of the military resistance mounted in the Third Reich. They might one day stand in front of memorials to the German Army, Air Force, or Navy and in the future they are highly likely also to visit the Bundeswehr’s principal military history museum (the Militärhistorisches Museum der Bundeswehr) in Dresden, currently undergoing major remodelling, in what is the biggest new museum project in the Federal Republic. There is no doubt: even the armed forces of the twenty-first century cannot do without assuring themselves of their role in history. The symbolic and social practice of cultivation of tradition is, however, not limited to the military community, but extends far into the public sphere. Military ceremonies and commemorative events, like the one staged in front of the Reichstag in Berlin on 20 July 2008 at which the Guard Battalion took its pledge in public, are increasingly being held coram publico, and due to their transmission in the media are attracting greater attention. However, such public acts of remembrance have been controversial due to the Nazi past and the Second World War. Since West Germany’s rearmament in the mid-1950s, the (West) German military’s handling of the past, the contents and forms of historical representation, have been linked to the historical conscience of the entire society. Since the re-establishment of an army ten years after the surrender of May 1945, the end of the war has been a particularly explosive issue in military remembrance. The year 1945 is not just a political and military caesura, but also a turning point in military history which redefined the way in which the military handled the 388

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past. The political sea-change of 1945 hindered the unbroken cultivation of tradition. The army of the Federal Republic, which defined itself not least through its dissociation from National Socialism, could not directly connect to the Wehrmacht as an institution since it was the military tool of the National Socialist regime. The wider problem of how to develop an image of the National Socialist war that could be shared by the whole of German society was reflected in particular in the problem of deciding what was deserving of consideration as military tradition. The Bundeswehr adopted the practice of naming some of its facilities after certain individual Wehrmacht soldiers deemed worthy of remembrance. Given the thriving veterans’ culture, it is not surprising that older images of war and soldiery also circulated in the Bundeswehr – founded in 1955/56 – and that they met with wide approval among the soldiers regardless of their ranks. The Federal Republic’s concept of a modern soldier as a ‘citizen in uniform’ was developed at an early stage, and until the 1970s the ‘founding fathers’ of the Bundeswehr repeatedly encountered fierce resistance whenever they rejected the idea that the Wehrmacht could ever constitute an element of tradition. In accordance with the new leadership philosophy of the Bundeswehr, the concept of Innere Führung (leadership development and civic education), Bundeswehr soldiers are accepted as members of civilian society and are committed to defending the free and democratic basic order of the state they serve. This new philosophy complicated the search for military tradition.1 This chapter begins by considering how successive West German governments and the military leadership attempted to invent a tradition for the Bundeswehr. It goes on to examine the concretization of this ‘tradition’ in two different memorial forms: exhibitions and monuments. The analysis of exhibitions draws on documentary evidence in the form of government guidelines on the design and conceptual framework of exhibitions for, and about, the military. The analysis of monuments shows how different branches of the armed forces and successive incarnations of the army (Reichswehr, Wehrmacht, Bundeswehr) have been lumped together in commemoration, and considers the sensitivities at play in their disaggregation in more recent memorials.

Museums, collections, and touring exhibitions: Representations of the past in the Bundeswehr Staging the military past in military history museums, collections, and exhibitions generally has a particularly strong effect on the visitor if the museological principle of the historical original is applied: the authenticity of the object on display and the possibility of experiencing sensually the historical evidence make military history more accessible; at the same time there is, of course, an increased risk of evoking an emotional rather than a rational response to history. In the light of this, what functions have been assigned to the presentation of military history in the Federal Republic? What are the target groups for the different forms? What place do museums in particular have as military institutions in the civilian public’s culture of commemoration? By studying government directives on Germany’s

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military museums, their brochures and website presentations, it is possible, in the section that follows, to draw conclusions about the museums’ institutional agendas, about their perceptions of their own work, and about the way in which they hope to be viewed by the public. Successive defence ministers – most recently Volker Rühe of the Christian Democratic Party (CDU) in 1994 – issued directives to set a course for the museums.2 The Ministry of Defence is responsible for ‘the comprehensive presentation of German military history’ from its beginnings to the present day. Illustrating this history for the military and civilian members of the Bundeswehr and the interested public has become the task of the military museums and the small collections of military objects kept for the purposes of instruction (the so-called Lehr- und Studiensammlungen) in various barracks. The presentation of the military past in museums therefore has three objectives: firstly, it serves the basic as well as the advanced training needs of military personnel in the fields of history and politics, military technology, and leadership; secondly, it supports the cultivation of tradition; thirdly, it serves to attract the civilian public and improve its relationship with the military. The military’s presentation of (its own) military history in museums finds its justification not least in the role it plays in attracting recruits and in the contribution it has made to enhancing understanding of the Bundeswehr and security policy. Confronting civilians with ‘issues of “the military, state, and society” over the course of time’, with the emphasis on the post-war period after 1945, has the purpose of arousing positive interest in the Bundeswehr, while avoiding the tendency to glorify the military in the past and present.3 This corresponds to a modern, integrated concept of military history which overcomes the old, limited concept of ‘war history’ (Kriegsgeschichte) and aims to demonstrate the interrelation between the military and society. This idea in turn reflects scholarly debate on modern military history and corresponds to the academic philosophy of the Military History Research Institute (Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt or MGFA), which is in charge of the museums under discussion here.4 The fact that modern military history includes the relationship of the military to society in all its aspects has facilitated access to the military past for a civilian audience. Military history is mainly presented in the two largest military history museums of the Bundeswehr: the Air Force Museum (Luftwaffenmuseum) in Berlin and the Military History Museum of the Bundeswehr in Dresden, mentioned above. The Air Force Museum is located on the premises of the former military airfield of Berlin-Gatow.5 The historical site – the history of which is also a topic covered by the museum – provides a direct link to the military history of the Wehrmacht. The adjoining barracks were built in 1934/35 as an ‘elite school’ for officers of the National Socialist regime’s air force. The museum grew out of a private collection of items of Wehrmacht equipment, medals, uniforms, and technical equipment that had been established by a member of the Bundeswehr in the late 1950s. In 1967, a society known as the Kuratorium Luftwaffenmuseum e.V. was founded to support the work of the museum. Twenty years later, the collection – which by that time consisted of more than 15,000 exhibits – became state property; and

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since 1999 the museum has been under the supervision of the Military History Research Institute. The museum focuses on the history of the Bundeswehr and, since 1990, of the East German National People’s Army and their integration into NATO and the Warsaw Pact respectively. It also covers Allied air operations against Germany in the First and Second World Wars and the presence of foreign armed forces on German soil after 1945. The representation of eras of aviation history in the museum – using large exhibits like military aircraft and helicopters, weapons, bombs, uniforms, and medals – helps to generate a tradition for the Air Force as a service that continued across the political ruptures. The first special exhibition was staged in 1995 – on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of the founding of the Bundeswehr – and was dedicated to military aviation in Germany from 1886 to 1990. The Military History Museum in Dresden has been designated the ‘principal museum’6 of the Bundeswehr. With exhibition space covering more than 19,000 square metres, it will be the largest military history museum in Germany. The prestigious building, which in the late nineteenth century was used as an armoury and after the war as the GDR army museum, has been under reconstruction since 2004 in accordance with plans by Daniel Libeskind and H. G. Merz. The military history exhibition, which is planned to open in 2010, is based on a conceptual framework that provides a partial reinterpretation of national military history from different angles, using novel forms of expression. In future, the visitor will have the choice of either following the chronological tour through the past or learning military history through thematic cross-sections. Individual exhibits will reveal continuities and ruptures in military history over the centuries; typical themes will be the relationship between politics and violence, between military and civilian society, and between the military and animals. The destructive dimension of the military and the suffering caused by war will be addressed, as will the shaping power of technological progress. Finally, the military history museum will indirectly focus on itself, with the relationship between the military and memory being presented on a meta-level. Using the latest findings of historiographical and museological research, the museum will seek to arouse the visitor’s interest in the historical development of the (German) military, departing from the usual presentation of uniforms, weapons, and tanks. By interpreting the role of the military in the past as a consequence of the use of force or violence by the state and by society, the museum management takes inspiration from contemporary research methods. Not only does it make a direct contribution to the cultural history of violence; it also adopts an actor-centred and anthropological approach by which access to military history is sought not so much through structures and objects as through individual people. The perceptions and emotions of the individual, rather than the tradition of strategic thinking and technological innovation, are considered the key to understanding war. Instead of cultivating tradition through a museum master narrative, the aim is to disrupt the supposed coherence by offering options and a multitude of perspectives. This also reflects the ambition of the military to provide a pluralist image of history,

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in the interests of which a commitment to ‘balance’ is made – however this may be defined.7 While military history museums have often been aimed at an audience with a particular interest in military history, the audience in this case is meant to be much wider. The architecture alone ought to generate curiosity: the combination of the old arsenal building with a new annex that protrudes above the roof of the old building like a wedge, symbolically opening the ensemble in the direction of the historic centre of Dresden that was destroyed during the war. At the same time, it points towards a benchmark in the remembrance of the Second World War in unified Germany: the Church of Our Lady (Frauenkirche), which was destroyed in the bombing of Dresden and reopened after rebuilding in 2005. The aim is to present an ‘experience-based’ exhibition that is also directed at school groups, young people, and children. On top of that, special exhibitions will take up current topics and underline the historical relevance of military tradition. Military history for the whole family – this is the motto with which the military is apparently trying to communicate military tradition not just to its own soldiers, but also to a wide civilian audience. At the same time, this form of museum-based remembrance serves as a forum for a critical discussion of the military past. Special exhibitions and cinema shows are just a part of the programme, as are public presentations by experts. In this way, the planned military history museum offers different modes of remembering: from an emotionally gripping representation of war and of the military in history, to a critical reflection upon them. For soldiers in the barracks, as opposed to the civilian public, a second way into the past are the collections of exhibits and prototypes (so-called Lehrsammlungen) and study collections (Studiensammlungen),8 together with military history collections. More so than the exhibitions in military museums, the special exhibitions staged at the various schools of the Bundeswehr are intended primarily to support the soldiers’ education. The main purpose of the so-called rooms of tradition (Traditionsräume), by contrast, is to establish an individual historical tradition for each military unit. Where these exhibitions present the regimental history during the Federal Republic, that is, as part of the democratic social order, the result tends to be a ‘system-compliant’ and therefore unproblematic military history. Things get more difficult if the museum presentation goes further back into the past and focuses on the history of a garrison and a barracks; of the military in a region, or a branch of it; of the ‘tradition units’ (Traditionsverbände, disbanded units whose tradition is cultivated in successor units); of military symbols (unit crests, Iron Cross, unit colours); or of the names of barracks or ships. In such cases, it is necessary to represent the role of the military in a period in which the political system was contrary to that in the Federal Republic; this is the case with the National People’s Army or the Wehrmacht. The problem is obvious: the more the historical view focuses on a mere detail of history, the greater the danger is of a merely affective approach being taken to the original, with no attention being paid to the political context. This has provoked many a scandal where nostalgic enthusiasm and antiquarian interest in military items (of the Wehrmacht) have become known. In these cases there was a particular demand for distance and contextualization.

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It is no coincidence that the Ministry has reserved the right to approve the designs of the various ‘collections’ before they are put on show by the superior commands. To avoid dilettantism, the material covered in the exhibition has been explicitly restricted to the educational purposes of the military office (Dienststelle) concerned.9 Military tradition serves as a visual aid.10 According to the Ministry guidelines, the military history collections that have existed in Bundeswehr units and offices since 1999 can also include previously undisplayed or controversial exhibits. Their purpose is not least to establish and cultivate the tradition of each unit, agency, or school. The Military History Collection ‘Lippische Rose’ is a case in point. In 2004, it was opened in the Generalfeldmarschall-Rommel barracks in Augustdorf (Westfalia) – a ‘museum directly for the troops’, as the slogan goes.11 The collection provides information on tradition and armaments to the soldiers of the armoured brigade in one of Germany’s largest barracks. A third way of enabling people to assure themselves of their role in history is offered by exhibitions intended to provide a deeper insight into special military topics, especially those facilitating the establishment of tradition. A very good example of this is the MGFA touring exhibition which opened on 25 June 1984 on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of the assassination attempt on Hitler led by Claus von Stauffenberg. It bore the title Uprising of Conscience – Military Resistance against Hitler and the National Socialist Regime from 1933 to 1945 (Aufstand des Gewissens – Militärischer Widerstand gegen Hitler und das NS-Regime 1933–1945). This touring exhibition was intended both for Bundeswehr military personnel and the civilian population. In major cities, the exhibition was accompanied by an academic programme. Public presentations and panel discussions about the history of the resistance served as forums for exchanging information and engaging in debate, not least about the exhibition itself. According to press releases in 1984 and 1985, the exhibition had three objectives from the beginning. The first was to inform. The MGFA wanted to present the results of new academic research so as ‘to correct still common misapprehensions and misunderstandings’. It is only since the mid-1980s that the attempts by military circles to assassinate Hitler – long regarded as acts of treachery – have been considered a central recent event worthy of commemoration (despite the fact that they failed). The second objective was to promote the study of history and politics. The intention was to encourage visitors to immerse themselves in the topic and to enable them to reach an independent judgement. The third objective was to use the exhibition to embed essential elements of the new image of the soldier in history. The title of the exhibition ‘Uprising of Conscience’ indicated an interpretation of military resistance focusing on the moral and ethical dimension of soldierly conduct.12 Their ‘conscience’ led the resisting officers and generals to their ‘uprising’. To this day, the words are part of commemoration rhetoric, be it in politicians’ speeches, in the bulletins issued on the occasion of Stauffenberg’s birthday, or during the pledge ceremony on 20 July.13 Pathos aside, the carefully selected term ‘conscience’ highlights a key component of the military’s self-conception: the relationship between the duty to obey as a basic military principle and the moral obligation of the soldier. As a history

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exhibition, Uprising of Conscience served to illustrate the decisive turn in post-war German military history, for all the continuity in its personnel: the military reform of the 1950s. The visualization of the past confronted visitors with the problem of appreciating the soldier’s understanding of duty in the Third Reich and at the same time pointed out the difference from the military constitution (Militärverfassung) of the Federal Republic. By their belated action, the members of the 1944 resistance group represented a basic problem of military obedience. While the military elite in the 1930s and 1940s felt that their ‘Prussian ethos of duty’ bound them to their oath to Hitler in such a way that they willingly waged a criminal war of attack, the Bundeswehr soldier was supposed to be able to rely on a higher, final authority beyond his oath: his conscience. This, of course, required a sense of political responsibility which was inconsistent with the idea of the apolitical soldier. The members of the resistance in the Third Reich were regarded as forerunners of this principle of the military reform concept and were presented as role models. The audience, however, often saw the exhibition less specifically as a show about the Third Reich and the Wehrmacht, as the analysis of the visitors’ books reveals. In the opinion of some visitors, the exhibition casts a rather favourable light on some aspects of these topics, due to the focus on resistance.14 When, between 1995 and 1999, the Hamburger Institut für Sozialforschung (Hamburg Institute for Social Research) attracted a lot of attention with its touring exhibition entitled War of Annihilation: Crimes of the Wehrmacht, 1941–1944 (Vernichtungskrieg. Verbrechen der Wehrmacht, 1941–1944), the Bundeswehr exhibition was sometimes perceived as the ‘other’ Wehrmacht exhibition. To provide a balanced image of the military past, some municipalities such as Bremen only allowed the one exhibition to be staged on condition that the other was staged as well.15

Monumental commemoration: Soldiers’ monuments yesterday and today Since 1953, the military conspirators of 20 July have been commemorated in a memorial in the ‘Bendlerblock’ by sculptor Richard Scheibe, the bronze figure of a naked young man with his hands tied. Stauffenberg and three other officers were executed here, in the courtyard of the former Army High Command. This remembrance monument was dedicated to a tiny minority of Wehrmacht soldiers. But how did the (West) Germans, and indeed the active Bundeswehr personnel, remember the vast majority of the war dead? In the Federal Republic, a consensus emerged for the phrase ‘To the victims of war and tyranny’ (‘Für die Opfer von Krieg und Gewaltherrschaft’) as the inscription of the many memorials erected throughout the country in the 1950s. Thus, the commemoration, especially on the reintroduced People’s Day of Mourning, was extended to all those who died in the National Socialist war; the people killed in the gas chambers were commemorated in the same way as those who died in the aerial bombardments.16 On the other hand, the word ‘tyranny’ had the ideological advantage of including in the commemoration of the dead the victims of

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the Stalinist dictatorship in East Germany, thus politically charging the public act of remembrance. The universalization of the commemoration of civilians, however, was accompanied, within the military community, by a fragmentation into services. That is to say, the Bundeswehr has not developed a general death cult across the services. During the Cold War, dying in war seemed beyond the imagination because – in view of the nuclear scenario – war itself was inconceivable. Instead of a commemoration practice common to the entire Bundeswehr, special places and forms of commemoration developed for the Navy, the Air Force, and the Army. The dead of the Wehrmacht were (and are) included in the Bundeswehr commemoration ceremonies held at various official sites of remembrance of the Bundeswehr. The Navy has a commemoration site on the Kiel Fjord, which is 85 metres high: the Laboe Naval Memorial.17 It was originally dedicated to the memory of the members of the Imperial Navy who were killed in the First World War and for whom there could be no military cemeteries, and it served as a memorial for the nation’s will to defend itself. Although the memorial was inaugurated by Adolf Hitler on 30 May 1936, it did not play a major role in the National Socialist death cult. After the German Naval League (Deutscher Marinebund or DMB), founded in 1953, took charge of the memorial on 30 May 1954, it was rededicated and became ‘a memorial for the sailors of all nations who died at sea and at the same time a memorial for peaceful sailing in open seas’.18 Laboe was transformed into a memorial for peace and freedom and a monument for the refugees and displaced persons – those whose flight across the Baltic Sea had been made possible in a last heroic act of the Kriegsmarine and Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz, as the myth has it –19 and for the soldiers killed in action in the Second World War. After 1956, the inscriptions in the hall of honour in the tower and in the historical hall read ‘They died for us’ (‘Sie starben für uns’) and ‘They died on all the seas – as ordained by law!’ (‘Sie starben auf allen Meeren – wie das Gesetz es befahl!’) The inscriptions not only sought to give meaning to death, they also subsumed the soldiers of the Kriegsmarine under the larger group of all those who died at sea, and interpreted their death within an exculpatory narrative, as the consequence of obedience. Since 1971, the submarine U995 on the beach at Laboe has been an addition to the memorial landscape. Norway had seized the submarine during the war and, in 1965, presented it to the Bundesmarine as a symbol of reconciliation; since then, the German Naval League has used it as a profitable gift that has attracted tourists to Laboe. There is a memorial for the dead U-boat men in the nearby village of Möltenort. The front facing the sea is flanked by two halls of honour rising out of the ground. Between them, there is a 15-metre high column made of Weser sandstone from which a bronze eagle with a wing span of nearly 5 metres ascends. Stairs lead from the paved forecourt into the halls of honour, from where people enter a semicircular gallery embedded in the ground. Bronze plaques on the inside and outside walls of the gallery list the names of the more than 5000 and 30,000 U-boat men killed in action during the First and Second World Wars, respectively.20

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Finally, in 1972, a Memorial to the German Army, intended to serve as a West German substitute for the New Guardhouse (Neue Wache) in East Berlin, was erected inside the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein near Koblenz.21 In an alcove in the fortress wall, there is a sculpture of a young soldier killed in action. The memorial was originally dedicated to the dead of both world wars: ‘To the dead of the German Army 1914–1918 + 1939–1945/Their legacy: Peace’ (‘Den Toten des Deutschen Heeres 1914–1918 + 1939–1945/ihr Vermächtnis: Frieden’). Memory of the fallen soldiers was implicitly turned into the memory of death and violence during wartime which in turn leads those who remember to appreciate the value of peace. Since the late 1980s, the memorial has been dedicated to the dead of all the armies, whether the Reichswehr, the Wehrmacht, or – for the first time – the Bundeswehr: the inscription now reads ‘To the dead of the German Army’. The World Wars were also pushed to the background visually, as the dates were placed on the sides while the eyes of the viewer fall on an Iron Cross – the symbol that by its continued use emphasizes the military tradition. The lack of periodization has allowed the Wehrmacht soldiers to continue to be included in the commemoration. A column specifically dedicated to the dead of the Bundeswehr was finally erected at Ehrenbreitstein in 2006/2007.22 A national memorial that serves as a nation-wide ‘site of remembrance’ including dead Wehrmacht soldiers has existed only since 1993. Schinkel’s Neue Wache in Berlin, however, points back to the political death cult of the 1950s, in particular because of the extension of the range of victims who were commemorated.23 Most of the older monuments are characterized by historical vagueness. Future forms of commemoration will have to be more explicit. The monument in its specific symbolism must provide an answer to the inevitable political question as to what the soldier died for. Merely decrying the futility of death would not suffice. To date, Germany does not have a specific site of commemoration for Germany’s ‘own’ post-war soldiers, the members of the Bundeswehr who have died during operations. But this is due to change. In 2006, Federal Minister of Defence Franz Josef Jung announced that a public memorial dedicated to the dead of the Bundeswehr, who now number more than 2600, would be erected on the premises of the Bendlerblock where the Berlin branch of the Ministry of Defence is located. The foundation had been laid by the end of 2008. The idea met with widespread approval. Evidently, the need for a central memorial continues to exist even in the post-heroic Federal Republic, whose military has transformed into an intervention army with a global presence. What met with opposition, however, was the choice of site (should the monument not be nearer to the parliament?), the way the decision was reached (should there not have been a public discussion?), and the architecture coupled with the designation ‘Ehrenmal’24 (did they not both evoke an obsolete mode of commemoration?).25 What is certain is that this most recent debate, too, reflects a mechanism of public memory which is of central importance for society and a specific social group in assuring themselves of their role in history: the symbolism and the symbolic practice of remembering are first and foremost an expression of the concept of politics and history of those who remember. In the 50 years of the existence of

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the Bundeswehr, remembrance within the armed forces – be it with regard to military role models, killed fellow soldiers, or pioneering military reformers – has been subject to a kind of dynamics that largely feeds off the ongoing controversies and debates about the (military) past in society. Accordingly, the staging of military history, be it in a museum, at an exhibition, or at a monument, offers scholars an opportunity to trace the chequered relationship between the military and civilian society in West Germany since the early post-war period.

Notes 1. For a more detailed analysis of the problem of tradition in the Bundeswehr see in particular D. Abenheim, Reforging the Iron Cross: The Search for Tradition in the West German Armed Forces (Princeton, 1988); L. de Libero, Tradition in Zeiten der Transformation. Zum Traditionsverständnis der Bundeswehr im frühen 21. Jahrhundert (Paderborn, 2006), and F. Nägler (ed.), Die Bundeswehr 1955 bis 2005. Rückblenden, Einsichten, Perspektiven (Munich, 2007). 2. Bundesministerium der Verteidigung (BMVg), Konzeption für das Museumswesen in der Bundeswehr (Bonn, 1994). The preceding directive was dated 9 November 1985. 3. BMVg, Konzeption, p. 1. 4. Until 31 December 1995, the Wehrgeschichtliches Museum Rastatt, which is supported by the city of Rastatt and the federal state of Baden-Württemberg, was also subordinate to the MGFA. Its focus is on the military history of South West Germany. Cf. BMVg, Konzeption, p. 4. 5. Cf. http://www.luftwaffenmuseum.de/ (accessed 9 August 2009). 6. BMVg, Konzeption, p. 4. 7. K.-V. Neugebauer, Aufbau einer Militärgeschichtlichen Sammlung. Hilfen zum Gestalten von Ausstellungen für die historische Bildung in der Bundeswehr (Potsdam, 2000), p. 29. 8. Currently, there are ‘military history collections of exhibits and prototypes’ run by historians at the three officer schools – where military history is taught as an independent subject – and at the Bundeswehr Medical Academy, as well as more than 30 ‘collections of exhibits and prototypes for assignment-related training’ run by officers interested in military history at the various schools and training facilities of the Bundeswehr. 9. BMVg, Konzeption, p. 5. Responsibility lies with a specialized policy branch for military history/museums (Grundsatzreferat Militärgeschichte/Museumswesen – BMVg Fü S I 3). Cf. also ‘Richtlinien für die Errichtung und Unterhaltung von Lehrsammlungen bei den Akademien und Schulen der Bundeswehr’, Verfügungs- und Mitteilungsblatt (VMBl) 1971, p. 83. An internal military demonstration of the technical history dimension of the military is given by the Scientific Collection of Military Engineering Specimens at the Federal Office of Defence Technology and Procurement (Wehrtechnische Studiensammlung des Bundesamtes für Wehrtechnik und Beschaffung) in Bonn. 10. Regarding this issue, the MGFA prepared a 150-page manual focusing on the practice of designing an exhibition (see Neugebauer, Aufbau einer Militärgeschichtlichen Sammlung). Moreover, the various bodies responsible for the representation of military history are united in a co-operation network with their own advisory agencies (see BMVg, Konzeption, pp. 6–9). Their agencies include the Military History Museum as the ‘principal museum’, the Military History Museums and Collections Working Group (Arbeitsgemeinschaft wehrgeschichtliche Museen und Sammlungen) and the Bundeswehr Museums Coordination Group (Koordinierungsgruppe der Bundeswehrmuseen). They are all expressly requested to encourage persons and institutions outside the Bundeswehr to provide assistance. 11. Cf. http://www.mgs-augustdorf.de/mgsframe.html (accessed 17 March 2009). 12. Cf. the title of a collection of essays by A. Leber, Das Gewissen steht auf (Berlin, 1954).

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13. Cf. BMVg, Presse- und Informationsstab xxxiv/77, Bonn, 14 November 1997, ‘Tagesbefehl des Bundesministers der Verteidigung Volker Rühe’; for instance on 20 July 2000, Berlin School Senator Klaus Böger (SPD) referred to the assassination as an ‘uprising of conscience’ when addressing the conscripts (Berliner Morgenpost, 21 July 2000, p. 5). 14. For an East and West German example, see MGFA AIF III Archives, ‘Gästebuch Aufstand des Gewissens’, vol. 2 (1994–95), p. 6 (Leipzig); and vol. 3 (1995–96), p. 95 (7 July 1996, Braunschweig). 15. Cf. the radio broadcast of Radio Bremen, Abendschau, 22 April 1997 (in MGFA archives, AdG, vol. 1). Cf. also ‘Ein kleines Trostpflaster für die Bremer CDU’, Bremer Nachrichten/Weser-Kurier, 23 April 1997; ‘ “Aufstand des Gewissens” als Korrektiv’, Achimer Kreisblatt/Kreiszeitung, 23 April 1997. I have analysed this in detail in my study ‘Ansichtssache Widerstand’ (in preparation). 16. Cf. the chapter by Alexandra Kaiser in this volume. 17. Cf. T. [1996]. 18. http://www.spurensuchesh.de/ehrenmal.htm (accessed 17 March 2009). 19. Cf. Prange, Marine-Ehrenmal, p. 157. 20. http://www.volksbund-sh.de/Angebote_fur_Schulen/Projekte/Laboe_Moltenort/body_la boe_moltenort.html (accessed 17 March 2009). 21. U. Schlie, Die Nation erinnert sich. Die Denkmäler der Deutschen (Munich, 2002), pp. 145–7 and pp. 154–5; http://www.ehrenmal-heer.de/tiki-index.php?page=Einf%C3%BChrung (see photograph; accessed 17 March 2009). 22. The inscription reads: ‘To the Army personnel of the Bundeswehr who gave their lives for peace, justice, and freedom’. A memorial for the Luftwaffe was inaugurated in 1966 in Fürstenfeldbruck. 23. W. Kruse, ‘Schinkels Neue Wache in Berlin. Zur Geschichte des politischen Totenkults in Deutschland’, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 50 (2002), 419–35. 24. ‘Ehrenmal’ means ‘memorial’, but evokes the ‘honour’ of the soldier. 25. Cf. M. Hettling and J. Echternkamp (eds), Bedingt erinnerungsbereit. Soldatengedenken in der Bundesrepublik (Göttingen, 2008).

5.7 The Legacy of Second German Empire Memorials after 1945 Bill Niven

Introduction This book has largely been concerned with memorials constructed in the two Germanies after 1945, most of these constituting a response of one sort or another to the crime and trauma of the years 1933–45. By and large, the focus of these memorials is on the commemoration of suffering. They provide a framework for mourning, ritualized statements of the need to prevent the recurrence of war and genocide, and, increasingly, nationally self-critical engagement with the legacy of Nazi crime. While the heroic, celebratory mode of memorialization did not become a thing of the past (see, for instance, Scharnowski’s chapter on the GDR in this volume), it certainly became less common, ever more so as we reach the present. This begs the question as to how Germany has handled the stone legacy of monuments constructed before 1945, most of which certainly can be classified as heroic and celebratory, and some of which are of truly gargantuan proportion. This book has explored the evolution of counter-monuments; inscribed into their conception and design is a critical stance towards the heroic pose of earlier traditions of memorialization, especially those of the nineteenth century, but also those of fascism. Yet constructing counter-monuments has not really diminished the importance of Germany’s heroic monuments from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, many of which still exist and which are visited by tens of thousands of people every year. In this chapter, I examine the post-Second World War fate of a few such memorials, all built during the Second German Empire (after 1871), but before the outbreak of the First World War (1914). I argue that the interpretative framework imposed upon these memorials in East and West Germany respectively changed their meanings, adapting them to the exigencies of the present. With the collapse of the GDR and unification in 1990, these frameworks changed yet again. Focusing on counter-monuments should not blind us to the fact that the monuments to which they run counter are themselves open to reconceptualization, renaming, and modification, even transmogrification. Meanings are not immanent to memorials, nor are memorials physically immutable. At the same time I wish to show that the changing interpretations of these giant leftovers from Imperial Germany had one thing in common: they represented a response to the problematic association of the Second Empire with aggressive nationalism. 399

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Unwanted relics? East Germany and Second Empire memorials On 13 May 1946, the Allied Control Council passed a directive (No. 30) ordering the removal not only of all National Socialist memorials and museums, but also of memorials which in any way glorified militarism and military traditions. The Council made it clear that this directive only applied to memorials built after the outbreak of the First World War on 1 August 1914 (and to streets named after this date).1 In the event, quite a number of memorials from the pre-1914 era were also torn down, in the Western occupation zones, but particularly so in the Eastern zone. Moreover, while the deadline set by the Control Council for removal was 1 January 1947, many memorials were taken down subsequent to this, sometimes being replaced by completely different memorials.2 Nevertheless, many remained and, in some cases already badly damaged by the war, were punished further by being stripped of offending motifs, figures, and insignia, and allowed to moulder away in neglect.3 In East Germany, a renaming policy sought to render past memorials harmless, indeed to strip them of historical associations. This was so with many of the Bismarck memorials erected in honour of Bismarck’s role in the foundation of the Second Empire in the 1870s. Thus, in Erfurt and Apolda, the Bismarck Towers (Bismarcktürme) became Peace Towers (Friedenstürme), while in Greifswald the Bismarck Tower was granted a new lease of life as Olympia Tower (Olympiaturm).4 Such refunctionalization was typical of the GDR: in East Berlin, Schinkel’s Prussian Guardhouse (Neue Wache), transformed during the Weimar Republic into a ‘Memorial for the Fallen of the War’, became a ‘Memorial to the Victims of Fascism and Militarism’ in 1960. Probably the two most significant Second Empire monuments inherited by the GDR were the Battle of the Nations Monument (Völkerschlachtdenkmal) in Leipzig (dedicated 1913) and the Kyffhäuser Monument (Kyffhäuserdenkmal) near Bad Frankenhausen in Thuringia (dedicated 1896). Both are colossal – Germany’s biggest and third-biggest monuments at 91 and 81 metres respectively (in fact, the Battle of the Nations Monument is the tallest monument in Europe). They should not simply be regarded as mirror-images of each other. The Battle of the Nations Monument celebrates the victory of the combined forces of the Prussians, Russians, Swedes, and Austrians over Napoleon in 1813. The monument’s gestation was a long one, and ideas of what it was to represent changed over time. When it was finally built, Kaiser Wilhelm II was not impressed – not least because the monument, in line with the wishes of the German Patriots’ League which had spearheaded its construction, was designed as a memorial to the development of a popular national consciousness after 1813, not as a celebration of monarchical or imperial tradition.5 The Kyffhäuser Monument was different. It was explicitly erected in honour of Kaiser Wilhelm I, emperor of the Reich from 1871. According to legend, Frederick ‘Barbarossa’, German emperor from 1155 to 1190, lay in slumber awaiting the return of German unity and greatness. The Kyffhäuser Monument shows Barbarossa apparently awakening from his repose, while Wilhelm I sits on horseback above him. The symbolism suggested that the Prussian Empire established in 1871 had reconnected Germany to the great imperial traditions of

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the medieval German Empire.6 Whatever their differences, both monuments certainly lent themselves to anti-French and nationalistic readings, be these of a völkisch or an imperialist kind. The Nazis transformed the Battle of the Nations Monument into a site for celebrating Nazi ideals and inculcating a spirit of revanchist militarism.7 Hitler was less enthusiastic about the Kyffhäuser Monument, but it, too, was adapted to the times: the president of the Nazi Reich Warriors’ Association (NS-Reichskriegerbund) had the commemorative hall inside the monument transformed into a Hall of Honour and the Hall fitted out with urns containing earth from areas lost by Germany in the Treaty of Versailles.8 Faced with this legacy of two enormous monuments saturated by nationalism (however inflected) and instrumentalized by the Nazis, it was perhaps surprising that the GDR’s Socialist Unity Party did not have them torn down and used for scrap (of which they would have yielded plenty). In fact, the first prime minister (Ministerpräsident) of the GDR, Otto Grotewohl, stepped in to prevent the demolition of the Kyffhäuser Monument in 1951.9 Instead, the design of the hall inside the monument was changed, and a set of reliefs by the sculptor Martin Wetzel mounted on the walls (in 1968/69); they showed the plight of workers and farmers through the ages, their suffering in war, and their ‘liberation’ through the Soviet Army and through communism in 1945.10 Thus it was that the pompous celebration of German imperialism on the outside was undermined by a portrayal of its negative, repressive face on the inside. In one sense, then, the monument became its own counter-monument. At the same time, the SED, in the first two decades of the GDR’s existence, continued to associate the monument with unification – only now it was the prospective unification of East and West Germany under socialist auspices. A reproduction of J. R. Becher’s poem ‘Risen from the Ruins’, with its famous line about ‘Germany, united fatherland’ accompanied Wetzel’s reliefs. After the GDR, at least in its revised constitution of 1974, abandoned the goal of unification, this line was covered over.11 With unification off the agenda, the GDR began to rediscover Prussian traditions in an attempt to root itself in German history. Most famously, perhaps, the equestrian statue of King Friedrich II (Prussian king from 1740 until 1786) was retrieved from its exile in Potsdam’s Sanssouci Park and returned in 1980 to Unter den Linden, the street in central Berlin where it had stood from 1851 until 1950.12 In the case of the Kyffhäuser Monument, the uniforms of East German army soldiers were put on display alongside those of Second Empire soldiers. A certain degree of nationalism and militarism, then, albeit of a socialist kind, was back in vogue. The Battle of the Nations Monument underwent a parallel refunctionalization. From the early days of the GDR, it became a focal point for celebrating the German-Soviet ‘brotherhood-in-arms’ (the Russians had fought alongside the Prussians in the 1813 Battle of Leipzig). Initially, it also served as a symbol for national unity. In 1963, on the occasion of a mass parade to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the battle, Politburo member Albert Norden declared that the GDR was the ‘banner-carrier of the nation, continuing and completing the work of those who 150 years ago fought so gloriously’.13 But as in the

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case of the Kyffhäuser Monument, when unity slipped from the political agenda in the mid-1970s, the Battle of the Nations Monument lost this aspect of its significance. It retained its symbolism as a supposed historical tribute to German-Russian friendship (whereas in fact the monument had been conceived only as a tribute to the Germans).14 Increasingly, though, it became a site for introducing young East Germans to the military traditions of the East German National People’s Army. Now the emphasis was on learning the importance of defending the East German Fatherland. In the course of the 1980s, mass events at the Battle of the Nations Monument centred more and more on its supposed symbolism of the need to preserve peace,15 especially in the face of the danger of a nuclear inferno. On the occasion of the one hundred and seventy-fifth anniversary of the battle, Politburo member Horst Sindermann claimed that the monument had become a ‘warning against war’ and should ‘proclaim the new era which, with the establishment of socialism, strives for peace between peoples instead of battles between peoples’.16

West Germany, Arminius, and Wilhelm I In East Germany, then, attempts were made to adapt the meanings of major imperial monuments; references to unification in 1871 became evocations of unity under socialism, references to past wars became calls for future peace under communism, grand gestures of imperial nationalism locations for shows of socialist patriotism. A glance over the border towards West Germany reveals remarkable similarities in the handling of massive imperial monuments – except that, in the West German case, meanings were not adapted to serve the interests of socialism, but the interests of Western democracy. This can be well illustrated by the example of the post-war handling of the Arminius Monument (Hermannsdenkmal) in the district of Lippe and the Kaiser Wilhelm Monument (Kaiser-Wilhelm-Denkmal), erected on a piece of land jutting out into the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers known as the ‘German Corner’ (Deutsches Eck) in the city of Koblenz. The idea for an Arminius Monument dates back to the first half of the nineteenth century, when Arminius’s defeat of the Romans in the first century AD was not seen solely in national terms. According to Rudy Koshar, within the German Bürgertum Arminius was seen as ‘a symbol of German nationhood and a liberal, cosmopolitan figure’ who had struck a blow for ‘national groups against the universalising tendencies of a “Latin” imperium’.17 But when the monument was dedicated in 1875, it stood more for a half-aggressive, half-defensive posture of defiance towards external and internal enemies.18 Strangely, it seems Hitler did not favour the monument, perhaps because he saw in Arminius the embodiment of a popular freedom-fighter;19 perhaps also because propagandistic attention upon it might have irritated Mussolini.20 Nevertheless, the monument came out of the war not only physically damaged21 but also tarnished by its association with a now undesirable legacy of self-assertive nationalism. The same was true of the Kaiser Wilhelm Monument in Koblenz, an equestrian statue dating from 1897 and dedicated to the first emperor of the Second Empire, Wilhelm I. His grandson, Wilhelm II, who selected the site for the monument, sought to legitimize his own position

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as emperor by glorifying the origins of the Reich. The monument appears to symbolize the need to defend the ‘German Rhine’ against French territorial ambition, and during the Nazi period – while not an important locus of Nazi commemorative or propagandistic activities – it nevertheless served as a backdrop for militaristic ‘Watch on the Rhine’ (‘Wacht am Rhein’) pageants.22 In 1945, American artillery badly damaged the monument, leaving Wilhelm I hanging head-downwards from the plinth.23 In West Germany, while politicians distanced themselves from the selfaggrandizing national pomp and chauvinism of both monuments, they were nevertheless quick to appropriate their emphasis on national unity. Thus the Arminius Monument in the 1950s ‘provided the backdrop for (West) German politicians’ predictions of coming unity’.24 In the 1950s and 1960s it was one of the most popular monuments for tourists; some 310,000 people climbed up its steps in 1950 to enjoy the view; in 1968 it was nearly 400,000.25 Anniversary celebrations emphasized the monument’s symbolism of unity – not only in the 1950s and 1960s, but also well into the 1970s. Thus, in a foreword to a publication celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the monument, Lippe district politician Wegener pointed out that the monument had been constructed at a time when the longing for unity had been shared by broad sections of the people – and as such it still had a message to convey to people today.26 While politicians emphasized the importance of unification by peaceful means, the Arminius Monument did not escape the attention of the far right, who used it as a meeting-place for secret nocturnal gatherings.27 The former Kaiser Wilhelm Monument in Koblenz was much more explicitly repurposed: in fact it was renamed Memorial of German Unity (Mahnmal der Deutschen Einheit) in 1953 in an inaugural ceremony attended by Federal president Theodor Heuss. By this stage, no trace of the equestrian statue of Wilhelm I remained; a giant Federal flag was placed on the plinth in its place.28 The coats of arms of the West German Länder and of those eastern territories lost to Poland in 1945 were sculpted onto the inside of the semi-circular wall around the plinth. After 17 June 1953 became the Day of German Unity in memory of the workers’ uprising in the GDR (thus interpreting the protest as a call for unity), regular acts of commemoration, accompanied by appeals for commitment to the idea of uniting Germany, were held at the site of the memorial – although seemingly these were increasingly of regional rather than national character.29 On 3 October 1990, when Germany was united, 40,000 people celebrated the occasion at the memorial, another 100,000 on the banks of the Mosel and Rhine. A little later, the coats of arms of the new east German Länder were added to the memorial wall. With unity achieved, the memorial was deemed to have fulfilled its purpose.30 A monument celebrating unity under Wilhelm had been transformed in 1953 into one bemoaning its loss and evoking the need to re-establish it; instead of celebrating triumph over France, it had come to stand for protest against East Germany. The Kaiser Wilhelm Monument exemplifies the way that the ‘time direction’ of a monument can change (from the retrospective to the prospective), how its frame of historical and contemporary reference can be updated, and how its function

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can change (celebratory to admonitory) – a Denkmal became a Mahnmal and, as we shall see, became a Denkmal once more.

Reinventing a new: The monuments after 1990 The impact of German unification in 1990 on the four monuments discussed above was varied. The Kaiser Wilhelm Monument was restored to its former role. Following some political debate at regional level, the decision was taken to place a reproduction of the original equestrian statue back on the plinth.31 This was duly done, and since 1993, Wilhelm I can again be seen riding on high at the confluence of the Mosel and the Rhine. The Arminius Monument became the focus of attention in 2000 (the one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of its inauguration), and will certainly play its part in the celebratory events planned for the two hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Varus itself, in 2009.32 In fact, 2009 has been declared the year of the Battle of Varus (Varusschlacht), and a major exhibition is planned for the Detmold area called Empire – Conflict – Myth (Imperium – Konflikt – Mythos). It may be, especially in the light of recent archaeological and historical research, that Arminius will be hailed as of 2009 as a more important figure in German history than hitherto recognized – perhaps even as a visionary who wanted to create a kind of early Germanic empire.33 It is also possible that the Arminius Monument will become one focal point of a post-unification attempt to root German historical consciousness deeper in the past than has long proven possible, not least because of the catastrophe of the Third Reich. But this remains to be seen. In fact, it would be possible to read developments quite differently. A proposal is afoot to include three of the monuments discussed here, namely the Arminius Monument, the Kyffhäuser Monument, and the Battle of the Nations Monument in a German Street of Monuments, which itself is to become the inspiration for a European Street of Monuments. The goal of the initiative is to ‘overcome the narrow horizon of the national and draw awareness to commonalities in European history’.34 A trend towards understanding Second Empire monuments as in some sense European monuments certainly characterizes developments at the Battle of Nations Monument. Plans for renovating the monument in time for the two hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Leipzig are under way, and the refurbished monument will be presented to the public in 2013 in a ceremony designed to be European in character – a monument with an anti-French and, in the GDR, anti-western history is to be repurposed as a memorial of conciliation between European peoples.35 Such a Europeanization already has an antecedent: in 2006, the celebrations of the Kyffhäuser Monument’s hundredth anniversary had a strong European flavour. The logo designed for the occasion showed the monument surrounded not by ravens, as in historical tradition, but by the 12 stars of the European flag. According to the magazine Der Spiegel, the Christian Democrat chair of the district council, Peter Hengstermann, redefined the Kyffhäuser Monument as a ‘Monument in Europe’.36 An accompanying exhibition on national memorials in Europe also sought to contextualize the history of the Kyffhäuser

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Monument more broadly. At the foot of the Battle of the Nations Monument, a new exhibition was installed in 1999 which specifically sets out to place the 1913 Leipzig battle in a European context.37 Post-1990 reframings of these monuments have, overall, weakened their pre1990 connection to the idea of German unity. At the same time, new exhibitions, such as that at the Kyffhäuser Monument, which examine the reception history of the monuments, strive to overcome the tradition of functionalization and politicization by drawing attention to it. More and more, the monuments are becoming the focus of critical or playful installations which, arguably, strip them of their pompousness. In 1996, the American artist Jenny Holzer had texts referring to the horrendous rape of women in Bosnia projected by laser beams onto the Battle of the Nations Monument as part of an art-work called State of War. For Holzer, the monument was appropriate for such a projection because of its, in her view, phallus-like shape.38 Similarly, in 1999, an advertizing expert hit upon the idea of dressing up the massive statue of Arminius in a football shirt like that worn by the players of Arminia Bielefeld – an enterprise which found mention in the Guinness Book of Records. Arminius in his football-shirt was a hit with tourists; Arminia’s goalkeeper, Georg Koch, thought it would be helpful to have someone like Arminius in goal.39 One might object that ‘Europeanization’ merely imposes yet another political function on the monuments: to a certain degree, the specific character of Germany’s nationalistic past is thereby relativized by placing it in the context of other national histories and monuments, or ‘glossed over’ by stressing the contemporary relevance of reconciliation and European unity. But the increasingly popular use of monuments for private initiatives introduces a degree of plurality and complexity which will work against the predominance of such repurposing.

Postlude: ‘Re-Prussianization’ or ‘normalization’? In large part, this book has been about memorials to the victims of Nazism and the Second World War. It has shown, too, how, increasingly, German memorialization has come to focus on the victims of German perpetration. At the same time, the volume has pointed to evidence that German suffering in the Second World War – a dominant topos of memorials during the 1950s –, as well as German suffering under the Soviets (1945–49) and in the GDR is being memorialized and commemorated in contemporary Germany. Much of the debate, in Germany and abroad, has been about whether the resurgence of interest in German suffering might eclipse memory of the Holocaust.40 But gradually this debate is being superseded by another debate, centred particularly on the legacy of Prussia. Since 1990, initiatives to reconstruct buildings associated with Prussia have sprung up around Germany. Prominent examples are the efforts to rebuild the Garrison Church (Garnisonskirche) in Potsdam, and Berlin’s City Castle or Palace (Schloss). Could it be that Germany is attempting to reconnect, through Prussian architecture, to Prussian history and even Prussian values? Does this development bespeak a desire to finally focus public attention, and German national identity,

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on pre-1914 traditions – before, as it were, everything went terribly wrong? Has the recent rediscovery of German victimhood helped Germans to overcome a crippling sense of shame at German history, paving the way, in turn, to a discovery of historical periods previous to National Socialism? It is hard to know the answers to these questions. But even if the answer were ‘Yes’, the trend is not yet to be condemned: for what sort of Prussian history or Prussian values might be implied here? Certainly there is nothing aggressively nationalistic about reconstructing Kaiser Wilhelm I in Koblenz: the idea was to depoliticize by restoring the monument. Nor do I share the anxiety at plans by Germany’s government to construct a Freedom and Unity Memorial (Freiheitsund Einheitsdenkmal) in Berlin on the very plinth on which another monument to Kaiser Wilhelm I used to stand until it was torn down by the SED in 1950. The Federal parliament’s resolution to this effect of November 2007 expressly places the 1989/90 ‘freedom and unity period’ within the context of the 1848/49 revolution, Weimar Republican democracy, and the June 1953 uprising in the GDR. It does not mention unification in 1871. In fact, it avoids terms such as ‘reunification’ or ‘unification’ completely, as if afraid of evoking connections to 1871; instead, it refers to the ‘reattainment of German unity’.41 If the memorial is built on a pedestal freed of its associations with Wilhelm, the implication will be that Germany cannot reconnect unproblematically to the imperial tradition (at least not in a central memorial), but it can reconnect to the historically rooted concept of a united Germany – represented as it were by the pedestal on which the memorial of Wilhelm, on horseback, once stood. Nor will the rebuilt Berlin City Castle near which the new memorial is to stand be a simple homage to Prussia. The Castle’s facades will be rebuilt, but behind these will be a so-called ‘Humboldt Forum’ dedicated to the European and non-European arts, cultures, and sciences.42 What the Freedom and Unity Memorial may do is usher in a new phase of ‘positive memorialization’ after the long post-war decades focused largely on the legacy of death, loss, and destruction. The Germans, it seems, are allowing themselves to acknowledge that they also have historical traditions, and historical events they can celebrate.43 There may be those who descry in such a moment of celebration a problematic ‘normalization’ more readily associated with the Kohl years than with the years since Gerhard Schröder pursued his own, rather different ‘normalizing’ policy of multilateralism founded on a clear recognition of Germany’s unique historical responsibility.44 As this indicates, ‘normalization’ has been conceptualized in quite different ways, and in a pluralistic democracy such as Germany’s it would seem quite inappropriate to speak of the existence of a ‘norm’, or even of a collective desire to establish one. As this volume has shown by example of memorialization, the past is very much contested territory, and the patterns of memory the book examines are ever-questioned, ever-evolving. If there is an approximation to a norm, then it is to one of establishing and sustaining coexisting memory trends, and to tolerating tensions and conflicts between them. And in this sense, Germany is much more ‘normal’ than those many other countries which have been quick to memorialize the positive dimensions to their pasts, and much more tardy in respect of acknowledging their crimes.

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Notes 1. The text of this directive is available at http://www.verfassungen.de/de/de45-49/krdirektive30.htm (accessed 17 January 2009). 2. Thus, on the Ettersberg near Buchenwald in Thuringia, the Bismarck Tower was blown up in 1949 and replaced by a massive memorial complex commemorating Buchenwald concentration camp. See B. Niven, The Buchenwald Child: Truth, Fiction and Propaganda (Rochester, NY, 2007), pp. 56–61. 3. For an excellent overview of the post-war fate of Bismarck memorials, see the website on Germany’s Bismarck towers and pillars at http://www.bismarcktuerme.de/website (accessed 17 January 2009). Of some 184 Bismarck towers built in Germany, 146 still remain. 4. See http://www.bismarcktuerme.de/website/ebene4/meckpom/greifsw.html (accessed 18 January 2009). 5. See R. Koshar, From Monuments to Traces: Artifacts of German Memory, 1870–1990 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, 2000), p. 44; and K. Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler und Symbole im Wandel der Zeiten (Göttingen, 2007), p. 225. 6. See Koshar, From Monuments to Traces, pp. 40–3; and Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, pp. 204–13. For an excellent photograph of the Kyffhäuser Monument, see http:// de.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Datei:Kyffhaeuserdenkmal_03. jpg& filetimestamp=20040922155619 (accessed 18 January 2009). 7. See S. Poser, ‘Bedarf nach einer Feierstätte für den Preis eigener Größe’, in V. Rodekamp (ed.), Völkerschlachtdenkmal (Leipzig, 2004), pp. 158–77, here pp. 163–73. 8. See Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, p. 211. 9. See ‘Rülpst Zufrieden’, Der Spiegel 26 (1996), 35–6, here 36. 10. Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, pp. 212–13. 11. S. Frotscher et al., Der Kyffhäuser (Artern, 1996), p. 63. 12. See Landesdenkmalamt Berlin (ed.), Ein Denkmal für den König. Das Reiterstandbild für Friedrich II. Unter den Linden in Berlin (Berlin, 2001). 13. Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, p. 230. 14. S. Poser, ‘Mit allen zu Gebote stehenden Mitteln’, in Rodekamp (ed.), Völkerschlachtdenkmal, pp. 102–16, here p. 114. 15. This was certainly the tenor of the SED’s proposed plan for the one hundred and seventy-fifth anniversary celebrations. See Bundesarchiv Berlin, SAPMO DY30/9670, ‘Anlage Nr. 4 zum Protokoll Nr. 118 vom 28.10.1987’. 16. Quoted in ‘100 000 ehrten auf Manifestation den Kampf der Patrioten von 1813’, Neues Deutschland, 15/16 October 1988. 17. Koshar, From Monuments to Traces, p. 37. 18. Ibid., p. 38. 19. See Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, p. 126. 20. See W. M. Doyé, ‘Arminius’, in E. François and H. Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, 3 vols (Munich, 2001), vol. 2, pp. 587–602, here p. 600. 21. See H. Schmidt, Das Hermannsdenkmal im Spiegel der Welt (Detmold, 1976), p. 41. 22. H. P. Volkert, Das Kaiser-Wilhelm-Denkmal am Deutschen Eck in Koblenz (Koblenz, 1991), pp. 19–20. 23. For a photograph, see Volkert, Das Kaiser-Wilhelm-Denkmal, p. 23. 24. Koshar, From Monuments to Traces, pp. 151–2. 25. See W. Stölting, 1875–1975: 100 Jahre Hermannsdenkmal (Detmold, 1975), pp. 70–2. 26. Ibid., p. 5. 27. Doyé, ‘Arminius’, p. 600. 28. Volkert, Das Kaiser-Wilhelm-Denkmal, p. 30. 29. Ibid., p. 32. 30. Bemmann, Deutsche Nationaldenkmäler, p. 200.

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31. Ibid., p. 202. 32. See http://www.varusschlacht2009.de/varusschlacht-veranstaltungen.html#einzel (accessed 21 January 2009). 33. See M. Schulz, ‘Feldherr aus dem Sumpf’, Der Spiegel 51 (2008), 126–40. 34. See Hermannsdenkmalstiftung_05.05.2008.doc_.pdf (accessed 22 January 2009). 35. This is certainly the aim of the organization collecting donations for the renovation, the Förderverein Völkerschlachtdenkmal (see for instance http://www. voelkerschlachtdenkmal.de/joomla/images/stories/lvz_2008.pdf (accessed 9 August 2009)). See also V. Rodekamp, ‘Ort lebendiger Erinnerung. Das Völkerschlachtdenkmal – Nationaldenkmal und Zeichen europäischer Geschichte’, in Rodekamp (ed.), Völkerschlachtdenkmal, pp. 178–89. 36. See ‘Rülpst Zufrieden’, 35. 37. See Rodekamp, ‘Ort lebendiger Erinnerung’, p. 183. 38. For an interview with Jenny Holzer on State of War, see ‘ “Wie ein Phallus” ’, Der Spiegel 24 (1996), 190. 39. http://www.bi-info.de/bielefeld/owl/detmold/trikot.htm (accessed 23 January 2009). 40. See B. Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims (Basingstoke, 2006). 41. See Bundestags-Drucksache 16/6925, ‘Beschluss des Deutschen Bundestags: Konzept zur Errichtung eines Freiheits- und Einheitsdenkmals in Berlin’ (see http://www.freiheitsund-einheitsdenkmal.de/pdf/pdf-download.php?doc=einheitsdenkmal-22.pdf), accessed 12 January 2009. 42. See http://berliner-schloss.de/Default.aspx (accessed 9 August 2009). 43. It remains a danger, however, that the new memorial will impose a teleological reading on the events of 1989/90, making of them from the beginning a call for unity under West German auspices. 44. For a good discussion of the concept of normalization and the debates surrounding this term in Germany, see S. Taberner and P. Cooke, ‘Introduction’, in Taberner and Cooke (eds), German Culture, Politics and Literature into the 21st Century: Beyond Normalization (Rochester, 2006), pp. 1–16, here pp. 4–16; and S. Brockmann, ‘ “Normalization”: Has Helmut Kohl’s Vision Been Realized?’, in Taberner and Cooke (eds), German Culture, pp. 17–29.

Index Page references to illustrations are given in bold. References to endnotes appear in the form 128 n. 9. A Active Museum of Fascism and Resistance, 311 Adams, Dennis, 254 Adenauer, Konrad, 163, 309, 354, 383–4, 385 aerial bombardment (as historical event), 2, 27–8, 42, 59, 71, 104, 107, 117, 124, 229, 392 see also events commemorated Air Force Museum, Berlin, 390–1 Albania, 74 Allied occupation forces, role in memorial processes, 2, 18, 70, 71, 187, 195, 400 American, 29, 70, 107, 195, 196 British, 138–9, 193, 197, 364 French, 39 Soviet, 29, 39, 136–7, 138–9 Allied occupation of Germany, 78–9, 134, 181–9, 193, 196, 363, 364, 380 Soviet zone, 4, 74, 117, 267, 328, 370, 383, 386 see also groups commemorated, victims of Soviet internment American Battle Monuments Commission, 70 anniversaries, 18, 21, 29–30, 31, 52, 54, 79, 80, 95, 106, 109, 113 n. 16, 128, 159, 193–4, 198–9, 202, 204 n. 31, 207, 245, 274 n. 14, 281, 323, 342–5, 346, 347, 348, 356, 361–3, 365, 366, 367, 369, 370–5, 381, 383, 384, 385, 386, 391, 393, 401, 402, 403, 404 anti-Semitism, xiii, 83, 92, 170, 175, 182, 195, 196, 199, 201, 205–12, 222, 239, 250 architecture, xiv, 61, 66 n. 3, 70, 72, 95, 104–6, 107, 109, 121, 128, 153, 159–60, 199–201, 200, 243, 244, 246, 249–50, 284, 309, 314, 333, 392, 396, 405–6 armies and armed forces Allied, 134 Askaris, 353–4, 357 British, 119, 174, 193, 360, 364

Bundeswehr, all branches, 19, 21, 23, 94, 172, 232 n. 34, 388–97; Bundesmarine, 364–5, 367, 368 n. 39, 395; Heer, 395; Luftwaffe, 390, 395, 398 n. 22 International Brigades, 267–8 of the Kaiserreich, 2, 28, 41, 105, 352–3, 357, 360–7, 395, 396, 400, 401 National People’s Army (GDR), 117, 310, 391, 392, 401, 402 NVA, see National People’s Army Polish Home Army, 143 n. 9 Prussian, 43, 119, 310, 400, 401 Reichswehr, 389, 396 Russian Army (pre-1917), 41 Soviet Army, 2, 4, 78, 117, 134–43, 210, 268–70, 278, 283, 300, 328, 401 US Army, 107, 195, 270, 271 Waffen SS, 71, 72–3 Wehrmacht, all branches, 2, 3, 4, 11, 15–23, 28, 71, 73, 117, 119, 134, 135, 140, 171, 172, 268, 328, 363, 389, 390, 392, 393–5, 396; Heer, 70, 74, 120, 122, 142, 143, 162, 171, 172; Kriegsmarine, 94, 118, 119, 365–6, 395; Luftwaffe, 70, 71, 303 Arminius Monument, 402–3, 404, 405 Aschaffenburg, 238 Aschrott Fountain, 225, 226–8, 230, 254 Association of Concentration Camp Memorial Sites, 5 Auschwitz, 3, 21, 74, 114, 116, 125, 195, 198, 199, 206, 209, 219, 221, 255–7

B Baden-Württemberg, 49, 51, 96–7, 397 n. 4 Barbetta, Maria Cecilia, 293 Barlach, Ernst, 273 Basic Law (of the Federal Republic), 1, 53, 57 n. 11, 290, 308, 382 Battel, Alfred, 171 Battle of the Nations Monument, 400–2, 404–5

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Index

Baum, Herbert, 206, 282, 283 Bavaria, 49, 51, 53, 57 n. 9, 81, 82, 92–3, 103–12, 159–61, 183, 195–9, 201, 202, 239, 324 Bebel, August, 39 Becher, Johannes R., 271, 401 Belgium, 72, 116, 208 Belsen, see Bergen-Belsen Benjamin, Walter, 75, 146, 147, 152, 153, 253 Bennis, Martin, 333 Berchtesgaden, 105, 107, 108, 116, 286 n. 32 Bergen-Belsen, 71, 138, 140, 183, 193–4, 194, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 203, 210, 263 n. 15 Bergengruen, Werner, 31 Berlin, 4, 15, 16, 17, 22, 48, 55, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 80, 92, 97–9, 110, 111, 125, 130, 146–54, 147, 152, 168, 170–5, 201, 203, 206, 214–22, 224, 230, 233, 234, 236, 243–51, 244, 256, 258, 268, 276, 277, 279, 280, 282, 284, 287–95, 288, 298–306, 308–15, 319, 325, 328–9, 342, 343, 370, 371, 388, 390, 396, 400, 401, 405, 406 Berlin Wall, 173, 293, 319, 323, 326 Berlin Wall Memorial, 319 Biebl, Rolf, 290, 291 Bismarck, Otto von, 2, 98, 270, 279, 372, 400, 407 n. 3 Bitburg, 72–3 Border-Country Museum Eichsfeld, 322–3, 326 Brandenburg, 96, 97–9 Brandenburg Gate, 151, 248, 276 Brandt, Willy, 20, 25 n. 39, 72, 79, 85 Bremen, 94, 95, 394 Britain, 71, 91, 100, 198, 361, 364 see also Allied occupation forces, role in memorial processes; Allied occupation of Germany Buchenwald concentration camp, 117, 137, 195, 208, 257, 270 see also Buchenwald Memorial Site Buchenwald Memorial (on Ettersberg Hill), 208, 268, 270–2, 272, 281 Buchenwald Memorial Site, 4, 6, 74, 114, 115, 205, 206, 207–9, 255–7, 259–60, 270, 281, 283, 329, 330, 331, 332, 334–5 Bürgerinitiativen, see community activism

Bundeszentrale für Heimatdienst, predecessor of Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, see Federal Agency for Political Education Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung, see Federal Agency for Political Education Bündnis 90/die Grünen, see Green Party

C Cannock Chase German Military Cemetery, 71 CDU, see Christian Democratic Party cemeteries, 116 Christian, 19, 21, 29, 31, 50, 69, 74, 76, 128, 135–7, 136, 138–40, 139, 143, 158, 197, 200, 202, 244, 245, 279, 280, 288, 330, see also military Jewish, 19, 95, 97, 183, 196, 200, 211, 282, 283 military, 10, 17, 21, 69, 70, 71–4, 361, 362, 363, 395 Centre Against Expulsions, 78, 80–1, 83, 84 Christian churches, the, 26, 30–1, 58–66, 67 n. 8, 71, 149, 331, 343, 345–6 Catholic, 40, 50, 110, 194, 196, 199, 200, 322, 326, 341, 343, 381 Deutsche Christen, see German Christians German Christians (organization aligned with Nazism), 64, 362 Lutheran, 19, 40, 50, 59, 65, 99, 124, 127, 128, 131, 196, 207, 211–12, 323, 326, 347, 348, 362 Russian Orthodox, 74 see also memorials, aesthetic aspects of, Christian symbolism; Jews, religious observance Christian Democratic Party (incorporating the Christian Socialist Union), 9, 19, 40, 48, 52, 72, 79–80, 104, 106, 110, 112, 161, 163, 211, 299, 302, 303, 304, 310, 312, 318, 323–4, 331, 332, 382, 390, 404 Churchill, Winston, 198 Clegg, Michael, 293 Cold War, 2, 3–4, 5, 11, 26, 29, 30, 69, 70–2, 79, 135, 140, 162, 205, 276–7, 283, 298, 320, 323–4, 342, 357, 364, 372, 395 Cologne, 49, 55, 59, 60, 61, 64, 234, 237, 239, 261, 287 commemorative ceremonies and rituals, 6, 7, 8–9, 15–23, 22, 28–33, 93, 128, 157,

Index 158, 181, 189–90 n. 8, 195, 196, 198–9, 202, 205, 208, 244, 245, 246, 253, 269, 279, 281, 288, 291, 299, 300, 302–3, 315, 331, 347, 350 n. 26, 361, 362–3, 366–7, 371, 373, 374, 375, 383, 388, 395, 401, 402, 403 commemorative days, 6, 15–23, 25 n. 40, 31, 69, 93, 183, 196, 198, 202, 269, 288, 291, 322, 365, 366, 369, 370, 372, 375, 386, 394, 403 see also anniversaries Commission for Post-War Political Monuments in Former East Berlin, 314 Committee of Antifascist Resistance Fighters, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210 Commonwealth War Graves Commission, 71 communicative memory, 21, 85, 299, 304, 366, 373 community activism, 1–2, 8, 92, 95, 106, 107–8, 110, 111, 141, 143, 172, 173, 212–13 n. 10, 224, 236, 237, 258, 309–11, 312–13, 315, 321, 357 Africa-Hamburg Project, 351, 356–7 Anti-Ice-Age Committee, 290, 291 Campaign Group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg, 289, 290–1, 292 church groups, 128, 234, 237 Citizens’ Initiative for Political Monuments in the GDR, 311 environmental activists, 321, 322, 324–5 feminist activists, 321 gay rights groups, 149, 150 Initiative Homo-Monument, 150 Initiative Politischer Denkmäler der DDR, see Citizens’ Initiative for Political Monuments in the GDR Initiative Stolpersteine für München, see Stumbling Blocks for Munich Initiativkreis Ein Zeichen für Rosa Luxemburg, see Campaign Group Making a Mark for Rosa Luxemburg Jewish protesters, 196 local historians, 106, 126 local history associations or ‘workshops’, 106, 110, 224 peace activists, 32, 228, 234, 236, 356 Perspective for Berlin, 2 schools, 137, 164, 234, 236, 237, 300 students, 110, 128, 129, 287, 311, 321, 351, 354–6, 357, 374 Stumbling Blocks for Munich, 238, 240

411

youth groups, 128, 198–9 see also victims’ and veterans’ organizations compensation of victims, 126, 132 n. 8, 140, 141 concentration and extermination camps, 6, 7, 19, 49, 73, 93, 94, 96, 99, 104, 114, 115–16, 119, 125, 126, 134, 149, 170, 171, 174, 175, 182, 187, 192, 197, 220, 224, 260, 279, 281, 283, 370 see also under individual camp names counter-monument, 3, 7, 10, 129, 224–31, 245, 246, 254, 256, 293, 295, 399, 401 Cremer, Fritz, 271–2, 272, 282 Crimes of the Wehrmacht: Dimensions of the War of Extermination 1941–1944, 142, 262 see also War of Annihilation: Crimes of the Wehrmacht, 1941–1944 CSU, see Christian Democratic Party Czechoslovakia (and the Czech Republic), 42, 43, 74, 78, 80, 81, 82, 301

D Dachau, 4, 6, 92, 93, 104, 105, 116, 150, 154, 186, 192, 193, 195–7, 198, 199–203, 283 Darmstadt, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33 Day of German Unity, 18, 386, 403 DDR, see German Democratic Republic DEFA, 137 Demnig, Gunter, 234–7, 239, 240 Denkmal der Grauen Busse, see Grey Bus Memorial Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas, see Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe Denkmal für die im Nationalsozialismus verfolgten Homosexuellen, see Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime Deutsch-deutsches Museum Mödlareuth, see German-German Museum at Mödlareuth Deutsches Historisches Museum, see German Historical Museum Dietz, Lothar, 157, 165 n. 3 Displaced Persons, 181–9, 193, 194, 395 division of Germany, 2, 3, 5, 71, 267, 283–4, 298, 300, 318–26, 369 see also Cold War

412

Index

Documentation Centre Nazi Party Rally Grounds, 107 documentation centres, 48, 99, 106, 107–8, 110–12, 124, 126, 127, 130, 140, 172, 173, 215, 319, 330 Dokumentation Obersalzberg, see Obersalzberg Documentation Centre Dokumentationszentrum Reichs-parteitagsgelände, see Documentation Centre Nazi Party Rally Grounds Domenig, Günther, 107 Dragset, Ingar, 146–7, 147, 150–3, 152, 154 Dresden, 3, 26, 27, 29, 32, 37–9, 41–5, 59, 60–1, 63, 64–5, 210, 277, 342, 388, 390–2

E East and West Prussia Foundation, 53 East Germany, see German Democratic Republic East-West comparisons and points of conflict, 3–5, 15, 18, 26, 29, 37, 39, 44, 49–50, 51, 52, 55, 67 n. 8, 71, 79, 135, 148–9, 163, 166 n. 22, 205, 206–7, 215, 267, 269, 279, 282, 283–4, 287, 300, 308–9, 342–4, 346, 357, 369–76, 376 n. 1, 379, 381–3, 386, 394–5, 396, 400–4 see also Federal Republic of Germany; German Democratic Republic; Cold War Ebert, Friedrich, 91, 369, 372–3, 384–5 Eckert, Wolfgang, 159, 160, 160, 163–4 Eisenhüttenstadt, 269–70 Eisenman, Peter, 150–1, 240, 243, 245, 246, 247, 249, 250, 251 Elmgreen, Michael, 146–7, 147, 150–3, 152, 154 Elser, Georg, 97, 109 Engels, Friedrich, 310, 343, 371 Enquete-Kommissionen, 1 Ernst Thälmann Memorial, 308, 310, 314–15 European Street of Monuments, 404 euthanasia (as Nazi policy), 73, 125–6 see also groups commemorated events commemorated 9 November 1938, 198–9, 207, 208, 211, 282, 301 20 July 1944, 3, 12 n. 11, 92, 97, 114, 120, 215, 388, 393–4

8 May 1945, 52, 54, 211, 268, 269, 278 17 June 1953, 18, 98, 254, 298–306, 304, 372, 386, 403, 406 aerial bombardment, 3, 5, 10, 21, 26–33, 58–66, 59, 71, 80, 81, 97, 279, 282, 284, 391, 394 Berlin Air Lift, 284 book burning, 283 colonialism, 11, 91, 351–8, 362 demonstrations of autumn 1989, 299, 301 deportation of euthanasia victims, 129–30, 130 deportation of Jews, 96, 114, 170, 171, 219, 220–1, 222 n. 7, 234–6, 261, 282 dissolution of SPD in 1933, 95 division of Germany, 18, 300, 318–26, 386, 401, 403 First World War, 2, 15, 16, 32, 38, 41, 69, 71, 74, 82, 105, 273, 309, 353, 360–7, 395, 400 flight and expulsion from the former East, 3, 4–5, 9, 10, 37–45, 48–57, 53–4, 78–85, 97, 119, 395, 403 Kristallnacht, see 9 November 1938 liberation of Germany, see 8 May 1945 November Pogrom, see 9 November 1938 Prussia, 43, 98, 119, 121, 310, 372, 394, 400, 401, 405–6 Reformation, 342–8 Reichspogromnacht, see 9 November 1938 revolution of 1848, 267, 280, 301, 370, 381, 382–3, 385, 386, 406 revolution of 1918, 267, 278, 280, 287, 293, 294, 301, 360, 369–76, 383, 386 Second Empire, 2, 5, 351–8, 360–7, 399–406 Second World War, 2, 17–23, 26–33, 58–66, 69–75, 79–80, 82, 109, 115–22, 134–43, 227, 229, 230, 309, 328, 330, 332–4, 365–6, 391, 395 Spanish Civil War, 267–8, 280 unification in 1871, 402, 406 unification in 1989, 98, 304, 323–4, 406 victory over Napoleon, 273, 279, 400 Weimar Republic, 92, 239, 379–86, 406 exhibitions, 4, 6, 7, 10, 12 n. 10, 53, 58–66, 59, 78–85, 92, 94, 97, 98, 105–9, 110–12, 114, 117, 124, 127, 128, 130–1,

Index 137, 140, 141, 142, 150, 157, 168–75, 201–2, 206, 208–9, 214, 219–22, 219, 240, 243, 246–7, 253–62, 293, 311, 321–4, 330, 342–8, 366, 388–94, 404–5

F far-right extremism, 75, 95, 110, 111, 175, 201, 228, 403 FDP, see Free Democratic Party Federal Agency for Political Education, 92, 383, 385 Federal Republic of Germany before 1990, 3, 4, 18, 20, 31, 40–1, 72, 105, 138–40, 199, 215–16, 287, 318, 329, 351, 366, 379–86, 388, 394, 402–4 after 1990, 1–2, 4–5, 21, 52, 55, 140, 309, 379, 386, 396, 406 see also East-West comparisons and points of conflict Federal Strategy for Memorial Sites, 1, 5, 143, 319 Feigenbaum, Moshe Yosef, 184, 186, 188, 189 First World War (as historical event), 28, 32, 69, 353, 360 see also events commemorated flight and expulsion (as historical event), 2, 5, 9, 78–9 see also events commemorated Flossenbürg, 93, 104, 193, 194–5, 202 forced and slave labour (as historical phenomenon), 117, 135, 141–2, 174, 182, 193, 215 see also groups commemorated former East Germany, see new Bundesländer France, 6, 39, 70, 72, 91, 94, 119, 196, 197, 208, 235, 403 Frankfurt am Main, 206, 261 Free Democratic Party, 3, 19, 52, 96, 161, 312 Freedom and Unity Memorial (planned), 406 Freiburg, 127, 237 Freiheits- und Einheitsdenkmal, see Freedom and Unity Memorial French Burial Service, 72 FRG, see Federal Republic of Germany Friedl, Herbert, 131 Friedrichshain People’s Park, 280

413

G Gauck/Birthler Authority, 322 GDR, see German Democratic Republic Gedenkstätte Berliner Mauer, see Berlin Wall Memorial Gedenkstätte Buchenwald, see Buchenwald Memorial Site Gedenkstätte der Sozialisten, see Memorial to the Socialists Gedenkstätte Deutscher Widerstand, 92, 394 Gedenkstätte Deutsche Teilung, see Memorial Site to the Division of Germany Gedenkstätte Neuer Börneplatz, see Neuer Börneplatz Memorial Gedenkstättenkonzeption des Bundes, see Federal Strategy for Memorial Sites Gedenk- und Bildungsstätte Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz, see House of the Wannsee Conference Memorial and Educational Site gender, 10, 149, 150, 155 n. 23, 160–2, 160, 164–5, 166 n. 11, n. 12, 217, 224–31, 280, 282–3, 305, 321, 405 German Communist Party, 39, 208, 278, 280, 287, 288, 290, 310, 314, 369–71, 374 German Democratic Republic, 1, 2–3, 4–5, 37, 95, 98, 117, 135, 137, 162, 163, 205–12, 215–16, 267–335, 343–8, 379, 381–3, 384, 391, 400–2, 403, 405 see also new Bundesländer; East-West comparisons and points of conflict German-German Museum at Mödlareuth, 319 German Historical Museum, 48, 249 Germanic National Museum, 342 German-Soviet Friendship Society, 137, 277 German Street of Monuments, 404 Gerz, Jochen, 228–9, 254 Gestapo, 109, 161, 172 Gisinger, Arno, 257 Goebbels, Joseph, 28, 219, 221 Goldmann, Nachum, 198 government involvement in memorial processes central government, 1–2, 5, 15, 18–23, 40, 43, 48, 72, 106, 140, 141, 146, 150, 198, 202–3, 206, 211, 243, 244, 245, 309, 319, 324–5, 344, 350 n. 26, 372, 382, 383–4, 385, 389–94, 403, 406

414

Index

government involvement in memorial processes – continued regional or municipal government, 8–9, 19, 23 n. 3, 26, 29–33, 38–45, 91–100, 106, 107–8, 109, 110, 116, 117, 133 n. 14, 139, 140, 160, 195, 196, 197, 206, 211, 236–40, 299, 300–1, 303, 309, 311–12, 314, 325, 330, 332–3, 335, 363, 366, 385, 394, 397 n. 4, 403, 404 see also Allied occupation forces, role in memorial processes Graetz, René, 271 Graf, Willi, 157, 163 Grafeneck, 9, 97, 124–32 Green Party, 80, 289, 312, 313, 325 Grenzlandmuseum Eichsfeld, see Border-Country Museum Eichsfeld Grey Bus Memorial, 129–30, 130, 131–2, 254 Grotewohl, Otto, 208, 280, 401 groups commemorated Bekennende Kirche, see Confessing Church Bund Deutscher Offiziere, see League of German Officers Christian resisters, 63, 64 communist or ‘antifascist’ resisters, 97, 98, 99, 137, 163, 205–6, 209, 215, 268, 270–1, 272, 273, 278, 280–1, 283, 314, 329 Confessing Church, 64 euthanasia victims, 4, 97, 124–32, 130, 171, 172 forced and slave labourers, 81, 94, 95, 97, 98, 117, 119, 137, 138, 141–2, 170, 171, 216 German Communist Party, 208, 278, 280, 287, 315, 374 Germans as victims, 3, 5, 13–87 (esp. 18, 58, 60, 62, 69, 70, 73, 75, 80), 97, 103, 109, 318, 405 homosexuals, 4, 146–54, 147, 152 Italian POWs, 137, 140 Jehovah’s Witnesses, 4 Jews, 4, 9, 19, 181–262, 194, 200, 217, 219, 244, 256, 259 KPD, see German Communist Party League of German Officers, 163 National Committee for a Free Germany, 163

Nationalkomitee Freies Deutschland, see National Committee for a Free Germany Onkel Emil resistance group, 220 political opponents of Nazism, 92, 163, 172, 173, 282 Red Orchestra, 97, 163 Rote Kapelle, see Red Orchestra Rosenstraße protesters, 214–22 ‘rubble women’, 282–3 Sinti and Roma, 4, 209, 242 n. 33 Soviet civilians, 74–5, 268 Soviet POWs, 4, 134–43, 200 student resistance groups, 157–65, 282 Trümmerfrauen, see ‘rubble women’ victims of Soviet internment, 4, 74, 82, 93, 98, 328–35, 405 victims of the Stasi and/or GDR justice, 4, 93, 98, 99, 299, 405 victims of Wehrmacht justice, 4, 330–4 White Rose, 109, 157–65, 158, 160, 215 see also under names of historical figures die Grünen, see Green Party Grundgesetz, see Basic Law Grzimek, Waldemar, 271 Guttmann, Martin, 293

H Haacke, Hans, 254, 293–4 Hadamar, 125, 127 Halle, 211 Hallstein Doctrine, 282 Hamburg, 26, 27, 30, 32, 33, 158, 162, 197, 237, 342, 351, 353–7 Hanover, 237, 238, 356 Harburg Monument against Fascism, War, Violence – for Peace and Human Rights, 225, 228–30, 254 Hartheim, 125, 127, 131 Haus am Checkpoint Charlie, 305 Haus der Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, see House of History Haus der Wannsee-Konferenz, see House of the Wannsee Conference Memorial and Educational Site Heilbronn, 27, 29, 31 Heimat, 18, 28, 31, 33, 50, 51, 54, 83, 318, 319–26 Heimatstube, 55, 79, 80, 82 Hermannsdenkmal, see Arminius Monument Herzog, Roman, 21, 327 n. 15

Index Hesse (federal state of), 49, 55, 94, 96, 101 n. 15, 226 Hessen, see Hesse Heuss, Theodor, 19, 56, 96, 198, 382, 384–5, 403 Himmler, Heinrich, 71, 148, 170, 173–4, 175 Hindenburg, Paul von, 2 Historians’ Debate, 159 Hitler, Adolf, 16, 31, 38, 39, 73, 92, 97, 104, 105, 107, 109, 114, 116, 119–21, 196, 240, 243, 248, 370, 372, 393, 395, 401, 402 Hoheisel, Horst, 129, 226–8, 229, 254 Holocaust, 3–4, 5, 60, 73, 84, 92, 114, 116, 121, 125–6, 146, 148–50, 170–1, 175, 176, 181–262, 263 n. 16, 300, 318, 351, 354, 375, 405 see also Israel; Jews Holocaust Memorial, popular designation for Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, see the latter entry Holzer, Jenny, 405 Honecker, Erich, 310, 344, 375 House of History (museum), 78, 84 House of the Wannsee Conference Memorial and Educational Site, 168, 169, 170–2, 175, 248 Huber, Kurt, 157 Hübotter, Wilhelm, 71 Hungary, 78, 195, 208, 234, 301 Hunzinger, Ingeborg, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 221, 290, 291

I Institute for Contemporary History, 107, 111 Israel, 8, 74, 188, 189, 194, 199, 201, 202, 205, 206, 207, 208, 212 Italy, xiii, 72, 73–4, 83, 91, 134–5, 137, 138, 140–3, 200, 234–5, 365

J Japan, 91 Jewish Museum Berlin, 248, 256 Jewish organizations Bavarian Association of Jewish Communities, 199, 201, 202 Central Committee of Liberated Jews, 71, 183, 184, 186, 188 Central Council of Jews, 238, 239

415

Central Historical Commission, 181, 184–9 European Jewish Congress, 238 landsmanshaftn, 183, 187 survivors’ organizations, 8, 181–9, 200 Union of Anti-Nazi Resistance Fighters, 206 World Jewish Congress, 238 YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, 184 Jews communities in the GDR, 207 contemporary communities in Germany, 64–5, 237, 238–9 as initiators or creators of memorials, 128–9, 181–9, 193–4, 195–6, 199–201, 206, 216–19, 237, 240 married to non-Jewish partners, 214, 215, 216, 217, 220–1 persecution and murder of, 2, 8, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 92, 96, 114, 126, 129, 170–1, 172, 182, 192, 193, 194–5, 197, 198, 202, 205–6, 208, 209, 215, 220–1, 226, 234, 235–6, 258, 261, 282 as protesters, 196 religious observance, 128, 183, 195, 196, 199, 200, 261 as soldiers, 69 as tourists, 248 traces of life and culture before 1933, 8, 64–5, 95, 96, 97, 98, 184–5, 187, 188, 210, 211, 212–13 n. 10, 219, 221, 226, 258, 260–1, 282

K Kaiser-Wilhelm-Denkmal, see Kaiser Wilhelm Monument Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, see Kaiser William Memorial Church Kaiser William Memorial Church, 59, 61, 62, 63, 67 n. 15, 284 Kaiser Wilhelm Monument, 3, 402–4, 406 Kaplan, Israel, 184, 186, 187, 188, 189 Karlshorst, 283 Karrenberg, Katharina, 254, 302–3, 305 Kassel, 26, 27, 29, 30, 31, 33, 226, 237 Kies, Hans, 271 Kitzbihler, Jochen, 260 Knitz, Andreas, 129, 254 Knobloch, Charlotte, 238–9 Knufinke, Ulrich, 260–1 Koblenz, 402, 403, 406 Köhler, Horst, 23

416

Index

Köln, see Cologne Kohl, Helmut, 72, 80, 103, 224, 245, 308, 331, 406 Kollwitz, Käthe, 22, 22, 39, 103 Kommission zum Umgang mit den politischen Denkmälern der Nachkriegszeit im ehemaligen Ost-Berlin, see Commission for Post-War Political Monuments in Former East Berlin Konstanz, 237 KPD, see German Communist Party Kyffhäuser Monument, 400–2, 404–5

L Laboe Naval Memorial, 395 Landeszentralen für politische Bildung, see Regional Offices for Political Education Langerhans, Oswald, 70–1 Leipelt, Hans, 158, 162 Leipzig, 211, 237, 400 Lenin, 98, 271, 308, 310, 311, 312, 313, 371 Lenin Monument, 308, 310, 311–13 Lessing, Hans, 261 Libeskind, Daniel, 249, 275 n. 23, 391 Lichtenburg, 95 Lieberose, 99, 210 Liebknecht, Karl, 38, 279, 280, 283, 288, 290 Lingner, Max, 303, 304 Locher, Thomas, 293 Lower Saxony, 50, 81, 94, 95, 138–9, 323 Lübeck, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 342 Luftwaffenmuseum, Berlin, see Air Force Museum, Berlin Luther, Martin, 163, 341–9 Luxemburg, Rosa, 279, 280, 283, 287–95, 288 LWL Industrial Museum, 78

M Madlowski, Klaus, 332 Magdeburg, 27, 30, 32, 33, 273 Mainz, 37–41, 42, 44–5, 257, 258–9, 259, 385 Mannheim, 260 maps and mapping, 38, 51, 53, 53, 54, 54–5, 81, 99, 170, 219, 235–6, 281, 361 Marx, Karl, 38, 40, 98–9, 163, 310, 312, 313, 343, 371

Marx-Engels Forum, 309, 310, 314 Marx-Engels Institute, 206 Marxism, 267, 268, 272, 294, 345, 346, 347, 348, 371 Matz, Reinhard, 260 Mayer, Christoph, 254 Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, 116 memorial media advertising column, 219–21, 219 book of remembrance, 74, 128–9, 190 n. 17, 365 brass, 234, 235 bronze, 51, 65, 98, 157–8, 269, 287, 288, 290, 294, 314, 365, 394, 395 cast iron, 287 cenotaph, 138, 268, 270, 276 concrete, 129, 130, 132, 150, 287, 288, 295, 313 Denkzeichen, see ‘think-mark’ earth, 279, 401 Geschichtslehrpfad, see history path glass, 260, 303, 304, 332 history path, 94, 97, 99, 111, 254, 325 lead, 228 light, 302, 405 militaria, 118–19, 118, 122 n. 10, 362, 391, 395 mural, 303, 304 music, 17, 19–20, 21, 33, 129, 362 obelisk, 136, 137, 197, 226, 227, 302 objects, 83–4, 114–15, 117, 118–19, 120–1, 184, 185, 244, 255–7, 263 n. 12, n. 15, 293–4 paper, 158, 219 performance, 129 photography, 60–3, 120, 158, 158, 169–70, 171, 172, 173, 184, 185, 187, 219, 221, 254, 255, 256, 257, 259, 259, 260–2, 263 n. 16, 283–4, 302, 303, 304–5, 304, 363, 405 ruins, 59, 59, 60–3, 65, 65, 106, 211 sculpture, 3, 22, 59, 65, 71, 103, 130, 133 n. 14, 157–8, 159–60, 160, 164, 196, 216–19, 217, 226, 227, 254, 268–9, 271–2, 272, 280, 281, 282, 283, 287, 290, 291, 303, 308, 310, 314, 353, 365, 394, 396, 401, 402, 403 sound, 246, 254, 281 steel, 74, 128, 133 n. 14 stelae, 74, 150–1, 210, 243–4, 244, 245–6, 247, 251, 271

Index stone, 50–1, 63, 65, 65, 69, 98–9, 105, 127, 128, 139, 147, 153–4, 158, 159, 160, 189–90 n. 8, 193–4, 194, 197, 200, 208, 216, 217, 218, 234, 246, 269, 280, 281, 282, 283, 288, 308, 313, 324, 330, 334, 395, 399 testimonies, 83, 129, 181, 184–8, 220–1 ‘think-mark’, 288, 289, 292–3 Totenburgen, 69, 72 video, 146, 151–2, 152, 153–4, 210, 227, 254, 255 visual arts, 126, 129, 350 n. 19, 363 water, 226 wood, 136, 136, 195, 197, 331 memorials, aesthetic aspects of as art, 59–60, 147–8, 241 n. 8, 249–50, 255–7, 262 n. 3, 267–8 Christian symbolism, 16, 19, 22, 28, 32, 33, 50, 58, 60–2, 63, 72, 127, 128, 159, 165 n. 3, 166 n. 22, 194, 195, 197, 217, 331, 348, 362, 365 fixity or mobility, 9, 128–30, 130, 131–2, 228, 253–4, 264 n. 17, 293–4, 302, 313 on horizontal plane, 10, 72, 128–9, 158, 158, 228, 234, 238, 239, 288, 293, 294, 295, 302, 303, 304, 304 inscriptions, 9–10, 50, 51–2, 53–5, 53, 54, 56, 72, 105, 127, 128, 133 n. 12, 137, 139, 140, 149, 152–3, 193–4, 197–8, 200, 201, 210, 211, 216, 217, 228–9, 235, 270, 288, 302, 331, 353, 356, 365, 394, 395, 396, 398 n. 22 Jewish symbolism, 128–9, 194, 195, 196–7, 199, 200–1, 200, 210, 215–18, 217 Soviet symbolism and aesthetics, 136, 136, 138, 268–9, 270–2, 272, 280, 281, 304 spatial connotations, 61, 127, 151, 153–4, 164, 235–6, 268, 325, 332–3, 335 symbolism, 60–3, 72, 128–30, 133 n. 14, 140, 149, 151, 153–4, 169–70, 173, 200, 202–3, 215–19, 220, 225, 226–7, 228–30, 235–6, 243–4, 245–7, 255–7, 258, 283, 300, 302, 303, 333, 365, 396, 401, 402, 403 temporal dimensions, 66, 151, 228, 247, 254, 279–81, 293, 299, 302, 313, 334, 403

417

unrealized proposals, 195, 196, 208, 254, 264 n. 17, 271, 293–4, 302–3, 312, 313, 332–3, 366 see also counter-monument; memorial media; memorials, social and cultural aspects of, setting/siting in public space memorials, social and cultural aspects of as grave markers, 7, 10, 69–75, 94, 98, 99, 127, 128, 135–7, 136, 138–40, 185–6, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 199, 210, 222 n. 7, 239, 242 n. 29, 244, 245, 247, 263 n. 15, 269, 270, 271, 279, 280–1, 303, 333, 365, see also cemeteries bodily experiences of, 10, 235, 238, 239, 246–7, 250–1, 253, 262 n. 3, 275 n. 23 competitions to decide on, 107, 129, 165, 173, 195, 196, 197, 225, 245, 290, 293–4, 299, 300, 301–5, 332–4 debates about, 2, 9, 39–40, 41, 42–3, 44, 73, 78, 80, 84, 93, 98, 127, 150, 163, 165, 174, 188, 201, 228–9, 233, 236–40, 251, 267, 288–9, 290–1, 299, 300, 301–5, 306, 308–14, 329, 331–4, 354, 354–6, 357, 373, 375–6, 381–2, 393, 396–7, 404, 405–6 distinction between Denkmal and Mahnmal, 131, 236, 293, 351–2, 356, 404 and education, 53, 64, 72, 91–100, 106, 108, 111, 144 n. 18, 121, 131, 168–76, 198, 202, 241 n. 12, 251, 264 n. 17, 275 n. 22, 279, 300, 322, 342, 373, 392, 397 n. 8 funding, state, 1, 80, 91, 106, 236, 241 n. 13, 244, 301, 319, 331; private, 2, 74, 106, 130, 196, 199, 234, 236–7, 239–40, 312, 353, 408 n. 35 graffiti on, 228, 250, 310 naming (or not naming) of victims at, 19, 20, 69, 74, 97, 128–9, 136–7, 136, 138, 144 n. 14, n. 17, 234, 235, 245, 246, 257–60, 259, 261–2, 263 n. 15, 269, 365, 395 removal, re-design, or re-dedication of, 2, 4, 5, 11, 52–4, 53–4, 70, 72, 74, 91, 97–8, 104–5, 109, 127, 133 n. 14, 136, 138, 139–40, 226, 309–13, 315, 319, 351–2, 355–7, 370, 385, 395, 400–6

418

Index

memorials, social and cultural aspects of – continued setting/siting in public space, 37–45, 48–9, 51–2, 129–30, 131–2, 151–2, 159–61, 186, 189–90 n. 8, 233, 234, 243, 250, 254, 290–1, 294, 301, 256–7, 348–9, 361–2, 366, 396 vandalism to, 56, 74, 76 n. 11, 156 n. 37, 199, 201, 239, 250 visitors to, 10, 108, 111, 114–15, 118, 127, 129, 131, 151–3, 170, 171–2, 174–5, 197, 198, 202, 228, 244, 246–7, 250–1, 280, 295, 315, 322, 325, 348, 356–7, 391–2 see also commemorative rituals; events commemorated; groups commemorated; war memorials; memorials, aesthetic aspects of Memorial Site to the Division of Germany, 319, 321–2 Memorial to the Homosexuals Persecuted under the National Socialist Regime, 4, 146–54, 254 Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, 1–2, 4, 6, 7, 21, 93, 111, 150–1, 165, 173, 203, 224, 230–1, 233, 240, 243–51, 244, 267, 275 n. 23, 332 Memorial to the Socialists, Friedrichsfelde Cemetery, 280, 284, 287–8 Merkel, Angela, 80 Merz, H. G., 391 Miguletz, Norbert, 261–2 Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt, see Military History Research Institute Militärhistorisches Museum der Bundeswehr, see Military History Museum of the Bundeswehr Military History Museum of the Bundeswehr, 388, 390–2 Military History Research Institute, 390, 391, 393 Munich, 104, 105, 107–12, 116, 157–8, 158, 162, 184, 195, 196, 199, 202, 237–40 Museum for German History (GDR), 206, 208, 342, 343, 344, 345 museums, 6, 48, 55, 56, 70, 80, 83, 84, 94, 96, 99, 108, 110, 111, 114, 117, 118–19, 169, 174, 201–2, 205, 206, 207, 208–9, 247, 248, 249, 257, 311, 319, 321–3, 342–8, 362, 366, 388–93, 400

see also documentation centres; exhibitions

N Nationale Mahn- und Gedenkstätte Buchenwald, GDR designation for the Buchenwald Memorial Site, see the latter entry national identity, 1–5, 15, 18, 21, 22–3, 22, 41, 48, 63, 66, 159–60, 162–3, 165, 231, 276, 279–81, 282–4, 292, 298–9, 300–1, 305, 308, 315, 351, 404, 405–6 compare regional identity NATO, 19, 140, 365, 391 Nazi-era remains architecture, 66 n. 3, 95, 104–5, 107, 109–10, 121, 127, 172, 194, 240 cultish sites, 95, 105, 109, 173–5 monuments, 70, 95, 400 objects, 111, 175 street names, 39, 97 see also perpetrator sites neo-Nazism, see far-right extremism Network for Remembrance and Solidarity, 80 Neuengamme, 4, 192, 197, 202 Neuer Börneplatz Memorial, 261–2 Neue Wache, see New Guardhouse Neumann, Klaus, 261 new Bundesländer, 4, 49–52, 81, 91, 92, 93, 97–8, 116, 324–5, 403 New Guardhouse, 9, 16, 22, 22, 93, 103, 224, 279, 280, 283, 284, 331, 396, 400 Niedersachsen, see Lower Saxony Nordrhein-Westfalen, see North Rhine-Westphalia normalization, 8, 58, 66, 169, 298, 305, 405, 406 North Rhine-Westphalia, 49, 50, 52, 81 Nuremberg, 9, 93, 104–7, 108, 109, 110, 116, 121, 122, 256, 342, 343, 344 see also trials of Nazi criminals

O Obersalzberg Documentation Centre, 107–8 Oder-Neisse Line, 40, 44, 45, 50, 52, 53, 54, 54–5, 80 Osnabrück, 53 Ostalgie, 309 Ost- und Westpreußenstiftung, see East and West Prussia Foundation

Index P Palace of the Republic, 298, 314 Palestine, 182, 183, 186, 188, 189, 202 Party of Democratic Socialism, 289–91, 295, 312, 320 PDS, see Party of Democratic Socialism Peenemünde, 114–19, 121–2 People’s Day of Mourning, 15–23, 69, 394 People’s League for the Maintenance of German War Graves, 15–23, 69–75, 139 People’s Theatre (Berlin), 287, 288, 293, 294 Volksbühne, see People’s Theatre (Berlin) perpetrator sites, 95, 103–12, 114–22, 118, 120, 168–76 Pforzheim, 26, 27, 29 Pieck, Wilhelm, 280 Poland, 39, 40–1, 42, 44, 45, 52, 55, 74, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83–4, 85, 94, 97, 119, 120, 134, 135, 138, 182, 184, 186, 194, 195, 202, 208, 235, 248, 280, 301, 309, 403 Probst, Christoph, 157, 158

R Rau, Johannes, 107, 158, 161, 162, 301 Raue, Jürgen, 206 Ravensbrück, 114, 206, 281 Ravensburg, 125, 129 Reagan, Ronald, 72–3, 202 regional foundations for memory sites, 92–3, 94, 95, 330, 332–3, 335 regional identity, 92, 96, 100, 322–3, 326 Regional Offices for Political Education, 91–100, 111 Romania, 78 Rosh, Lea, 250 Rothschild, Miguel, 293 Rüppel, Wolfgang, 303, 304

S Sachsenhausen, 4, 137, 150, 205, 206, 281, 329, 330, 331, 334–5 Salmon, Naomi Tereza, 257 Samuels, Diane, 9, 128 Sandbostel, 138–40, 139 Saxony, 38, 135, 211, 328–33, 335 Saxony-Anhalt, 94, 95, 319 SBZ, see Allied occupation of Germany Schleswig-Holstein, 50, 51, 53–4, 53, 54, 81 Schmitt-Matt, Robert, 158, 158 Schmorell, Alexander, 157, 158, 162 Scholl, Hans, 157, 158, 161, 162, 163

419

Scholl, Sophie, 9, 157, 158, 159–65, 160 Schröder, Gerhard, 250, 379, 406 Schüler, Ralf, 287 Schüler-Witte, Ursulina, 287 SED, see Socialist Unity Party Seibold, Normann, 126 Serbia, 135, 171 Serra, Richard, 133 n. 14, 245 Shalev-Gerz, Esther, 228, 229, 254 Sichtbares Zeichen gegen Flucht und Vertreibung, see Visible Sign against Flight and Expulsion Siegessäule, see Victory Column (Berlin) Sinti und Roma, 2, 4, 209 Social Democratic Party in the Weimar Republic, 95, 369, 372, 384 after 1945, 3, 9, 20, 31, 40, 48, 72, 79, 80–1, 95, 104, 106, 110, 160, 161, 163, 238, 289, 291, 299, 312, 313, 320, 325, 380, 382 Socialist Realism, 11, 268, 269, 303, 304, 312, 315 Socialist Unity Party, 1, 18, 37, 43, 149, 205, 206–7, 209, 211–12, 267, 274 n. 7, 287–9, 291, 298, 299–300, 303, 308, 309, 310–12, 314, 315, 320, 331, 335, 370–4, 401, 406 Soviet Memorial, Schönholzer Heide Park, 280, 280 Soviet Occupation Zone, see Allied occupation of Germany Soviet Union (and Russian Federation), 2, 3, 4, 5, 73, 78, 80, 85, 94, 134–43, 163, 172, 182, 186, 187, 194, 200, 206, 208, 209, 268–9, 272, 274 n. 14, 277, 279, 280, 283, 299–300, 308, 345, 346, 371, 375, 384, 385, 401 Soviet War Memorial, Treptow Park, 268–9, 270–1, 280, 283, 284 Sowjetisches Ehrenmal Schönholzer Heide, see Soviet Memorial, Schönholzer Heide Park Sowjetisches Ehrenmal Treptower Park, see Soviet War Memorial, Treptow Park SPD, see Social Democratic Party SS, 71, 72–3, 74, 105, 142, 169, 171, 172, 174–5, 210, 226, 228, 260, 270, 271, 282, 362 Stalin, 137, 143, 269–70, 301, 315, 371, 373 Stalinism, 1, 74, 303, 312, 329, 330–2, 371, 372–3 Stasi, 4, 210, 319, 320, 321

420

Index

Stauffenberg, Claus Schenk, Graf von, 3, 97, 388, 393, 394 Steinbach, Erika, 48, 80, 84 Stolpersteine, see Stumbling Blocks street names, 4, 6, 9, 37–45, 55, 79, 91, 97–8, 99, 157, 309, 342, 351, 352, 384 Stresemann, Gustav, 384–5 Stukenbrock, 138, 140 Stumbling Blocks, 231–41, 293 Stunde Null, see Zero Hour

230–1, 298, 303, 305, 315, 318–19, 399, 403, 404 United Kingdom, see Britain United Nations, 183, 198 United States, 70, 72–3, 91, 100, 106, 107, 108, 114, 137, 157, 182, 189, 194, 198, 202–3, 248, 271, 279, 282, 294, 313, 365, 368 n. 39, 403 see also Allied occupation forces; Allied occupation of Germany

T

V

Tag der deutschen Einheit, see Day of German Unity Thälmann, Ernst, 3, 270, 271, 279, 283, 310, 314–15 see also Ernst Thälmann Memorial Thüringen, see Thuringia Thuringia (federal state), 49, 117, 323–4, 400 Topography of Terror, 4, 111, 133 n. 14, 168, 169, 172–3, 201, 214, 215, 219–21 Torgau, 328–35, 342 tourism, 7, 10, 59, 64, 66, 106, 107, 108, 114–22, 152, 153, 173, 247–50, 276–84, 325, 326 n. 7, 342, 348–9, 349 n. 8, 362, 395, 403, 405 archi-tourism, 249–50 dark tourism, 116 Heimwehtourismus, 119 soft tourism, 325 thanatourism, 248 ‘Third Reich tourism’, 107, 111 Treaty of Versailles, 23 n. 10, 38, 42, 69, 75 n. 4, 96, 353, 361, 401 Tregor, Nikolai, 158 Treptower Park, see Soviet War Memorial, Treptow Park trials of Nazi criminals, 3, 108, 127, 129, 134, 143 n. 5, 175, 199, 206, 212 n. 8, 365 Tröbitz, 210–11

Verbrechen der Wehrmacht. Dimensionen des Vernichtungskrieges 1941–1944, see Crimes of the Wehrmacht: Dimensions of the War of Extermination 1941–1944 Vernichtugskrieg. Verbrechen der Wehrmacht, 1941–1944, see War of Annihilation: Crimes of the Wehrmacht, 1941–1944 victims’ and veterans’ organizations Albanian veterans, 74 Association of the Persecutees of the Nazi Regime, 18, 195–6 Bund der Fliegergeschädigten, see League of Air Raid Victims Bund der Vertriebenen, see League of Expellees expellees and refugees, 40–1, 43–5, 48, 55 French survivors of the camps, 197 League of Air Raid Victims, 30 League of Expellees, 48–9, 52, 54–5, 78, 80, 84 navy veterans’ associations, 361, 362–3, 364 Russian Veterans’ Committee, 75 Stahlhelm, 361, 362 Vereinigung der Verfolgten des Naziregimes, see Association of the Persecutees of the Nazi Regime veterans of 17 June 1953, 302–3, 304, 305 victims of the Soviet Speziallager, 330–5 victims of Wehrmachtjustiz, 330–5 VVN, see Association of the Persecutees of the Nazi Regime see also Jewish organizations Victory Column (Berlin), 312 Vinterberg, Thomas, 151 Visible Sign against Flight and Expulsion, 48–9, 55–6, 78, 81, 84 Völkerschlachtdenkmal, see Battle of the Nations Monument

U Ulbricht, Walter, 308, 373, 375 unification (in 1989/1990) as historical event and social process, 301, 308–9, 318–19, 323 as a watershed in memorial culture, 3–5, 8, 21–3, 50, 52, 54, 55, 66, 73–4, 92, 115, 117, 141, 149, 159, 162–3, 168,

Index Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge, see People’s League for the Maintenance of German War Graves Volkspark Friedrichshain, see Friedrichshain People’s Park Volkstrauertag, see People’s Day of Mourning

W Walhalla, 9, 159–64, 160, 272 war memorials, 21, 71, 74, 105, 269–70, 272–3, 362, 365–6, 388, 389, 395–6 see also cemeteries, military War of Annihilation: Crimes of the Wehrmacht, 1941–1944, 122, 142, 394 Wehrmacht Exhibition, popular designation for War of Annihilation: Crimes of the Wehrmacht, 1941–1944, see the latter entry Weidner, Berthold, 333 Weimar Republic, 2, 5, 15, 16, 17, 18, 38–9, 69, 170, 239, 292, 310, 315, 360–2, 367, 372, 379–86, 400, 406 see also events commemorated Weizsäcker, Richard von, 54, 79, 150 West Germany, see Federal Republic of Germany Wetzel, Martin, 401 Wewelsburg District Museum, 168, 169–70, 173–5

421

Wiesbaden, 261 Wilhelm I, Kaiser, 2, 38, 279, 400, 402, 403, 404, 406 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 352, 400, 402 Wilhelm Gustloff (ship), xiii, 82, 83–4 Wilhelmshaven, 8, 360–7 Wissmann, Hermann von, 351–8 Wittenberg, 341–2, 346–8 Wittenbergplatz memorial, 244 Wolf’s Lair, 114, 119–22, 120 Wolfsschanze, see Wolf’s Lair Würich, Sabine, 261 Würzburg, 27

Y Yad Vashem, 181, 184, 188, 189, 199 Yeltsin, Boris, 141 Yugoslavia, 78, 80, 83

Z Zeithain ‘Russian Camp’, 135–7 Zeithain Memorial Site, 136, 137 Zentrum gegen Vertreibungen, see Centre Against Expulsions Zero Hour, 2, 8, 15, 62, 157 Zetkin, Clara, 309 Zobernig, Heimo, 293 Zwieberge, 210